Wyndham? Damn near killed ‘em

Last week I piled the wife, daughter and the son-in-law into my fourteen-year old Lexus ES350—really just a Camry dressed up for Saturday night—and took them down the coast to San Diego, where we were meeting up with my son and his fiancé to go see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

They were playing at Pechanga Arena, a venue I was unfamiliar with and had never been to, even though it’s been there over sixty years under various names.

Since it was just an overnight trip, and arena shows are notorious for hellish parking and hours-long traffic jams leaving afterwards, I used my big brain and thought the best thing to do would be to book us three rooms at a nearby hotel, where we’d be able to leave the car and just walk to the show.

The hotel I found, the Wyndham Garden San Diego Sea World (the arena is right behind the orca prison) was literally across the street from the arena.

Being the hotel snob I am, after perusing their website and seeing that the rooms and the hotel in general—while not up to the usual Hotel Del Coronado/Fairmont San Francisco/Essex House New York/Four Seasons Seattle accommodations I’ve grown accustomed to—looked decent enough for an inexpensive overnight stay.

But as we all know, when it comes to looks, as in used cars and the opposite sex at closing time, they can be deceiving.

Most arenas are not located in the better part of town, and Pechanga is no exception.

When we pulled into the hotel, which come to find out was more of a motel, it looked decent enough. The woman at the front desk who checked us in was pleasant, and directed us to the building our rooms were in. On the way over, we noticed several extremely sketchy characters not just around the property, but staying there.

It reminded me of the Crystal Palace on Breaking Bad, except without the charm. Although if they had room service, like the Crystal Palace, I was pretty sure meth was on the menu.

We went into the room and, as they say, it was nothing like the brochure. Dingy, dirty and with a prison bathroom, there was only one window with a transparent shade out to the upstairs walkway. I imagine that was to make it easier for the addicts to decide what to steal.

All I could think was Gitmo must’ve been booked for the weekend.

If I’d been a little more thorough in my research, and the only reason I wasn't was because I was pretty danged pleased I'd found a place within walking distance, I would’ve seen the pictures of cockroaches in the rooms and Wyndham’s less than stellar ratings on Yelp.

That would’ve been the first clue.

I told everyone not to put anything on the beds, we were getting out of there.

Speaking with the woman who’d checked us in not fifteen minutes earlier, I let her know the rooms weren’t what we expected and we weren’t going to stay. Without skipping a beat, she said no problem and gave us a full refund. Which told me this probably was a daily request.

Fortunately, the Hyatt Regency Mission Bay Spa & Marina had rooms available and we wound up staying there. Instead of across the street, it was a six-minute Uber ride to the arena, and a million miles away from the Wyndham.

In a word, the Hyatt was heaven. I can’t say enough good things about it. And I believe in my heart that their staff is as great and the accommodations as comfortable, clean and pleasant as they were all the time—not just because we’d made our escape from the bowels of hell.

I wasn't trapped in the Wyndham cell long enough to notice if they had movie channels on the TV. If they do, I'd recommend watching Escape From Alcatraz.

Not for the movie. For the plan.

Degrees of normal

The breathtaking hustle and bustle in the picture you're looking at is the main drag/business district in the very Dutch town of Orange City, Iowa. The wife and I spent this past weekend and then some visiting there. That’s incidental to the main point, but stick with me. It’ll come around eventually.

We went for my beautiful, intelligent, talented, strong, caring daughter’s college graduation. And I’m not too proud to say I was crying like Elliott watching E.T. take off for home. I was caught up in the moment either because of my daughter’s tremendous accomplishment of earning two degrees because she’s just that smart, or the fact that as of last Saturday I’m tuition free for the rest of my life.

Sometimes it's hard to tell which.

Anyway, like I said, this post isn’t about that. What it’s about is how I got there, where I stayed and what I did when I was there. Let’s take it in order.

To get to the very tulip-loving town of Orange City, Iowa, we had to fly from here to Phoenix, then from Phoenix to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Then drive another hour and a half to Orange City. Which if you’re keeping count is three airports, two airplanes and one rental car.

In the before times, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But like many people coming out of their Covid cocoon, this was the first time in over a year this flyboy had been up in the air.

I ain’t gonna lie—dipping my sanitized hands back into the real world was extremely anxiety inducing. My imagination was running rampant with visions of spiked Corona virus suckers floating invisibly around me everywhere I looked and touched. It didn't help that our 5am Uber to the airport cancelled on us at 4:55am, and the cab we wound up taking had a driver who trained on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Once we arrived at the airport, I kept reminding myself how prepared I was for my flights. I’m fully vaxxed. I had the requisite mask, but also donned a clear, non-fogging plastic face shield for that extra layer of protection. And pandemic fashion.

Despite the fact I looked like a 10-year old trying to be a spaceman, it made me comfortable and since it's all about me (only child much?) that’s all that mattered.

Having read all the airplane horror stories about angry MAGA asshats (is there any other kind?) refusing to wear a mask, I was fully prepared to join my fellow future airheros in tackling some Trump-supporting, conspiracy spewing, 2nd-grade level reading dipshit insurrectionist refusing to wear his. I even bought wi-fi on the plane so I'd be ready to record and post my heroics in almost real time.

Suffice to say it didn’t happen. Which was a good thing. Probably would’ve knocked off my face shield.

Not sure what I was expecting, but both planes were packed full—so much for the empty middle seat theory. But the flights were uneventful and everyone was mask positive so that was good.

Once we were in Iowa, we had an Airbnb but wound up at the Orange City Hampton Inn for four nights (that’s a whole other story coming up in a whole other post). However, like flying, staying at a hotel was also something I hadn’t done in over a year. Come to find out it was fine. Plastic shields at reception, hand sanitizer at every turn and stickers sealing the room doors shut, letting us know they'd been cleaned and disinfected and no one had been in there for over 48 hours.

The hotel wasn’t as strict on mask enforcement, but for the most part people wore them and it was easy to steer clear of the ones who didn’t.

Now the number of infections in this particular part of Iowa is almost as low as the number of Jewish democrats. So when we were there, we wound up going out to eat, indoors, with other people. You don't know what you got til it's gone and I knew I missed it, I just didn't realize how much. It was heaven.

Even though I was constantly looking around at the maskless crowd, the tables were distanced and we weren’t sitting near anyone we didn't know. In fact CRAVE, the sushi restaurant we ate at in Sioux City (spoiler alert: Iowa sushi was great) had a reassuring message right up front in their menu about how they've invested in an ionization HVAC system in all their restaurants that reduces airborne pathogens by up to 99%, although Covid by only 90%. Clean, safe and healthy air for my worry-free dining pleasure.

I have to say, after being that wiping-the-mail, bleaching-the-produce, Lysol spraying every touch surface in the house and mask policing the family for over a year guy, it was really good to do things that felt normal adjacent (not saying “new normal” – you can’t make me).

I’ll always remember the corn state for how nice the people were, the four years my daughter enjoyed there and the fact it made me forget the pandemic for a little while.

Truthfully, I don't think I'll be returning to Iowa. But I’m greatful to Iowa for returning me to normal.

Heavy Lyfting

I don't know whether it's because I'm an only child, or just sometimes lost in my own world (I know, they're the same thing), but I've never been bothered by uncomfortable silences. In fact I believe there are places where they're perfectly appropriate.

For example, I don't want to hear about your day while I'm in the elevator. And, as I wrote about here, I don't want to hear anything you have to say while I'm in the men's room.

But when I fire up the old ridesharing app—Lyft is my service of choice—for some reason I feel I should listen and engage with the person I'm driving with, or more aptly, who's driving me. After all, it isn't some corporate yellow cab picking me up, it's an individual in their own car trying to supplement their income. I'm all about supplementing income, even if they're doing it with my money.

And in the same way every picture tells a story, so does every Lyft driver.

There are Lyft drivers I've ridden with that've been awesome, and actually feel more like friends. Natasha is one of them. Glasses, inked, Prius driver and cat owner, I don't know where else our paths would've crossed. I've ridden with her a few times, and she has an energy and openness about her that's refreshing. Plus she's funny, smart and laughs at my jokes. I think we all know what a pushover I am for that. It makes me wish the ride to work was longer so we could talk more.

Then there's Craig in San Francisco, who if I didn't know better I'd think was my long, lost brother from another mother. When I got in his car (a 5 year old American something that was spotless and looked brand new), he had Miles Davis playing, and the first words out of his mouth to me were, "You like Miles?" It was a great ride.

Funny, smart, engaging people.

While not as deep as Uber, the Lyft driver pool occasionally reminds me that while I enjoy the Natasha's and Craig's, the odds are not always in my favor.

I don't want to personality shame any of the drivers by name here. But here's the thing: there's a certain kind of driver that makes small talk, but it's like canned laughter on a sitcom. It's not real, but it fills the space. My driver the other morning was one of those. He talked about the weather, and answered questions I didn't ask. "How early did you start driving this morning?" "Oh it is a beautiful day, not too hot." Alright then.

I prefer Lyft over Uber, even though many of the drivers work for both services. But they almost unanimously prefer Lyft customers, saying they're nicer and friendlier than Uber riders. Which is how I feel about Lyft drivers, so win-win.

I work in Orange County, and the thought's occurred to me it might be interesting to drive for Lyft. As long as I'm going back and forth, I may as well bring someone along, use the carpool lane and make a little cash for gas and dinner.

Which all sounds well and good until I start thinking about sharing rides with total strangers, and remember I'm an only child.

Then it just sounds like crazy talk.

I'll be your Uber driver tonight.

I've never used Uber. I get the concept, and the concept scares the hell out of me.

As I understand it, through an app on your smartphone you let Uber know you need a ride.

Then, they let a complete stranger, who's somehow managed to pass a cursory background check while hiding the fact he killed three kids in Jersey, know where you are and what you look like.

They pull up in their personal car, which may or may not have been serviced or inspected since they've owned it ("Brake pads?! That's just crazy talk."), and you get in.

That thing you heard through your entire childhood about getting into cars with strangers? Yeah, not so much.

Google "bad Uber experience" and you'll get thousands of pages detailing horror stories. On the flip side, there's a website called Diary Of An Uber Driver, written by an anonymous driver, who appears to work in Australia, about the nightmare customers he's picked up. It's quite funny, although not as funny as this blog or Round Seventeen.

The reason I'm ranting about Uber is I was mulling over becoming a driver to research a short story in the works.

Fortunately, I sat still for a few minutes, the urge passed and I thought of something else to write about.

As far as I can tell, being an Uber driver does have a few things in common with freelancing: you work when you want. You can take long gigs (drives) or short ones. And you have to make a good impression each time out so they'll ask for you again (passengers get to rate their driver through the app).

On the other hand, when I'm freelancing at home or in an agency, rarely does anyone throw up where I'm working, leave their purse or wallet on my desk, fall asleep in the chair next to me (unless we're in a status meeting) or scratch my upholstery with their keys. Then expect me to clean it up.

The reason I even signed up for Uber - did I mention I signed up for Uber? - is because of my son. He doesn't have a car while he's at school, so he'll be using public transportation (which university students ride for free), getting rides with friends and using Uber when he has to. The deal was if I signed up, he gets $20 in free rides.

Which is $20 I don't have to spot him, so sign me up.

The catch is he doesn't get the credit until I take my first ride. Around the block counts, right?