Postcard from Venice: Accommodations

Being an old ad guy, thinking of things in terms of their “brands” is an occupational hazard.  Obama’s “brand” has gotten a big lift with the assassination of Bin Laden.  What’s America’s “brand perception” in the
world today?  What’s my personal “brand” worth in the world of marketing and advertising?  These are things I think about.

Venice, where I recently vacationed with my goddaughter Nora and her Dad, my friend Larry, has a distinctive brand. When you say you’re going on vacation to Venice, you get a remarkably consistent response: people groan with envy or moan in ecstasy.  “I love Venice,” they exclaim emphatically, in the same way people enthuse over chocolate truffles or Glee or Impressionist painters.

These are Venice’s brand attributes: a surfeit of beauty; an atmosphere of romance; a fairy-tale experience of narrow, labyrinthine streets where your footsteps echo off the stone walls of crumbling palazzi, and you end up charmed and disoriented on the same bridge over the same canal that you started from fifteen minutes previously; a watery paradise where handsome gondoliers ferry you about, propelling you into a slightly excited state resembling the effects of foreplay.

OK.  Maybe “you” in that last sentence is more “me.”  But you get the picture.

The Grand Canal, Venice, April 2011

Truman Capote supposedly said, “Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.”   In my case, on this my second visit to Venice, I suffered not from a surfeit of beauty, romance or sensuality, but from overindulgence in history.  To the point that it colored my every experience of being there.

I read three books before our trip.  Each told the history of Venice, but from very
different perspectives.

The imaginatively titled “A History of Venice,” by Lord John Julius Norwich, is billed as the definitive history of Venice in English.  Over the course of 640 pages of small type, Lord Norwich gives a Doge-by-Doge political and military history of the Republic up to its capitulation to Napoleon in 1797.  I doggedly slogged through to the final page, almost welcoming Bonaparte, just to have an end to it.  But in the end, I had an unshakeable grasp on the geo-political storyline of Venice.

The Doge's Palace and the Piazetta, Venice, April 2011

Peter Ackroyd’s “Venice. Pure City” is a lyrical love letter to the city called la Serenissima.  Each era of Venice’s history is presented through a theme, and Ackroyd regales us as much with tales of Venetian society and daily life as political and military events.  Each chapter is one of Capote’s chocolate liqueurs.

But it was James McGregor’s “Venice from the Ground Up” that most intrigued me.  The same history is related, but here through buildings that are representative of each era with a sidebar interest in the peculiarities of Venetian culture and the life that went on in those buildings.  McGregor, more than the other two authors, seems to grasp the quirkiness of all things Venetian, born of  the city’s precarious position on what were really just tidal salt marshes in the shallow lagoon behind barrier islands facing the Adriatic.  This was an environment fundamentally inhospitable to human habitation in its most basic requirements: for example, there was no source of fresh water, reachable by technology of the day, other than the rain on any of the islands.

Why would anyone choose to live in such a place?

In the 5^th and 6^th centuries, the northern areas of Italy – known today as the Veneto – were invaded by tribes from Northern Europe, most notably the Lombards in 568.  Many of the Veneti, as the inhabitants of the towns and cities of the Veneto were called, fled their homes and sought refuge on the islands of the salt marshes of the Venetian lagoon.  What started as temporary refuge eventually developed into permanent habitation.  And the Venetians adapted their lives to their peculiar, watery environment.

One of the most astounding accommodations concerns the softness and compressive-ness of the marshy “land” on which the city is built.  It was incapable of supporting the weight of any substantial buildings.  So the Venetians sunk millions of wooden tree trunks, harvested from across the Adriatic in modern-day Slovenia, Croatia and Montenegro, into the marshy
soil to reach a harder layer of compressed clay below to serve as a base for
the wooden piles.  Now petrified, these wooden piles still support the stone and brick buildings of Venice.  And the lands across the Adriatic that supplied the timber bear the scars of their deforestation today.

The almost unreasonable accommodation of daily living in Venice to its unique environment is constantly in evidence.  Deliverymen strain hoisting boxes of goods on  handcarts up the steps of stone bridges over canals and then gingerly lower the  handcart step by step down the other side of the bridge.  They may repeat that process several times before reaching their destination.  More
urgently, “ambulanza” boats are moored diagonally for easy exit from the docks of the local hospitals.

When we leave, we take a water taxi from the entrance to our hotel directly to the airport on the mainland. It’s a trip both bizarrely unreal and tremendously appealing.

Taxi to the Airport, Venice, April 2011

Basil Fawlty Books a Flight

A couple weeks ago, late on a Sunday night, I decided I would book the flight for a trip I’m taking in November to Egypt.   I was hoping I could use American Airline AAdvantage miles to buy the ticket and that I had enough points to get Business Class seats.

I had a bit over 97,000 miles in my account.  I’m at the Platinum level, just below the program’s highest level, Executive Platinum.  In past years I’ve reached Executive Platinum, but less travel for work had lowered my status this year.  Several years ago I hit a million lifetime miles, which means I’ll never drop below Gold.

I went to aa.com, logged in and clicked “Redeem Miles” under the AAdvantage tab.  Then I hit the cheerful, red “Book Now” button.  Autofill handily suggested “JFK-New York” and “Cairo International” as my “to” and “from” destinations afer only three keystrokes each.  I filled in my dates and hit “Go.”

An animated graphic momentarily hypnotized me with a moving circle of tiny squares below a polite message — “One Moment, Please.”  It took just a few seconds.

The screen reverted to the  ”Book Now” form with a red-lettered message above it –

“No American, American Eagle, or American Connection service is provided between the cities requested. Please contact AAdvantage Reservations for Award opportunities on AAdvantage participating airlines.”

OK.  Seems like there should have been a way to tell me that the moment I chose “Cairo, Egypt” from the drop-down menu, but no biggie.  The Platinum Desk at American is manned (or more frequently womanned) 24/7.  I called; I got Roberta. I explained what I was trying to do.

We first determined how many miles I’d use to get a round-trip Business Class seat — 135,000.  I was 38,000 short.  But no worries, I thought.  I could buy the 38,000 additional miles I needed, and the cost was likely to be less than that of a Coach ticket.

For the next half hour, Roberta clicked away, trying to find available Business Class award seats on the dates I wanted on any number of American’s partner airlines.  Finally, she found outbound seats on Royal Jordanian through Amman.  But the return was stubborn.  The best she could do was Coach on British Airways from Cairo to London and then Business on American from London to New York.

However, she had a suggestion.  I could hold the reservation without actually booking it for five days.  During that time, I could call back periodically to check and see if Business Class opened up on the British Airways leg.  (Apparently there was no waiting list or automated way to request the upgrade.)  As long as I booked by midnight that Friday, the reservation would be held.

I agreed to the plan.  Roberta put the ticket on hold.  We bid each other a warmly-wished good night.

Then I had a brilliant idea.

I remembered that my Starwood Preferred Guest points could be used as frequent flyer miles.  Preferred Guest is the rewards program for Starwood hotels, which include the St. Regis, the W, Westins, Sheratons and others.  I’d used my points for free hotel nights before, but never as frequent flyer miles.  So I went to the Starwood Preferred Guest site to see what was involved.

I had 195,000 Starwood points, and they could be transferred to American AAdvantage 1:1 – one mile for every point. Bingo.

It couldn’t have been easier.  I chose American AAdvantage as the program I wanted to transfer to.  I gave them my AAdvantage number.  I pulled out 50,000 points, just for good measure.  I even got a bonus of 10,000 points — 5,000 for each 20,000 I transferred – which were added to the transfer for a total of 60,000.

I got a confirmation screen and printed it, followed seconds later by a confirmation email.  And that’s when I noticed it.  After the summary of my transfer, there was a sentence that read –  “Please allow 2-4 weeks for your transfer to be posted to your designated frequent flyer account.”

Oh, dear; I hadn’t counted on that.  I had a dilemma to resolve.  While I was mulling this over, I went to the American site to see if the reservation was there.  Indeed, it was, marked as a “Hold” with a reminder to book by midnight on Friday.  But I noticed that only the London-JFK leg was marked as Business Class.  Along with the Cairo-London leg, the outbound flights on Royal Jordanian were marked as Economy.

I thought Roberta had said she could get the outbound flights in Business.  Maybe she’d made a mistake, maybe she’d misunderstood me.  Maybe I’d misunderstood her.  After all, we’d walked through a number of different scenarios.  Maybe I was just confused.

Now I had two issues to resolve.  But by this time, it was really late.  I decided I’d deal with it all tomorrow and went to bed.

Throughout the next day, Monday, and into the evening, I pondered my dilemma: should I forget about the Starwood points, or maybe try to stop the transfer, and just buy the extra miles I needed for the ticket before Friday?  Or should I let the reservation lapse, since it was mostly in coach anyway, wait for the points to transfer, and then rebook the trip, hoping to get a complete Business Class ticket?

I couldn’t decide.  And what’s more, I didn’t really know how to evaluate the pros and cons of my options; so much seemed to depend on the availability of award seats, which hadn’t been easy for Roberta to find in the first place.  I went to bed Monday night, still undecided; but woke up Tuesday with a course of action in mind.  I would call the American Platinum Desk, and ask for their advice.  Surely, they could opine on whether to let the reservation go or not and on the likelihood of being able to rebook in 2-4 weeks.

At work Tuesday morning, I called the Platinum Desk.  Maybe it was Shirley who answered, or perhaps her name was Charlene.  She pulled up my reservation.  I asked her first about the Royal Jordanian flights in Economy.

“Oh, they’re definitely in Business Class,” she said.  “I don’t know why they do that, but the partner airlines only show up in your itinerary as Economy.  But the reservation is for Business.”

An odd and annoying bit of business, but a relief to hear it nonetheless.  Roberta had done what she’d said, and there’d been no misunderstanding.  So I went on to explain my Starwood Points dilemma as clearly as I could.

“Did you ask Starwood to expedite the transfer?” Marlene asked, as though that would have been the natural thing to do.

“No,” I tentatively responded, as I sensed the possibility that a pearl of frequent flyer wisdom was about to be laid before me.

“I don’t know for sure about Starwood,” she continued, “but I think if you ask them to expedite the transfer, they can do it for you immediately.”  This was great news.  But I thought I should check on my back-up plan.

“But if they can’t, ” I asked Shirlene, “I can still buy miles to make up what I lack, yes?”

“Of course,” she told me,  “but you have to do it 48 hours in advance.  They take 48 hours to post to your account.”

This was a new wrinkle.  If I wanted to buy the extra miles, I now needed to do it by midnight Wednesday, the next day.  But good to know; a possible crisis had been averted by this tidbit of information.  I thanked Shirelle profusely and punched the keys on my Blackberry to pull up the number of the Starwood Preferred Guest Service Desk with a certain sense of triumph.

I dialed.  After the usual recorded notifications and menu options — “please listen carefully as our options have changed” – I was connected to Andy.  Andy had a slight Hispanic accent at odds with his Anglo-Saxon name, but he seemed eager to please, despite the fact that he also seemed to be reading from a script.  I explained the situation and asked him if it were possible to expedite the points I’d transferred online Sunday night.

There was  a pause.  And when he spoke again, it was clear we were now off-script.  He repeated what I’d asked him to be sure he’d understood.  I confirmed he had.  His next few utterances were just Andy thinking out loud about how to proceed, and then he reached a conclusion.  If I didn’t mind, Mr. Hogle, he’d put me on hold and get back to me shortly.  He needed to consult with his supervisor.

I’ve learned one thing through years of air travel, dealing with ticket agents, gate agents and customer service phone representatives: these people actually do hold, if not your life, at least your travel happiness in their busy little hands.  And the best way to get what you want or desperately need is to be totally pleasant, address them by name, and applaud their every decision about how to proceed as though they’d just solved world hunger.  NEVER, I repeat, NEVER exhibit anger or frustration; you’ll end up in coach next to the lavatory the day after tomorrow, guaranteed.

“Fantastic, Andy,” I cooed.  “That sounds perfect.”

Andy consulted, while I listened to a recording about the amazing benefits of the Starwood Preferred Guest rewards program.  He returned with a definitive answer:  those points I’d transferred online Sunday night were in process.  There was nothing that could be done to expedite them; there was nothing that could be done to stop them.  Checkmate, cul-de-sac, no exit, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

A moment passed while this sank into my consciousness.  The other thing I’ve learned in my years of frequent travel is that when stonewalled, you should always make one last, incredibly polite attempt to get what you want — just in case there’s some way to do it they might have accidentally overlooked.

“So there’s absolutely no way,” I asked incredibly politely, “for you to expedite those miles I transferred Sunday night, so that they post to my American AAdvantage account before Friday?”

“I’m afraid not,” Andy replied, with a note of regret in his voice.

And then, like the beam of a lighthouse in a dense fog at sea, the number “195,000″ started glowing in my mind.  I’d transferred 50,000 points; I still had 145,000 in my account.

“So, Andy,” I ventured, “could I transfer another 50,000 points right now over the phone, and expedite them so that they’d post to my AAdvantage account before Friday?”

I could tell that Andy shared my excitement at the possibility of this solution.  “Yes, you could,” he told me.  But he couldn’t do it for me; expediting could only be done by a supervisor.  If I didn’t mind holding for a minute, Mr. Hogle, he could connect me with his supervisor who could handle it.

“That would be fantastic, Andy,” I cooed again.  “Let’s do that.”

Andy put me on hold, and for a brief moment, I listened to a recording about the amazing benefits of the Starwood Preferred Guest rewards program.  When the supervisor came on, it was immediately clear why she was a supervisor, supervising people like Andy.  Her name was Angie; or maybe I’m confusing her with Andy, and she was actually named Cheryl.  Regardless, she had a crisp, all-business tone of voice that suggested I was in capable hands, but that I’d better not be up to no good.

She asked how she could help me.  I explained again that I wanted to transfer 50,000 points to my AAdvantage account and expedite the transfer.  No problem, she could do that for me.  It occurred to me this time to ask how long it would take for the expedited points to post to my account.  “Three to five days,” she told me.

I started doing rapid calendar arithmetic in my head.

It was Tuesday.  I was holding a reservation that would expire in three days  at midnight on Friday.  If I purchased the extra miles I needed, I had to do so by midnight on Wednesday, since they needed 48 hours to post.  If the expedited Starwood points posted to my AAdvantage account in three days, they would be there sometime during the day on Friday before the midnight deadline; but if I waited until then, I ‘d have missed the deadline to purchase additional miles in the event the Starwood points took longer than three days.

Clearly every moment in the process had become precious.  So I pressed Charlotta for absolute clarity on the three to five days.  I could sense a bit of growing annoyance in her voice as she replied.  They might post in less than three days — often they did in less than 24 hours — but it all depended on the airline, there was no guarantee.  It was likely they would post within three days, but she could only guarantee they would post in five.

I was beginning to feel like I was traveling to Vegas instead of Cairo and playing a pre-trip game of chance called Frequent Flyer Roulette, where the odds definitely favor the house.  I had to make a decision.  Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets.

“Let’s do it,” I told Clarissa, with a note of reckless abandon in my voice.  If by some miracle, they posted in less than 24 hours, I’d have myself a free ticket to Cairo.  If they didn’t, I’d buy the extra miles, and I could always use the transferred Starwood points for award travel at some other point in the future.  You can never have too many frequent flyer miles.

We went through the details of my American AAdvantage account, and then she asked, as though it should be a given, “And the names on your Starwood Preferred Guest account and your AAdvantage account are the same?”

I was looking at the confirmation email from Starwood about the points I’d transferred Sunday night.  My name on the account was listed as “Don Hogle” which is, of course, the form of my name I use most often.  But somewhere in the back of my  mind, I seemed to recall having to change my identification with American after 9/11 to my name as it appears in my passport, which would be ”Donald Hogle.”

I had the American Airlines site open on my computer, so I quickly logged in to the AAdvantage section to see how my name was listed — indeed, it was Donald.

“There’s just a slight variation,” I meekly proffered Melissa.  “It’s Don on my Starwood account and Donald on my American Account.”

“Well, then I can’t do it,” she exclaimed with a note of finality and resolve, as if she’d just successfully smashed a cockroach with a newspaper.  “They have to be exactly the same.  If I put them through, the transfer will just be rejected.  And the ones you transferred online previously are going to be rejected as well.”

I followed my rule of asking one more time with incredible politeness, though I’m guessing a bit of strain had crept into my voice and changed the “incredible” part of that formula to “minimal.”  Melinda, however, was adamant: there was nothing to be done.

But it’s hard to kill a cockroach.  Some hairy antenna twitched in my nearly lifeless brain, and almost without knowing I was saying it, I said, “Could I change the name on my Starwood Account right now?”

I could almost hear the thwack of the rolled up newspaper, as it came down again, definitively this time.

“No,” she said.  “You have to send us a copy of your driver’s license, and it takes two weeks.”

I thanked her profusely for not helping me in the least and hung up the phone.  I was resigned.  I would buy the damn extra miles.  I was still getting a Business Class seat (except for one leg at the moment) presumably for less than the cost of Coach.

I thought it best to take no chances with buying the miles.  You can purchase them online, but after my experience with transferring the Starwood points, it seemed far too risky.   I called the American Platinum desk with the assurance that comes with prudence.

It may have been Rhonda who answered.  Or perhaps her name was Rhoda.  She pulled up my reservation.  I was proceeding with the utmost caution at this point.  I verified that the Royal Jordanian Economy flights were, in actuality, in Business Class.  She told me they were.   I asked her to check if any Business seats had opened up on the British Airways leg.  None had.  Then I told her I wanted to buy 38,000 miles to add to my account.

Rita was one of those very familiar African-American ladies, the kind you want to be your grandmother.  “Honey, you have to do that online at the website,” she replied.

Not an issue.  I’d wanted the surety of a human transaction, but I buy things all the time online with total comfort.  I could do that.

“And I just want to confirm,” I continued, “that it takes 48 hours for the miles to post to my account.”

“72,” she corrected me.  “It takes 72 hours for purchased miles to post.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.  “Someone else at the Platinum Desk told me it took 48 hours.”

“72,” she repeated with the patience one takes with a small, overly-inquisitive child.  “It takes 72 hours.”

“So I need to buy them by midnight tonight, if I have to book the ticket by Friday at midnight.”

“That is correct,” she stated.

We went on to discuss how much the miles would cost.  It was somewhere around $900.  But there was a special promotion on, and the price was discounted by something like 20%.  The cost would be $700 and change.

I thanked her, hung up, and went to the American website.  I logged in, hit the AAdvantage tab, and found where to purchase miles.  There was a conspicuous message displayed, advising members to allow 72 hours for purchased miles to post to the designated account.

I designated my account and the number of miles I wished to purchase.  The discounted promotional cost was $760 with a $30 processing fee and Federal excise tax of $57, for a total of $847.

Ironically, I paid for the miles with my Starwood Preferred Guest American Express card, which rewards me with one Starwood point for every dollar I spend.  I was building that Starwood balance I hadn’t been able to use.  I received a confirmation and printed it.  Now all I had to do was wait for the miles to post.

At home, Tuesday night before I went to bed, I checked the American site.  Nothing had happened: 97,734 in my account.  I checked when I first got up on Wednesday – 97,734.  I left the American site open at work, and refreshed it every time I went back to my desk – 97,734; 97,734; 97,734.  Last thing Wednesday night at home, I checked once more – 97,734.

First thing Thursday morning,  I checked in again – 195,734.  They’ve posted, I said to myself with relief.  Then, I did a double take.  I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them.  I put on my glasses.  There was no mistaking the number — 195,734.  This was suspiciously 98,000 miles above the balance I’d had.

I scrolled down to the recent transactions section.  There were two new entries:  “Miles Purchased — 38,000″  and “Starwood Preferred Guest — 60,000.”  The purchased miles had posted in less than 48 hours.  And the Starwood Points — which were supposed to take 2-4 weeks to post and which should have been rejected since they came from someone named Don and not Donald according to Belinda the belligerent supervisor — had posted three days after I transferred them.

I had bought the miles needlessly, though I couldn’t have known that at the deadline for purchasing them, allowing the full 72 hours they could have taken to post.

The end of the story is that on Thursday, I booked the ticket with the American Platinum Desk.  I think Jackie was helping me.  In fact, I’m certain her name was Jackie.  By adding on an extra day in Cairo, I was able to get Business Class on all four legs.  She gave me seat assignments, and they are definitely Business Class seat numbers, though they’re still labelled Economy on the website and in any confirmation I’ve received.  Jackie assured me this would not be an issue.

There were taxes of $402.20 plus a $25 processing fee.  That brought the total for my award ticket to $1274.20 plus 135,000 miles.

Today, as I write this,  the cheapest round-trip Business Class seat on Kayak for the dates I’m traveling is $4476.  When I’d started researching flights on my own, the cheapest Coach fare had been just above $1000.  Today, Turkish Airlines has a round-trip Coach fare through Ataturk for $875 — just about the same as the cost to purchase the additional miles I needed to book Business Class.

In a coda, while I’ve been writing this morning, I received an email from the American AAdvantage Program, congratulating me on surpassing another million mile milestone — 2,000,000 lifetime miles flown on American.

“As the millions of miles add up,” the letter says, “you are among a select group of members who earn this special designation. In just a few weeks you will receive a new elite membership card that acknowledges your multi-Million Miler status — plus additional rewards to convey our appreciation.  We are gratified by your dedication and confidence in us. Thank you for your commitment to American Airlines and the AAdvantage^® program. “

It was signed Maya Leibman.  She’s the President of the AAdvantage Loyalty Program.  Or was her name Marsha?

Postcard from Dubai: Seduced in the Desert

I first went to Dubai in the spring of 2007. Images from that trip stick in my mind more indelibly than the experiences related to my reason for being there — to teach our agency’s strategy development process and tools to colleagues from our Mid-East region.

My hotel, the Al Murooj Rotana, was surrounded by construction cranes and the steel and concrete frames of high-rise buildings-to-be. What was to become the tallest building in the world, the Burj Dubai, was well underway across the street. It was oppressively hot, and I inhaled construction dust and sand with every breath.

Along the road between my hotel and Media City, where our agency’s offices were located, construction paraded unabated. An elevated commuter train line was taking shape along the highway, looking like an apocalyptic alien snake.

Burj Dubai rising, May 2007

While I was waiting to be picked up for dinner one evening, a young Arab couple sat down on the sofas around me in the hotel lobby. The man fiddled with his cellphone. He wore the traditional kandorah and guhtra, the long white robe and banded headdress. The collar of the robe, however, was like that of a Western dress shirt buttoned up to the neck. A pair of elegant cufflinks graced French cuffs. The exceptionally fine material was crisply white against his dark olive skin and the light black beard that framed his jaw.

The woman sat across from me in a long, chiffon-like black robe. Her head was completely draped in a black veil that hung to her knees, permitting only the vaguest suggestion of her features to be perceived. When she moved her hands, unseen jewelry at her wrists jingled lightly under her coverings. She was a lithe, funereal specter, condemned to announcing her presence by the chiming of her golden manacles.

On a free afternoon, I shared the pool with some Russian Mafiosi. They were fat, demanding men with big, sunburned bellies, thick gold chains snarling the reddish-blonde hair on their chests. Nearby a coterie of their prostitute girlfriends lolled in the wading pool with cocktails, while the mafia guys shouted into cellphones. Just beyond them, two very well-built young men who looked like recycled military, one of them exceptionally tall, seemed by their gestures to be discussing their workout routines. I took them to be bodyguards.

I had dinner with the head of our Mid-East region at a traditional Lebanese restaurant in the Mall of the Emirates. The spot is popular with the many Lebanese ex-pats who work in Dubai, transplanted there when civil war in Beirut, once the commercial hub of the Levant, made business impossible. Large, boisterous groups of olive-skinned Mediterraneans sat at long extended tables, energetically enjoying each other’s company, as serving platters were plopped down among them. Through a huge plate-glass window to my left, I watched fully-suited skiers glide down the slope of Ski Dubai, the indoor ski experience that was Dubai’s latest craze. A lift carried the next contingent up to the top. Outside, even though it was night, it was sweltering.

When I returned in 2009 for another round of training, things had changed. Burj Dubai had been completed. My friend Bill, who coincidentally was in town on business as well, met me for drinks at a bar overlooking it. Much of the construction along Sheik Zayed Road was finished, and I stayed at a hotel nearer Media City on the new frontier of development. Something wasn’t quite right with the plumbing; there was a faint odor of sewage in my bathroom.

The global economic recession had hit Dubai hard, where a hyper-inflated real estate bubble had burst with a big bang. There were reports, somewhat exaggerated my hosts claimed, of legions of cars at the airport, abandoned by laid-off ex-pats who left the country without paying off their leases.

Tensions had risen between the foreigners still living there and the local Emirati, many of whom had lost considerable sums in the real estate collapse. A young man from the agency had been arrested for wearing a T-shirt with a naked Victoria Beckham on the front, arms crossed over her breasts – a shirt designed by Marc Jacobs to benefit breast cancer research. A local man had accused the young man of insulting Islam, and he’d been held in jail for the past three months awaiting his trial. A young French couple had been arrested for having sex on the beach, and they were reportedly in jail. Later I’d heard that all three had been deported.

I seem to have taken not a single photograph on the trip.

In January of this year, I returned to Dubai to attend the agency’s global leadership meeting. We stayed at Madinat Jumeirah, a swank resort complex on the Persian Gulf, in well-appointed villas, done up in the style of the local desert architecture. Incongruously, given the desert environment, a labyrinth of artificial canals wound through the complex. You moved about on small boats which aped the “abras” that ferry people back and forth across Dubai Creek in the old part of the city. It was all a bit odd; like a Disney version of old Dubai meets the Venetian in Las Vegas.

The famous sailboat-shaped hotel, the Burj Arab, sat on its own little island directly behind Jumeirah.

Madinat Jumeirah, January 2011

The crowd was mostly Western businesspeople like us and European families on holiday at the beach. Occasionally you’d see a Muslim man in blue jeans, t-shirt and a baseball cap, trailed by a veiled woman and several small children. At night, you might find a pair of young Arab men in robes and sandals without their headdresses, presumably there for the nightlife. A female colleague told me that leaving the disco late one evening, she was almost chased through the deserted “souk” by two of them.

On our last day there, I finally made it to the fitness center to get some exercise. In the men’s locker room, there was a sign — “In respect of local law, please do not walk around the locker room naked.”

I’ve never really liked Dubai. Everything about it seems dissonant and hypocritical to me. Like it courts you, but it doesn’t really want you. At least, not all of you (and evidently not the naked you.) Just what it finds acceptable. The rest of you it shames, and that’s what really bugs me — that a display of nakedness in a locker room is against the law; that women need to be veiled for their “protection” while men adhere to another standard; that Islam can be insulted by a naked woman on a T-shirt; that the body is offensive.

The night before I left for Dubai, I lay in bed with one of the guys who keeps me company there now and then. I was taking my pleasure exploring the landscape of his body, and we cracked ourselves up thinking about what we were doing and where I was going the next day. Enjoy it now, we laughed, because you know — there’ll be no cock-sucking in Dubai!

iPhone stealth shot in the hotel reception, Dubai, January 2011

One of my favorite quotes of all time comes from a character in a Kurt Vonnegut novel. Speaking of his wife who had passed away, he said, “The best thing about her was that in everything she did, there was something flirtatious. And what is flirtatiousness, if not an argument that life must go on and on?”

And what is the impulse to shame, if not the fear of life rising around you in all its unpredictable glory? The fear that joy might exist right here on earth and not in some heavenly paradise you might just get into when you die — if you’re “good” — where numerous, full-breasted virgins await your eternal erection. (I’m not making this up; I read it in Wikipedia.)

On my final night in Dubai, I sat on the terrace of my hotel room, overlooking one of the artificial canals. I was glad I was going home. I felt like I’d had it with Dubai. That if I never came back, I wouldn’t really mind.

I sipped a coffee, as the dusk settled in. From somewhere, I began to hear a voice singing in Arabic. A man must be standing on his terrace singing, I thought, or maybe it’s one of the gardeners attending the landscaping across the canal. But I couldn’t see anyone.

And then, there was another voice. And then another. And then I realized. It’s the Muslim call to prayer, drifting in and out among the leaves in the gathering dark. It was such a beautiful chorus of male voices. So soft, so soothing, and so inviting. And for a moment, just for a brief moment, I was seduced.

Sunset, Dubai Desert Camp, January 2011

Sheik Mahmoud Al-Donald, Dubai, January 2011

Postcard from Puerto Vallarta: 2(x)ist or Not To, That is the Question

I’m walking through the lobby of a resort hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico wearing a black hooded cape, a black feathered mask, and my underwear.

No, I was not kidnapped by Mexican Drug Lords, dumped on a highway without my clothes when no one would cough up a ransom, and forced to steal a costume leftover from a Dia de los Muertos pageant to cover myself.

I’m just headed to the Mardi Gras party on the second night of Atlantis Resort’s takeover of the Vallarta Palace Resort  for what I think can best be  described as a week of Gay Summer Camp in November.

Or Gay Club Med for the middle-aged (and those approaching it.)  There are 600 gay men here; the hotel is completely sold out.  I would guess the median age is somewhere in the 40′s.  I think the majority are actually couples.  More than 400 are repeat offenders, having done this week before, including my friend Anthony with whom I’ve come.

Like Club Med, the resort is “all-inclusive” — you pay for the week, a nonremovable bracelet is clamped to your wrist (sorry, but I also got one of these in each of the three surgeries I had in the past several years), and all your food and drinks are free from the moment you walk through the front door until the moment you leave.  (This was decidedly not the case at St. Roosevelt’s or the Hospital for Special Surgeries, although it certainly would have improved my experience of both.  Though I can imagine developing a dependence on general anesthesia, if it were constantly available and free.  I don’t know where I am when I’m under it, but it must be good, because I always feel a bit disappointed when I come out of it.)

It’s a bit dangerous, this unfettered access to food and especially to drink.  To borrow an expression from a former boss of mine, you can’t swing a dead cat in this hotel without hitting a Mexican carrying a tray of drinks.  On the afternoon of the first day I realize that pacing is the key to survival.

Atlantis is probably the premier gay travel company by participating headcount  per annum.  Most of its trips are cruises, which I’m told attract a somewhat younger crowd.  But they do a couple of resort weeks each year.  On land or water, the formula is the same:  days spent poolside or taking “excursions,”  late afternoon “tea dances” with varying themes, dinner, some entertainment, and late-night theme parties in the disco.

My friend Anthony, a veteran of thirteen Atlantis vacations, mercifully sent me guidance on what to wear for each of the themed events: for example,  cargo shorts and a camouflage T-shirt for the Dog Tag Tea Dance; Afro wigs, platform shoes, and polyester for the Classic Disco dance; something dark and sexy (read black designer underwear) for the Mardi Gras Party (hence the outfit I described earlier); and then there is that staple of the gay party circuit — the White Party, which is basically an excuse to dance in your Calvin Klein tighty whities or boxer briefs to the throbbing beat of house music.  (I suppose 2(x)ist is actually the more popular brand of underwear these days, but I’m not really the proper person to consult on these matters.)

For many years, until my little band of merry men gradually disbanded, I spent a similar week each year with a group of friends in Provincetown during August.  And like Carnival Week in Provincetown, Atlantis resort attracts a broad cross-section of the U.S. gay sub-culture — disparate types of gay men who, other than their homosexuality, have next to nothing in common.

There are the Bears — hirsute, generally portly men with facial hair — a group of which ( somewhat incongruously, since they’re not generally known for their high-fashion style) win the poolside Project Runway competition at Atlantis Puerto Vallarta for the third year in a row.

There are Twinks —  slender, slightly effeminate young gay men, who often are known for their high-fashion style and tend to work in retail.  A small gaggle of them from Rhode Island show up at every party in coordinated costumes that are basically varations on a Speedo with accessories.  They are appropriately nicknamed The Muppets.

There are Muscle Boys with worked-out bodies, who probably have manhunt.net profiles that say “worked out, hwp” (that’s height and weight proportionate.)

There are boys from LA with bleached blonde hair, Giorgio Armani square-cut swimsuits accentuating an over-sized package, D&G sunglasses with a bit too much gold, and an out-of-shape, 60-something, highly successful boyfriend.  Or there is a beautiful boy with a Bachelor of Science degree, laid-off from his job, working as a go-go boy in a gay bar in Texas, and here with a “friend” who is three times his age.

And then there are hundreds of basically normal, everyday, standard-issue guys who are gays, spending a week jokingly referring to each other as “she,” happy to escape the primarily straight world in which every day they compete and excel.  People you know are in this latter category.

Despite these differences, everyone is remarkably friendly.  Coming and going around the hotel, everyone says good morning, good evening and hello whenever they pass another guest in a hallway or in the elevator.  Brilliant costumes at themed parties are always applauded, regardless of who is wearing them.

Anthony and I meet some really nice people whom we hang with poolside, at dinner, and at the parties throughout the week.  All in all, I have a great time. I soak up the sun by the pool, watching cute guys in Speedos walk by.  I do a course of thirteen zip lines through the jungle canopy back and forth over a river, led by some crazy, flirtatious Mexican straight boys, who know exactly who their customer is and play appropriately to the audience; they were totally fun.  And I dance for two hours straight (no pun intended) to classic 70′s disco  in an Afro wig, huge red sunglasses, and a T-shirt with a Coca-Cola bottle on it that says, “I’ve got the Coke, let’s get this party started.”

At the last big party, the White Party, I have an epiphany of sorts.  I’m in a white V-neck T-shirt and white drawstring pants I bought at the hotel gift shop.  I’ve decided that, since I’m 57 and not exactly “hwp,”  showing up in just my underwear is probably not my best look .  I’m standing on the edge of the dance floor with our new-found friends, a May-December couple from Florida.

In front of us, a small group of young guys is dancing their hearts out to a throbbing beat, wearing  nothing but their white briefs and tennis shoes.  They are decidedly “hwp” and very cute.  I watch one of them and think, who’s got that kind of energy to move like that song after song after song?

Then I remember when I was first in New York in my twenties, going to acting school, working several jobs just to make ends meet, one of which was at a night club called Les Mouches on 11th Avenue and 29th Street.

Toward the end of the night, when the customers had mostly gone, the DJ would switch from the disco music she was required to play to the more current rock that those of us who worked there loved — The Pretenders debut album with a song like Brass in Pocket, My Sharona from The Knack, or Marianne Faithfull’s comeback album,  Broken English.

As soon as we heard those songs, we would run to the dance floor.  I wore cowboy boots, peg-legged jeans, ripped T-shirts, and a bandana around my neck.  And I would dance like my life depended on it — loving the feel of my body in motion, letting an attitude fly through my limbs, caring not a whit what anyone thought of me.

Then I think of a time shortly after my sister and brother-in-law were married.  We’re all in Florida —  Jan and Bruce, his sister and me.  We’re all in our 20′s.  And my mother and father, both in their 50′s, are with us.  We’re in a Florida State Park.  And the four of us youngsters are going canoe-ing.  For whatever reason, we’ve only got two two-person canoes.  My father says that he wants to go.  And we tell him we didn’t think he’d want to; it’s not for him really.  I don’t know why we felt that way, other than that we were enjoying our youth and he wasn’t part of that.  I recall the disappointment on my father’s face, as we young folk take off for our adventure.

Standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching the young guys luxuriate in the energy of their youth, I say to myself:  it’s time to go to bed; this scene is not for me anymore.  I’ve done this; it was fantastic, it was fun.  But it belongs to younger people now; I cede you this ground. Happily, really.

I remain just a few minutes longer.  Tomorrow is our last full day, and I have the zip-line excursion in the morning to get up for.  I’ve never done one before, and I’m a little anxious about it.  But excited at the prospect nonetheless.  Buenas noches,  guapos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Souvenir Photo from Puerto Vallarta Zipline, November 2010

 

Postcard from Scotland: Return of the Brown Stranger

The dictionary we had at home when I was a child gave the meaning and derivation of proper names as well as regular words.  It said my name, Donald, was derived from the Gaelic and that it meant “world leader” or “brown stranger.” 

I read that dictionary entry often.  Probably because the information about my name conjured some excitement and adventure beyond what I felt as the confines of my real life.  It stimulated my imagination. 

That my name was Gaelic seemed colorful and ethnic, in a way my family wasn’t.  The destiny suggested by “world leader” was quite heady; I wondered if it meant I would be President one day.  And “brown stranger” was exotic and mysterious, like maybe I had gypsy blood in my veins.  I thrilled to the thought that these qualities might be part of me: as though my naming had wrested them from the heavens and fixed them to my identity just as, astrologically, the position of the stars and planets determined my horoscope at my birth. 

Babynamesworld.com has a less titillating commentary to make on my name. “Its popularity in Scotland rivaled that of Ian; however, Disney’s character Donald Duck led to its use becoming less frequent.”  A totally understandable, if unfortunate, development. 

Despite the Gaelic origins of my name, I never felt particularly Scottish or Irish.  Growing up, I had almost no sense of an old-world national heritage.  Unlike the big Italian-American families of some of my schoolmates, or the handsome, swarthy Lebanese-American who was our family dentist, there was nothing ethnically defining about who we were.  The closest thing I recall to anything remotely ethnic in my family life was this: my father would play his accordion and croon “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” to my mother, whose maiden name was Kennedy. 

When I was nine years old, we moved from upstate New York to West Palm Beach, Florida.  Whenever we would drive along Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach on our way to the pier to go fishing, we would pass the Kennedy family compound there.  Inevitably my father would say to my mother, “Olive, we should stop in and visit your relatives.” 

Years later, when I was working the door at a night club in New York, I was chatting up an Irish chauffeur one night who was waiting downstairs, while his clients were upstairs dancing in the disco.  I told him I was one-quarter Irish, that my mother’s maiden name was Kennedy.  It helps to imagine his response in the thick Irish brogue in which he spoke.  “If your mother’s maiden name is Kennedy, then you’re all Irish, me lad.” 

My father used to tell my sister and me that we were “Scotch Plaid” – French and Irish on my mother’s side (LaCrosse or LaCroix and Kennedy) and Scottish and English on his side (Wilson being Scottish and Hogle the English side.) 

In trying to unravel the Hogle genealogy, my sister uncovered that “Hogle” is more likely an Anglicization of a Dutch name.  She may have traced us back to a group of brothers from New Amsterdam, the Dutch colony that became New York under British rule.  A result that pleases me greatly, as it suggests that unwittingly, in moving to New York City thirty-four years ago, I was simply returning to my ancestral home. 

I’ve visited all four countries of my “Scotch Plaid” background: France, the Netherlands, Ireland and most recently Scotland.  I went to each expecting (or perhaps hoping) to feel some connection, some indescribable feeling of simpatico-ness, some sense of having “come home.”  A feeling of belonging, I guess, to some tribe that I never felt part of growing up. 

I didn’t.  If anything, I felt more distinctly American, particularly in France.  Let’s blame that on the French, or at least on the Parisians, among whom I spent most of my time in France.  In the Netherlands, at 5’8 ½ “ tall, I just felt short; the Dutch are the tallest people in the world – 6’1” on average, according to wisegeek.com.  I recall being in a gay bar in Amsterdam with my French friend Jeremy, who had come over from Paris to visit me while I was there – and who thankfully is shorter than I am.  I felt totally claustrophobic among the towering Dutch men at the bar. 

I felt more comfortable in Ireland and Scotland.  Perhaps largely because of the language.  But also, because there seemed to be a kind of unpretentious, middle-class-ness about both societies that helped me feel relaxed.  Perhaps the fact that both were utterly subjugated by the English at some point  contributes to a national spirit of rolling with the punches. Who knows.  But both places were easy for this American to visit. 

There is a myth about the origins of the name Scotland, which has some resonances for the double Gaelic meanings of my name, “world leader” and “brown stranger.”  The tribe that became the Scots were supposedly descended from an Egyptian pharaoh’s daughter named Scota, who was given in marriage to a Scythian prince (Scythia was a land near the Black Sea in modern-day Russia) in the time of Moses (1300 BC).  The Scots and their forefathers traveled from the Middle East through Scythia, Greece, Crete, Egypt, Spain, Ireland and finally settled down as rulers over the local Picts in the North of Britain, which they called Scotland. 

For the past two years, my sister has organized a summer hiking trip in Scotland.  Last year we visited the Highlands and the Isle of Skye in the Inner Hebrides.  This year, we travelled way to the northernmost part of Scotland and the United Kingdom, to the Shetland and Orkney islands. 

Our launching spot for the Shetland-Orkney trip was Aberdeen, on the mainland in the northeast of Scotland.  And winding through Aberdeen, speaking of my Gaelic name, is the River Don. 

The River Don, Aberdeen, Scotland, June 30, 2010

The River Don rises in the Grampian Mountains in northeastern Scotland and flows 82 miles to its exit into the North Sea at Aberdeen.  In the picture above, a bridge is visible in the background.  This is the Brig O’ Don, or the “Bridge of the Don”.  On a walking tour of Old Aberdeen on our first full day in Scotland, we had lunch at a restaurant called Brig O’ Don, and walked to the middle of the bridge itself – a rather dull, modern two-lane structure carrying traffic across the river. 

For those of you who are either gay or musical comedy fans or both (and you know who you are!), Brigadoon – the title of the Lerner and Loewe musical about a Scottish village that magically appears only one day every one hundred years – is a variation of Brig O’ Don. 

Given that Aberdeen probably owes its existence to the emptying of the River Don into the North Sea, there are understandably numerous Don-named establishments throughout the city: dry cleaners, convenience stores, pharmacies, nail salons and the like. 

But most importantly, in Old Aberdeen, there was a street named after the river.  Or maybe it was named after a descendant of dark brown strangers – an Egyptian princess and her Scythian husband, who led their tribe from the eastern Mediterranean through Spain and Ireland to a home in modern-day Scotland. Or maybe they named it for me once they heard I was coming.  

Whichever, I felt mightily welcomed and right at home. 

On Don Street, Aberdeen, Scotland, June 30, 2010

Postcard from 2009: That’s Me All Over

If you’ve seen George Clooney’s new movie, Up in the Air, you know it’s about a single guy who travels constantly for his work, terminating companies’ employees – ‘unburdened’ by any relationships, with no real home to speak of, comfortable and at home in frequent flyer lounges, hotel restaurants and at 36,000 feet.  My friend Howard, who works in outplacement, said “He’s half you and half me.”   

I’m the “travels constantly” half.  Now for the record, I want to be clear: I’m not really like Clooney’s character at all.   I have a wonderful home that I love spending time in and am surrounded by loving family, friends and associates.  (I may be kidding myself about  my associates’ feelings toward me; but your family and friends have to love you, so I’m confident about that.)   

But I do travel a lot.  That’s for sure.  And every year just for fun, I tally the damage (or the winnings, depending on how you look at it.)  I suspect the data tells a bit of a story about me.   

I made 33 separate trips in 2009.  That means I traveled away from home about once every week and a half.  My most frequent destination was San Francisco — fully 1/3 of those trips.  Ten of them were on behalf of my clients at Charles Schwab (lovely people, each and every one);  and one was to go to my friend David’s 40th birthday party.  (Incredibly, I couldn’t manage a Schwab meeting before or after that party.)   

Bay Bridge, San Francisco

Before you feel too bad for me, let me mention that only half of those 33 trips were for work.  The other half were personal.  (And only three of them were day trips, all to New Haven, CT; twice to see a show at the Long Wharf Theatre and once to preview my bedroom cabinets at the cabinetmaker’s shop.)   

My most frequent destination on the personal side of the ledger was Hawley, Pennsylvania — about 2 hours and 15 minutes outside of New York, where my friends Howard and Bill keep their weekend home.  Each bedroom in their rambling former canal lockhouse has a sign — handmade by neighbor Cathy — identifying the room: the Tuscany Room, the Parisian Room, the Gold Star Room, the Sheep Room (don’t ask) and — Don’s Room.  If home is where the heart is, then these trips are less about leaving home and more about coming to another part of  “home.”   

Lockhouse 19, Hawley, Pennsylvania

There were, of course, two significant vacations.  They account for a fair number of the 79 nights I spent away from home (that’s just over 21% of the year.)   

In March, my longtime friend Carin and I fulfilled a longtime dream by visiting Mexico City and the Yucatan, taking in ancient pre-Aztec and Mayan ruins.  We dragged her daughter Nora, my 14-year-old goddaughter, along.  I think she enjoyed it; at least I enjoyed traveling with her and her mother, a break from my usual touring with strangers on group tours.   

Nora and Towel Art at our Hotel in Palenque, Mexico

And in July, I took a family trip to celebrate my sister Jan’s and brother-in-law Bruce’s 30th anniversary.  Niece Megan and Bruce’s sister Ellen came along for this REI trip, hiking through the Scottish Highlands and Islands, which was also a visit to one of our ancestral homelands.  Three poor souls who joined the tour as well found themselves on our family vacation.  But within no time were part of the family, and we’re all considering another Scottish venture this coming summer, this time to Shetland and Orkney Islands.   

Ellen and Megan at Loch Brittle, Scotland

Rounding out the personal trips were excuses to visit other friends and family.  A weekend in Philadelphia with my friend Greg to see a Cezanne exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum.  Thanksgiving weekend in Provincetown, MA with Greg as well and his boyfriend Paul.  Christmas week with the family in snow-laden Madison, WI.  And one mad weekend in San Jose, CA for the Mariachi and Mexican Heritage Festival.   

Work took me domestically to Chicago, Portland and Phoenix.  Although in Phoenix, I snuck in a day with my first boss Fran, who lives in Scottsdale, and who is now a dear friend (and the most ardent fan of my writing, god love her.)  And internationally, the agency sent me to teach our strategic tools one day to Toronto and to Dubai for a week, where bizarrely I met my friend Bill (of the Lockhouse fame) for dinner, as he was traveling around the world for work, and we just happened to be in the Emirates at the same time.  Now that’s one that’s almost out of the Clooney movie.   

One of the things I loved most about the movie was the shots from the air — the plane’s-eye views — that ran through the opening credits and punctuated every change of city throughout the film’s action.  Oddly geometric farm fields in green and brown circles or squares.  The veins of city streets, clotting in a downtown maze on the bank of a river or lake.   

Last night, flying home from Christmas week in Madison, I passed over cities, towns and villages, all looking like bejewelled spider webs in the night under clear skies below me.  I was in that strange place that, in the movie, George Clooney’s character refers to as “home” — that “beam me up, Scottie” experience that we never experience in Star Trek, the time in between here and there.    

It’s the flight itself.  And I took 46 individual ones in 2009.  If you’re travelling alone (I almost always am), it’s somewhat lonely.  The drone of the jet engines isolates you.  You have to almost shout over it, if you want to be heard to talk to a seat neighbor or to a flight attendant.  Otherwise, it wraps you in the cocoon of your own thoughts, welcome or unwelcome as they may be.  You read, you watch movies, you work on your laptop.  You eat, but everything is miniature — a pretend sort of meal, no matter how much they play-act a high-end restaurant, if you’re lucky enough to be travelling in Business or First.   

Lonely, but familiar.  And in its familiarity, somehow oddly comforting.   

I leave you with another shot from on high, but not from 36,000 feet.  This one is from the balcony of the second floor off the Parisian Room at Lockhouse 19, where I’m headed again tomorrow evening for this New Year’s weekend.  Like the signs identifying the bedrooms, this is the handiwork of neighbor Cathy, from last year at this same time.  A year old, but as warm a wish as it was when first written.   

Message from Cathy, New Year's 2008