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.

Emergency equipment

Parenting is much more an art form than a science. It's open to different styles, various interpretations and has different value depending on who's doing it.

But I think I'm safe in saying the one thing all parenting has in common is it's gonna cost ya.

Both of my kids have gone to out-of-state colleges, one in Texas and one in Iowa. Don't ask. Anyway the one in Texas transferred back here after his freshman year, but he still has a little gift I gave him when he first moved out.

The emergency credit card. They both have one.

It's the peace of mind card, the one that let's them take a cab home when they find themselves outside a club in the senseless murder district at midnight. The one that says use me at urgent care to stop the bleeding, or get antibiotics for the sinus infection. It's the airline ticket if they have to come home in a hurry.

Yes it's the credit card I gave them to be used in emergencies, but I now realize the other thing I should've given them is a long lecture on exactly what constitutes an emergency.

Buying posters from artists you like, new shoes, that cute sweater—you know the one, sushi because it's the best sushi place in Iowa (how many can there be?) are all examples of non-emergencies.

Yet every once in awhile, I put on my little green visor, open up the inter webs and go through the "emergency" charges my darling offspring have made. And almost every time, one or two of them will spring out at me like a Jack In The Box, or a coiled rattler.

That sound you hear is my wallet screaming.

I don't want to make it seem like they're on wild spending sprees with my money. They're not. For the most part, they let me know when they're buying something on the card, or they ask if they can.

But as any parent will tell you, it doesn't matter how old your kids get—they're always testing you and seeing how far they can push it.

And sometimes that means re-zoning the borders of Emergencytown right up against Retailville.

The back room

A few years ago, for about nine months, I had the good fortune to work at FCB in San Francisco. It was a fun, jet-setting kind of gig because I had to commute back and forth from Santa Monica, where I was living at the time. I’d leave Monday morning, and fly back Friday night. Racked up lots of frequent flyer miles, and also got to know a lot of the airport personnel by name. Thank you for the free upgrades.

That was the good news.

The bad news is it was on Taco Bell.

If you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time – and if you have, thank you, but you really need to spend more time outside – you may remember I wrote here about my time up north. One thing I happened to leave out was the night I went looking for trouble.

Normally, trouble usually has no trouble finding me. But on this night, I decided to act on something I’d heard. I don’t remember if it was in a noir motion picture from the fifties that took place in San Francisco, or whether the concierge at the hotel had mentioned it to me in passing. I'd heard there were all sorts of backroom crap games in Chinatown, and I was setting out to find myself one.

I also don't remember where I heard this little tidbit: the best way to find one was ask one of the many Asian cab drivers.

So, very late in the evening, I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Chinatown. When we got near it, he asked for the exact address, and I told him I didn't have one. I wanted to be taken to a crap game.

He laughed, shook his head and told me there weren’t any. By the way he said it, I could tell I’d struck gold with this driver.

I told him not only did I know there were, but I knew that he knew where they were. I was insistent he take me to one of them. After a lot of back and forth, denial and more denial, he finally said he did know of one. But he wasn’t going to take me there.

When I asked why, he said because the games were closed to outsiders, especially Caucasians, and if I went into one I might not come out.

Even if I didn't hear about them in a movie, it was beginning to sound like one.

You know how seeing a police car in the rear-view mirror after you’ve had a couple beers sobers you right up? That’s how fast I lost my desire to play in a back-room crap game.

He took me back to the hotel, where I tipped him generously and thanked him for being so honest with me.

He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Don't ask: Picking up at the airport

So, this is the second in my series called Don't ask. The first was on moving, and now airport pickup.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I've never picked anyone up from the airport. It's just that unless you're my wife or one of my kids - and I'll know if you're lying - I'm not doing it.

I know what you're saying. If I don't pick you up, how will you get home? Admittedly, it's a dilemma. If only there were some kind of transport, a carriage service if you will that you could hire with the currency of the realm to give you a ride to the address of your choosing.

See where I'm going here? Because where I'm not going is to pick you up after your flight.

So safe travels, smooth sailing, and happy landings. I'll see you when you get home.

Right after the cab drops you off there.