Santa Clause With A Baseball Hat - Travel Certificates

My wife Geraldine and I went to breakfast at our local restaurant. We go there about three to four times a week and know almost everyone who works there. Because we are regulars the waitresses know that we have started a business, Cruise To Cash, and always ask how it is going.

Today I decided to bring along a few of the travel certificates that we get at an unlimited basis to promote our business and give away as promotions. When Jen, our waitress came to our table to get our orders I gave her a travel certificate and explained it to her. She was thrilled, $15.00, to stay in Orlando at a timeshare resort and not have to go on any time share tours for two nights. The next thing I knew, two more waitresses were coming up inquiring about the certificates. I had enough to go around.

To see the expressions on their faces I felt like Santa Clause wearing a baseball hat and a t-shirt

All things tall and small - By Geraldine Thomson

Are any of my fellow travelers short like me? I mean, really short. I even had my mom lie on my passport to make me 5 feet tall. I have been 5 feet nothing since 8th grade, but since that is well above average for the females in my family (and just as tall as quite a few of the males) I should have realized that this was it. I should have learned to walk in heels, but that's just not me. I'm just not a girly-girl. I mean, I like to look nice and everything, but I do believe that beauty does have a price that sometimes I'm just not willing to pay. So with that, when I'm on vacation all I need are my tevas and I'm ready to go.

In January 1999 my husband Michael (who is just over 6 feet tall) took a vacation to the Bahamas to one of the Sandals Resorts. It was very nice, but as the island is so v ery safe we decided to walk along Cable Beach road into town. We were walking around just looking at all the sights, and looking for Grey Cliff Hotel for afternoon tea and a nice hand rolled cigar for Michael. We also took a sight-seeing tour in a horse drawn carriage. Now that was a little scary. Later in the afternoon we took a water taxi over to Paradise Island. We were offered some weed a few times and while flattered that at my age someone actually thought I was still cool enough to embibe, we did turn down all offers.

We get back to the downtown area well before dark, but decide to take a taxi back to the resort. As we are walking around I suddenly find myself sitting on my butt in the middle of the side walk. Damn, I thought. Who smacked me down? I looked up to see my husband of slightly less than a year trying so hard not to laugh that I thought he was going to need a change of underwear. I get up and realize that I am awfully close to a tree. A tree! Why the heck was a tree growing in the middle of the sidewalk. And why had I not seen it? Most importantly, did any one else see me? There was no answer that would soothe both my ego and my head. Apparantly I had been so absorbed in what was going on around me that I had failed to recognize that tall leafy thing with a rough bark as a tree that wasn't moving out of my way. Oh well, first time for everything .... public humiliation, bruise on head, etc.

Fast foward 7 months to August. My in-laws have a summer home on Martha's Vineyard and all the kids come out for a week or so for our annual family vacation. Its nice and peaceful there. No chain restaraunts, not much traffic and a beautiful beach. It was my first time there so my husband took me into town to check out the stores. We did all the tourist stuff like the Black Dog Cafe, obviously leaving behind a hefty balance on our credit card with two of everything (rain jackets, sweatshirts, tee-shirts). After unloading the purchases into our snazzy new Tracker convertible we continued to window shop. I saw a purse that I wanted to take a close look at so we went into one of the tiny boutiques on main st. I was turning around to take the purse up to the register when the all too familiar feeling came over me again. Now why is there a tree inside this store? Of all the hundreds of stores on this island, why did the one (I repeat, the one) store I go into have a great tree in the middle of it. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and prepared for another public humiliation. What I saw astounded me. I was staring at some guys navel. His navel? He must be at least six and a half feet tall. I felt him draw in his breath, and thought " a good offense is a good defense." As I prepared to tell this giant man that not everyone is almost a hundred feet tall, I looked up. My jaw froze and the words "Oh my God, you're Ted Danson" popped out of my mouth. My humiliated husband apologized to Mr. Danson and dragged his humiliated wife out of the store. I didn't even get my purse. It really was Ted Danson and I really had suffered another public embarrassment.

As I said, all things tall and small.

Turbo prop plane and thatched roof airport - By Geraldine Thomson

I was sitting by our pool in Connecticut and reading Frommer's Budget Travel Magazine when I spotted an ad for an all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana, Domincan Republic. It was mid summer of 2000 and I was scoping out somewhere for our usual October vacation. We had already been to Haiti and knew that the island was beautiful, and the resort (The Melia Caribe-Tropical) was running a great special to entice American travel as most of their fall vacationers were European with few American visitors. So, I called Liberty Travel and booked the trip for that October

That weekend I ran down to the office and picked up our tickets and travel itinerary. In our family, due to the fact that there are so many of us traveling in different directions at the same time (my husband's uncle owns an operates an incentive travel business that takes him and other family members all across the globe) that we just e-mail our itineraries to each other so everyone knows where everyone is. As I as scanning the itinerary into the computer I noticed a small but slightly disturbing fact about the third leg of the trip. As usual, we would be flying from Bradley International Airport in Connecticut. The first leg would take us to Miami, and from there to San Juan, Puerto Rico. So far so good... regular American Airlines jets. Third leg from San Juan to Punta Cana was also American Airlines but followed by the word "express". Probably no big deal but decided to run it by my husband Michael. He told me I had booked us on a turbo plane for that leg of the trip. I thought he was just messing with me as he knew I was deathly afraid of flying on any small aircraft. Really funny, but I wasn't going to fall for that this time. A long time ago, my sister had flown from Bradley to Wilkes-Barre, PA for a wedding on a turbo prop and refused to fly home. My dad had to go get her so I thought, not funny but it won't happen to me.

Guess what. We we sitting in the Airport in San Juan and our flight was called. We had all our luggage as we had to go through customs and immigration. A bus pulled up and we all got on. They drove us across the tarmac and lo and behold, stopped right before a small plane that could not possible hold more that 40 people. As we got on, my knees were knocking, I was breaking into sweats, both hot and cold and gave my husband "the look." I guess he had been telling me the truth all along. So, no alcohol available, just had to climb on board and make the best of it. As the plane took off, the noise inside was incredible. I just hoped that if we had to jump overboard that the water would at least be warm. We were flying at a pretty low altitude and able to see people on their boats and on the beaches. As we approached the airport, I had become transfixed with the colors of the Caribbean and had almost forgotten that I was at the brink of my virtual death. Suddenly, out of the blue I saw the most beautiful sight. The airport. Yes, the airport. At first I didn't think it was the airport as all we could see was the thatched roof. We landed and walked towards the building with a thatched roof and no exterior walls. It was as beautiful inside as out, with local art and people who were so friendly and happ to help.

Moral of this diatribe? Just get on the plane and don't miss whats waiting for you on the other side. Experience life.

My Dad's First Flight - From My Dad, David Earl Thomson

By the time the army took me for my first airplane ride a half a century ago I had crossed the United States three times. Twice by train, the glorious Santa Fe Chief and 20th Century Limited, and once by Greyhound Bus. The army flight was from California to Georgia on a chartered propeller driven Flying Tiger aircraft with flames shooting out of the engines. I could see the engines exhaust from my canvas seat that was slotted into the floor of the freight aircraft. I told the stewardess what was clearly wrong. She laughed and told me it was ok. I could do nothing but take her word for it. Travel has always been much like that flight. There always seems to be a moment or circumstance where I am no longer in control.

A lot has changed since that flight. Not much of it good, in my opinion. Travel is, however, still exciting. Seeing and experiencing the marvels of new places, cultures, foods, even the magic quality of the light north of Rome. Today is Wednesday and the fact that I am flying to Italy on Friday makes me think about the first time I experienced that phenomenon. It brings my thinking about this blog together. I had been a group travel manager. Nevertheless, the act of traveling is ultimately personal. The closer the flight to Italy gets the more the details begin: What have I forgotten? Will I arrive at the airport on time? Will flames shoot out of the engines?

This blog will be about travel, my opinions, experiences and stories about other people too. It will only be fun if people read it, have comments and questions. We will see.