Pillow shopping for Ol' Crusty

(682 words)

The local pillow salesman blew it yesterday when he graciously told me I’d be better off going to a mall department store for their big sale.

“Our pillows cost $179,” he said. “ You can get a really good one at Penny’s or Macy’s for just $70.”

Had he known anything about me, he could have steered me straight to the cash register.

I have no qualms about over-spending for things that go on or in my body.

Really, when you think about it, $179 for a pillow is a bargain.

Let’s say I live another measly 10 years. That’s less than half-a-penny a night to sleep with something really classy and soft.

And once again I’m struck by the hooker analogy, the only economic model I can seem to grasp -- even as it’s been years since I’ve done any hooker grasping.

I’m pillow shopping for what I suspect will be the last pillow I’ll ever own.

I don’t remember ever pillow shopping before in my entire life. I may have passed pillow displays in the past, but I don’t recall pausing there thinking, “Oh! To sleep, perchance to dream . . . of owning a new $179 Italian Platinum Ventilated pillow!”

I think my parents bought me the only pillow I remember owning.  I’ve become sentimental about it ever since my wife began insisting it’s time for it to go.

You’d think a wife would admire my fidelity to things with which I love to sleep.

How would it look to all the other pillows if I chucked this one for a sporty new trophy pillow just when times started looking up?

But I wonder if the old pillow is costing me precious winks. It’s really a mess. It’s flat, full of dried drool, and incapable of offering any support. 

When you think of it like that, my pillow and my career are practically twins.

I’m not a great sleeper, but I’ve always attributed that to the fact that I’m excellent worrier.

I hear one sound in the night, wake up and lay there on that rumpled pillow wondering about all my professional mistakes and personal dispositions have held me back.

When I do sleep, it’s with the pillow tucked between my head and shoulder of my outstretched arm, sleeping as I do in a position not dissimilar from the one Superman uses to fly

Because it’s become so thin and formless, I spend a good deal of the night shaping it the way potters do clay. I punch it, ball it up, and try and form it into a shape conducive to comfort.

More and more I find that shape elusive.

Part of it might be because Val’s contentions about the poor pillow are working. My loyalty is starting to crack.

She’s becoming so desperate to get rid of the pillow she calls “Ol’ Crusty” that she’s begun volunteering to brave the hillbilly hordes and stop by the local discount store to pull some cheap synthetic fiber monstrosity out of pile for me.

She must think my head’s a peasant.

Geez, why not just wrap some paper towels around our discarded pizza boxes?

Coincidentally, I just saw this story about London’s Savoir Beds and their$175,000 mattresses. They are constructed from curled Latin American horse tail, pure Mongolian cashmere and more than 1,600 miles of elegant woven silk.

The bed is guaranteed for 25 years. That works out to less than $20 a night.

Appreciating the math, I dream of a day when I could afford such sumptuousness.

As it is, I’ll probably take the friendly salesman’s advice and shell out $70 for my new pillow.

What will I do with Ol’ Crusty? It’ll probably retire to the office to provide cranial succor for afternoon floor naps on the days when the previous night’s activities flew out of hand.

Too bad none of the truly snazzy pillow outlets would ever dream of letting me take one of their finer models home for a test drive.

When it comes to pillow purchases, it’s always best to sleep on it.

Related . . .

• Pillow talk about new iPhones

• Read this and go straight to sleep

Defying branding conventions

(721 words)

I attach “Eight Days To Amish” business cards to “Palm Features” letterhead promoting my book “Use All The Crayons!”

The letters are all signed in crayon, “Chris Rodell.”

Even amateur marketing enthusiasts understand this means I have a confusing branding problem.

“You should really think about consolidating all your interests into one brand,” a friend said this weekend.

I should, but I won’t.

I have too much vested in letterhead sprawl.

Besides, I figure I have a better chance of winning if I have four horses rather than just one in the race.

I’m increasingly hearing from people -- book buyers, those who attend my talks -- who confront me with the same question, which is boiled down to: “How come you’re not famous?”

Some of them think I should be a regular on “Ellen,” guest voicing on “The Simpsons” and shacking up with B-list actresses striving for literary cred by being linked to any author.

I ask myself a version of this question only with more humble implications: “How come I’m not solvent?”

Fame is too obscure a realm to contemplate when you’re staring down a exorbitant  monthly Comcast bill.

What’s cool for me is I’m getting near weekly evidence that good things are about to happen to me and the book. I did two book signings last week, one at the Mt. Lebanon Library, the other before a writer’s group at the Ligonier Library.

And -- hello Altoona! -- I’m doing a book signing at the local Barnes & Noble on Saturday from 1 to 4 p.m. I know not a soul in Altoona. If you do, please ask them stop by for a howdy.

These signings are giving me a real boost in my self-confidence. It may surprise people that I’m flagging in this realm, but I’ve endured 20 years of professional rejection so dismal anticipation is a natural reflex. Plus, I’ve been married for nearly as long and that’s a condition that’s bound to temper runaway ego.

But I’m becoming a very lively public speaker, and that is an essential component in promoting and selling books these days.

I spoke with scant notes at my old home library in Lebo. Nasty weather kept the crowd down to just 10 friendlies. Did I pout about the turnout?

No, I was grateful to the 10. And we had a great time. I spoke for 45 minutes and several attendees said they wished I’d have gone much longer. And, get this, I sold 16 books. Most people bought two or three copies. Not a bad night’s work.

The uplifting reaction gave me confidence to fly blind in Ligonier where I was invited to conduct a humor writing workshop for about 25 attendees. I spoke for 90 minutes without notes.

It went fantastic. Speaking extemporaneously is a skill I’ve always admired and now it’s one that seems within my grasp.

How many books did I sell?

Just six.

Why’s that good? Almost everyone there already had a copy.

Afterwards, many approached with suggestions to ensure my book will be a hit. They said I need to hammer social media, consolidate my brands, articulate a vision, etc.

If I knew a guy like me, I’d advise him to just keep doing what he’s doing, that it’ll all work out fine as long as I keep getting e-mails like this one from Sally H.:

“Two weeks ago, my college freshman daughter and I stood in Barnes & Noble in Robinson Town Center in Pittsburgh and skimmed through your book.  She giggled and giggled over some of the numbers.  I bought it when she wasn't looking and, when I was about to wrap it up for her birthday, I started to read it, and fell in love with it.

“The timing couldn't be more perfect. I am an 8th grade English teacher in a Pittsburgh-area public school and came home Friday quite discouraged over the state of public education.  But your book made me laugh and I think I can face the little cherubs tomorrow because of it.  

“Thank you for writing it. I plan on buying 3 more for my other daughters and husband. They'll love it also, I’m sure. Thanks for the smiles!”

More letters like that and my biggest problem won’t involve branding issues.

More like humility.

Good thing I’m married.

Related . . .

• The story of Palm Features

• Happy B-day to Bob Dylan & this blog

• How I became a PROSEtitute

Tweeting about airline difficulties

(694 words)

We were camped at 5 p.m. outside Gate 32 at the Orlando International Airport. Every 15 minutes a Spirit Airline employee would say our 2:55 flight back to Latrobe would be delayed another 15 minutes. 

That meant every minute after that some jerk in an obnoxious shirt would loudly announce he’d just Tweeted to his 1,200 followers to never fly Spirit Airlines again.

Shame on you if you think I’m talking about myself.

My Tommy Bahama shirts are perfectly tasteful, I don’t shout my opinions to airport strangers and, geez, I only have 202 followers.

That last part confounds me.

Is our Twitter society so moronic it would rather follow a goofball who Tweets “#SPIRIT SUCKs!” or me, a guy who last week tweeted this @8Days2Amish gem:

“Loud bulimics make the worst neighbors. They can never keep it down.”

Now, that’s a tweet.

Here’s what I’d have tweet/shouted if I felt compelled to share my opinions of our plight:

“Those of us who enjoy reading don’t care if the plane’s a little late. Lighten the f*&#$ up!”

Of course, part of my reaction may have been that I’m an uncomfortable flier with plenty of time on my hands.

I’d have been relieved if they’d have announced, “Look, we’ve all decided flying is a preposterous way to transport human beings so we’re canceling this flight and will instead issue you all free Amtrak tickets along with vouchers for a bag of pretzels and one free domestic beer.”

If they make flying more comfortable, more of us would fly more often. Instead, flying is so stressful most of us go to great lengths to avoid it. 

If we can’t, well, then I’m reminded of the late Lewis Grizzard’s motto: “If given a choice, I will never fly. If given no choice, I will never fly sober.”

This was my fourth flight in the past month. I was nervous about the first one because I feared a recurrence of past claustrophobia issues.

Turns out that problem has vanished. Of my four flights, three of them were in the middle seat and I felt no queasy anxiety or urge to run up and down the aisles screaming, “Mommy! Mommy!” which FAA regulations strictly forbid.

So when we finally boarded two-and-a-half hours late, I was far from the most uncomfortable passenger on the plane.

Turns out that guy was in my seat.

His name was Mitch and he lives in nearby Indiana, Pa. He’d made himself at home in my aisle seat directly across from the three seats occupied by my family.

Armed with the proper ticket and righteous privilege, I sort of said, hey, pal, you’re in my seat. Scoot over.

“Would you mind sitting in the middle seat?” he asked plaintively. “I’m very uncomfortable about flying.”

I felt like high-fiving him. Me, too!

So I look at him and I see myself. He was in his 40s, had the flop sweat on the brow and looked like was on the verge of begging. He was miserable. 

I’ve been there. I knew exactly what the man was going through. 

So how on earth could I say no? I couldn’t.

I climbed into the middle seat I’d spent the last eight weeks or so dreading. I was feeling none of his obvious tensions.

Plus, it gave me the opportunity to play therapist to a fellow sufferer. I sympathized, consoled and shared with him the aforementioned Grizzard tip. I got to be a lowercase hero to a struggling stranger.

I felt especially proud that I didn’t use my act of humanity as a sales pitch to buy “Use All The Crayons!”  which I felt would have tainted my kindness.

Spirit chose to compensate us each with $50 vouchers for our next flight, so I assume that jerk lied to his 1,200 Twitter followers. He’ll fly them again soon, I’m sure.

I’ll bet he didn’t tweet that one.

Want to know what I tweeted after all this? After the delay? After my gesture?

“The romantic in me still sometimes wonders if Barnacle Bill the Sailor ever found true love.”

Now, that’s a tweet, too.

Related . . .

• Return of the panic attacks

• Honk if you’re for increased airline safety

• Plane truths from a real road warrior

Florida: Airborne over Disney

(712 words)

I believe readers of this blog would be disappointed if I didn’t have something snarky to say about visiting Disney World, a place hipsters bash for being more about merchandise than memories.

Ever eager to be responsive to reader needs, I understand this so here goes:

The 4-foot-high railings outside the transportation depot are one half-inch too high!

More on that in a bit.

Disney bills itself as The Happiest Place on Earth.

For me three days last week it was The Most Sober Place on Earth.

What I won’t do for my kids.

This was all Val’s idea. She figured our daughters, 12 and 6, are the perfect age for a family visit to the Magic Kingdom. And she’s right.

Next year Josie will be in middle school, a big transition from 6th grade. There will be more intensive studies, increased homework and if I’m as astute an observer of social trends as I believe I am, her first joint, her first tattoo and some sporty new breast implants.

And what parent wouldn’t want to take a 6 year old girl to Disney World? Lucy right now is such an irresistible cuddle I find it difficult to say no to any of her requests, most of which center around some form of, “Leave me alone and go get Mommy.”

Runner-up request for the last year has been her wish to fly in an airplane and go to Disney World.

We did EPCOT the first night. A friend of mine told me years ago that EPCOT stands for “Every Person Comes Out Tired.”

In fact, it’s Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, which is such a roaring bore of a name I now regret ever bothering to look it up.

I have great recollections of EPCOT. I used to visit friends in Orlando and we’d often head over to the park to carouse because each of the 11 represented nations had a bar staffed by native coeds from around the world.

This gave us the opportunity to get rejected in nearly a dozen foreign tongues and that left us feeling worldly enough to compare how the same insults sounded in English.

Of course, our daughters were most excited about spending the next day at the Magic Kingdom, which didn’t disappoint, nor did the Animal Kingdom, particularly the lodge.

Favorite rides included Soarin’ at EPCOT, Jungle Safari, Haunted Mansion and Ariel’s Undersea Adventure at Magic Kingdom and Expedition Everest at Animal Kingdom.

Of course, the thrill ride they may remember the longest is the one they were unable to get on.

That would be me.

We were racing to catch the bus back to the Disney Yacht Club where we were staying. It had been a very long day and I was in no mood to wait for another bus.

I dashed ahead to alert the driver to wait for my dawdling darlings.

I placed my right hand on the railing to steady myself for the kind of vault that 25 years ago would have been a deer-like cinch.

Then I launched.

An undeniable rush of euphoria takes place when any man whose idea of jumping for joy involves merely standing up actually achieves liftoff.

You’re in the air. You’re recalling athletic glory days.

And it’s funny how time seems to slow down when one is airborne. I remember thinking, “Look at me! Man, I still got it.”

Then my right foot snagged on the railing. 

Moments after thinking I was practically an Olympian, I remember thinking, gadzooks, this is really going to hurt.

Indeed, it did. I don’t know how a person can fall and land one time and hurt so many different parts of his body. Both shoulders, both elbows, both ankles, the right knee -- it was like Disney Sherpas had rolled me down off the summit of Expedition Everest.

I looked up and there was my family, happier and more alive than they’d been all week. The three people I love more than any others were roaring with laughter as I lay there in the bus gutter checking for compound fractures.

It is beyond dispute. Disney is truly The Happiest Place on Earth.

Especially if your old man’s a klutz.

Related . . .

• Musical dictatorship rules the road

• Family vacation: Mile 257

• On bored Amtrak

Florida: Tips on tipping

(814 words)

“Use All The Crayons!” Tip no. 122:   Extravagantly overtip friendly, underpaid waitresses who often spend long days and nights away from small children to bring you a hot meal. At night when they go home and are soaking their aching feet, they say prayers asking God to bless people like you.

I’ve been doing this for years. If the breakfast costs $10, I’ll often leave a $5 and never less than the standard 20 percent.

I honestly don’t know if those waitresses go home and say prayers on my behalf or head straight to the mini-mart to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets.

But I know I am blessed.

Let’s for now set aside the stuff about family, health, friends and Mario Lemieux owning the Pittsburgh Penguins and get straight to all the free shit.

Just last week we had 24 hours at The Breakers in Palm Beach. It’s fabulous.

It confuses me and flabbergasts the hell out of my family, but there are many travel industry professionals who regard having me as their guest as good for business.

In return, they expect me to write nice things about their venues in the hopes that my words are influential enough to lure more tourists through their landscaped gates.

Or maybe they’ve heard I’m a really great tipper.

I know this: I did nothing to diminish that reputation during my stay at The Breakers. I practically rained cash on the smiling staff.

I think it made them feel good. I know it did me.

I believe I have a karmic obligation to be an excessive tipper any time anyone bestows me with surprising kindness. 

Tipping the bellman a buck a bag is standard, as is a buck or two for anyone who holds the door for me without saying anything insulting about my tacky shirt. Five bucks for room service.

I dropped an extra $20 on Marlin, our Jamaican waiter, for sentimental reasons. The Breakers has a family Italian Restaurant that is near a supervised resort game room.

Marlin kept sliding the kids tokens from his stash, giving Val and I enough time to look soulfully into one another’s eyes and say, “And what did you say your name was again?”

And he was great. We had him sign and date the wine cork and it’s now in a basket with the others we take out to look at whenever we want to remember special meals.

We asked if he had kids. He did. Two. One is 6 and the other is 1 -- one week!

As we got up to leave, he assured me our hosts had already taken of him and I was under no further obligation. But I slid him an extra $20.

Looking back, I should have doubled that. He’d helped give us a special night and all I did was give him a twenty. Understanding you can never tip too much, I now realize I was a bit stingy.

I did a little better with our bungalow butler.

Having never heard of bungalow butlers, I figured I’d go my whole life without ever needing to tip one.

The Breakers changed that perception by giving us day use of one of their beach side bungalows. It features open-air private showers, food and drink amenities, and Crystal.

About 20 or so, she smilingly saw to our every need. She was great with the girls and made us feel right at home. We were there from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., seven magical hours. 

So what do you tip a bungalow butler?

I had no idea. I decided to ask around. I asked the kid at the host station. He had no idea. He furrowed his brow for a bit and then like an unsure contestant on “The Price is Right” took a wild guess and said, “Gee . . . $40?”

Then I went and asked the people who know everything: The Breakers concierges. 

I stumped them. One guessed $10, the other $20.

I tried to think of why I, an often impoverished man of meager means, am so adamant about tipping. I think it goes back to one afternoon at Jack’s Bar on Pittsburgh’s South Side.

I remember ordering two $2 beers and handing out a $10. Despite being swamped, I remember the bartender being friendly and smiling, looking like there’s no where else she’d rather be.

I told her to keep the change.

She lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Man,” she said, “you’re awesome!”

I’m sure she doesn’t remember me or that tip, but I’ll never forget how good I felt walking away from the bar after her cheerful declaration.

She was right. At least when it comes to tipping, I am awesome.

So, yeah, Crystal got $40.

Related . . .

• Jump hugs with dangerous drunks

• “Use All The Crayons!” a 10-star review

Florida: Rental car abuse

(744 words)

I always feel like I’m being asked to marry a second bride every time I’m at the rental car counter.

“Do you, Chris Rodell, take this Toyota Corolla to have and to hold, with your insurance or ours and will you return the vehicle nick-free and topped off with a suitable gasoline for this make and model?”

I do.

My great fear is that one day they’ll install lie detectors at the car rental counters and mine will explode when I promise to take good care of their car.

Really, it’s more like negotiating to pick up a hooker.

It’s been years since I’ve priced hookers, but $30 a day sounds like a bargain. You don’t have that emotional attachment and you can be as good and dirty as you like. The car doesn’t care. It’ll still take you for a good, long ride.

That’s the way it was with the white, four-door Corolla we rented last week for our jolly traipse across The Sunshine State.

Back before I fully grasped the consequences of my actions, I used to beat the living daylights out of my rent-a-cars.

It’s another way from which I differ from my father-in-law. He treats rental cars with respect. He believes they contribute to society.

He treats them in ways that make me think he wishes his daughter had met her husband at the Alamo parking lot and that his sturdy frame rolled around on four steel-belted all-weather radials.

I learned this after he tricked me with a question as he got in the right front passenger seat after our visit to lovely New Smyrna Beach.

“Do you mind,” he said, “if I get a little sand on the floor mats?”

“That’s fine,” I said, trying my best to be solicitous. “A little sand’s not going to hurt a Florida rental car.”

I’d fallen right into his devious little trap.

“That’s the attitude that drives the price of rental cars up for everybody. When one person doesn’t care for the vehicle the maintenance costs go up for everyone.”

I noticed he’d yet to buckle his seatbelt as he delivered his stupid little lecture. I briefly wondered how he’d react if I floored the accelerator and sped across the sandy parking lot straight into a sturdy telephone poll about 30 yards away.

I have a different view. I make the rental car earn my respect.

I learned to do this just about 90 minutes west of where we were parked. It was at the cattle ranch that’s been part of my friend’s family for three generations. I mentioned it yesterday. It’s 1,000 lakefront acres of cows, swamps, gators, open range and woods, all of it dotted with ankle-high piles of rich cow poop.

In other words, it was the perfect place to test drive hapless rental cars.

At first I was an unwilling participant and it took me many, many beers to get comfortable with what they had in mind for the rental cars I’d bring for my frequent visits.

They called them “ranch rides.”

We were all in our early 20s. They’d fill the rental car with boys and beer with the priority beer going in first.

Then about midnight we’d go roaring off on our merry way.

We’d offroad the cars on rustic pathways that narrowed as we plunged through the increasingly thick tropical vegetation.

Army Jeeps serving in combat zones weren’t tested as thoroughly.

I remember one time we were so far out on the perimeter that our scout -- and he was drinking double fisted -- saw no place for the car to maneuver. The car’s front fender was nestled against a 20-foot palm tree and squeezed between two others so tightly that opening the doors was impossible. We were absolutely trapped.

It was for them ranch ride nirvana.

He leaned into the driver’s side window and told me, “The root base of a Florida palm tree is very shallow. Just gun it and the thing will tip right over.”

He was correct.

I remember trembling back at the return station as the tech circled the car looking for dents.

“There’s a lot of sand under the wheel wells, Mr. Rodell. Did you drive this car on a beach?”

Sort of, I said.

“Well, that’s all right. A little sand’s not going to hurt a Florida rental car.”

Just like I told my father-in-law.

Related . . .

• Cars need energy saving sleep mode

• Excessive traffic lights driving man to drink

Our secret week in Florida

(930 words)

I mistakenly thought I knew what was going to happen next after my wife lectured our 12-year-old about not posting anything on Facebook while we were away last week in sunny Florida.

She told her if she posts a picture of herself at the beach or with Mickey Mouse,  some lowlife would see we were away and break into our empty house and rob us.

Here’s what I thought she’d say to me:

“And you, my darling, do NOT write a word about this on your blog. I know given the vast reach of your readership it would certainly lead to criminal mischief.”

How much of this did she say? Not a word.

The tip-off should have been when I began her made-up harangue with her addressing me as “darling.”

So I spent the whole week criss-crossing Florida silently wondering if the criminal element of our 6th grader’s Facebook friends exceeds the number of crooks who read my blog.

Either way, the demographic comparison dismays.

Is Josie Facebook friends with Lindsay Lohan?

Does Lex Luthor read Eight Days To Amish?

Val’s failure to address me and this blog led to the immediate understanding she was engaging in spouse-speak. That’s where you say something aloud to your children hoping your numbskulled husband will get the real message.

Either way, there was no way after that I was going to blog about our trip, and that’s disappointing because it’s been a topical week.

We spent the first two nights at my father-in-law’s home in New Smyrna Beach. He’s a man who is honest, hard-working -- a man who truly appreciates the value of a buck. Heck, he appreciates the value of a penny.

Other than our love for his daughter, we have absolutely nothing in common.

It’s a source of frequent friction between Val and I so I could have spent the entire two days blogging about his miserly idiosyncrasies if he’d have only obliged me all that extra electricity.

So the best thing to come out of our two days with him was that Josie coined the subversive name for staying someplace where punishing cheapness reigns.

Just another night at The Grande Pa.

We went from there to Palm Beach where we enjoyed the antithesis of cheap. Yes, it was a night at The Breakers.

It was the most sumptuous 24 hours of my entire life, and I’m not saying that because we’d just departed The Grande Pa. If we’d have stayed another day they’d have had to summon the sheriff to evict us.

From there it was two nights with four three-day park-hopper passes at Disney World. This was the reason for the whole trip.

We hadn’t even told the girls we were going on vacation until two days before we yanked them out of school and we didn’t confirm Disney was part of the plans until we were within sight of the front gates.

I can’t predict what tumult the teenage years will hold, but if these two precious darlings remember even a fraction of the fun they had during the past seven days the recollections will soften some of the turbulence. 

This was a week of memorable family happiness.

Didn’t end at Disney either.

One of my old buddies is a big shot at The Peabody Hotel in Orlando. That’s the one where they make a big deal out of the ducks in the hotel lobby fountain. He got us a great deal there for one night.

After all that, the girls were underwhelmed to learn we were concluding our vacation with a night at a rustic Lake Wales area-cattle ranch.

It’s a night they’ll never forget.

Disney calls itself The Happiest Place on Earth.

Anyone who’s lucky enough to be friends with anyone in the Armington family might dispute that.

I’ve had some of the happiest times of my life at the Armington Ranch with my buddy George and his brothers. Happened again Sunday with George, Bob and his wife Diane.

And the whole time I’m having all this fun, I’m thinking, man, I wish I could spend an hour each morning sharing these adventures with the law-abiding citizens who read my blog.

But there’s no way I could do that, not after Val’s subtle message.

It would have been one of the all-time I-told-you-so’s if we’d have come home to a ransacked house with Val and I standing in a barren living room and her saying, “You just had to write about our trip to Florida on your stupid blog, didn’t you?”

So unless there’s a groundswell of readers who rise up dying to know my thoughts on sequestration, I’m going to spend the next few days blogging about our jolly traipse across The Sunshine State.

And here’s what I’m going to do next time we go away: I’m going to post right here the times we’re leaving and inform the world all the doors are unlocked and the fridges full of beer and lunchmeat.

See, this blog welcomes both crooks and saints.

I just want the crooks to know that they’re outnumbered by the saints and that the saints are welcome to house sit while we’re gone.

Regular readers already know we are of meager means.

The only precious things in the house when the precious people are not are the photo albums and things too personal to even afford a desperate Lindsay Lohan a cheap night at The Grande Pa.

Related . . .

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Travel writer hits the road