Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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Impersonal Delivery
Why does Amazon ask for “packaging feedback”? Do they really want my opinion on a plain brown box? Yesterday I came home to an Amazon delivery on my front door step. But that’s already not true. The box was dropped into a plastic bag and suspended from my mailbox (“front door step” just sounded better). My packaging feedback to Amazon: lackluster.
Let’s chat about delivery as it used to be. My fondest childhood memories include the noisy, colorful, “old-fashioned” delivery trucks that made their way into the neighborhood regularly. No kid from that era will ever forget the bakery, dairy, and ice cream trucks, and the allure of fresh-made bread and other goodies – temptations limited only by Mom’s permission or the amount of change in your pants pocket.
Growing up in Los Angeles, the Helms Bakery had a fleet of hundreds of bright yellow delivery trucks. The drivers dressed in smart uniforms and used a distinctive “toot-toot” horn to announce their arrival. The neighborhood gathering at the truck was as much social as it was for baked goods. At the end of grade-school field trips through the Helms factory, each kid received a coupon for something free from the delivery truck. It was like a golden ticket to a candy store, where you walk in and the owner spreads his arms and says “pick one”.
The dairy truck came from Edgemar Farms, not that we ever knew (or cared) where the farm was. Edgemar delivered milk in glass bottles with foil caps. The “milkman” would walk into the kitchen like he was family. He’d take the order from Mom and return with his wire basket full of milk, eggs, and butter. Then he’d unload everything right into the refrigerator, tip his cap with a cheery “good morning” and be on his way. Now that’s anything but lackluster delivery.
Ice cream (Good Humor or some other brand) appeared in our neighborhood on summer nights – the very best truck of them all. I can still hear the beckoning jingle from the roof-mounted loudspeakers. The neighborhood kids would flock – I mean flock – to the truck’s side window, where the all-in-white ice-cream man would lean out and wait too patiently while we made up our minds. Bomb pops. Push-ups. Ice cream sandwiches. Heaven on earth delivered right into your hands.
Okay – end of time-gone-by chat – back to today’s delivery by Amazon. Boring brown box. Got it? So how did my box get to me? What did the truck look like (was it even a truck)? Did the delivery person wear a uniform? Did he or she come to the front door?
Lack of delivery details equals lackluster delivery. And it’s only going to get worse. Amazon Prime Air is described as “a future delivery system designed to safely get packages to customers in 30 minutes or less using small unmanned aerial vehicles”. So now my brown boxes are going to arrive by parachute. In my packaging feedback, I’m going to request a beckoning jingle from the drones to announce their arrival – er, landing?
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Pageant of the Masters
In the small but wealthy community of Laguna Beach, California, the crown jewel of the annual Festival of Arts is an event known as the Pageant of the Masters. The Pageant is remarkable entertainment: ninety minutes of classical and contemporary art pieces, recreated one-by-one on stage in larger-than-life frames, using real people instead of their painted counterparts. Makeup, lighting, and carefully choreographed sets complete each “painting”, resulting in a remarkably accurate depiction when the curtain sweeps aside. Add in the accompanying music from the live orchestra and it is a nonpareil performance. Thousands attend the Pageant each summer, as they have since its beginnings in 1932.
In the smaller but modest community of Augusta, Georgia, the sporting world was witness to another nonpareil performance last weekend – the Masters golf tournament. Just like the Pageant, thousands attend golf’s Masters each April, as they have since its beginnings in 1934. To me, the Masters is golf as a fine art.
Whether or not you play golf – whether or not you even like golf – there is no denying the Augusta National Golf Club is a beautiful place. The photos here do not do it justice, but most of us will have to settle for just that – photos. Tickets to the Masters go on the market a year in advance (apply now for 2017!), and a four-day tournament badge runs upwards of $2,500. Candidly, even a golf fan like myself – who has “visit Augusta National” on his bucket list – would rather watch the action on television. The price of cable gets you far more camera angles and coverage than you could ever hope for in person.
Augusta National’s eighteen holes are so revered that each one has been given a name. The first photo above is #12 “Golden Bell”, the shortest but perhaps trickiest of them all. It’s a spectacular par-3 where the tee shot must clear water and then land on a small green protected by several sand bunkers. This year’s tournament was lost on this hole.
This photo is #15 “Firethorn”, a twisting par-5 that tempts you to go for the green in two – if you’re brave enough to tune out the creek that runs in front of and behind the green. Firethorn also has the distinction of a hole where Masters tournaments have been won or lost.
It’s easy to get lost in the pageantry of the Masters, whether it be the ceremonial opening tee shots from prior champions, the CBS theme song “Augusta”, the reverent tones of commentator Jim Nantz, or the endless camera shots of the color-burst of spring azaleas against the backdrop of bright green fairways. But don’t ignore the play itself. You’re witnessing one hundred of the world’s best golfers, competing on one of sport’s most difficult stages. Watch them as they bend shots blindly around trees and over water, or curl in putts that move from left to right and then left again. Augusta National is a true test of composure and will. Masters champions are artists in their own right. Like Laguna Beach, it really is a Pageant of the Masters.
Photos courtesy of the Official Program of the 2006 Masters Tournament
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Field of Flowers
In the heart of timeless Rome, not far from the Pantheon and the Coliseum and the Vatican City, lies a field of flowers. The Italians call it the Campo de’ Fiori (literally, “field of flowers”) and it is a welcome retreat from the bustling metropolis that surrounds it. The Campo is open and happy and bright; a sanctuary nestled within a vast maze of winding streets and crowded buildings.
You can see the Campo in the photo above: the rectangular area with all the white tents. Admittedly the Campo is not really a field, but rather a piazza (a public square). But the place abounds with flower-vendors. And the square hosts a daily food market, bars and restaurants, and a bath-like fountain to keep all those cut flowers fresh.
The Campo has a special place in my heart, because in 1982-1983 I spent nine months in Rome, studying architecture. The Hotel Lunetta (also in the map photo at the upper right) was our “dorm”, and the streets of the city our “campus”. The Campo was our “quad”. It was where we played Frisbee (while the Italians played soccer alongside us). It was where we had our laundry done or grabbed a snack or shopped for conveniences. But mostly it was just a cozy place to hang out after classes.
The Campo is one of Rome’s smaller piazzas. To contrast, here’s a photo of nearby Piazza San Pietro, the vast open space in front of St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Vatican City:
The Campo has an interesting history that dates back to the Middle Ages (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campo_de’_Fiori). It really was a field to begin with, until a Cardinal had it paved over in the fifteenth century. Many of the buildings that surround the open space are the originals from hundreds of years ago. My wife Brigid, an equestrian, would enjoy the fact that a) the one church on the Campo is for Santa Brigida (a Swedish saint), and b) the square was once the site of a twice-weekly horse market.
Several streets that lead to the Campo are named for the trades that occupied the area all those years ago. Via della Corda – approaching from the southwest – means “Street of the Rope-makers”. Via dei Cappellari – approaching from the northwest – means “Street of the Hat-makers”.
The Campo also boasts a not-so-nice aspect. In the seventeenth century the square was used for public executions, particularly for those at odds with the Church. Almost in kind, the Campo of recent years has become a gathering place for drunken tourists, soccer enthusiasts, and overzealous youth, earning the distinction of “one of the most dangerous places in Rome at night”. What a shame. Perhaps the Campo should remain a keepsake memory for me instead of a place to revisit – my Campo – an unspoiled sanctuary more akin to a field of flowers.
Photos courtesy of Google Maps: https://www.google.com/maps)
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That’s (Not) the Spirit!
In the latest Skytrax airline review, Spirit Airlines received an overall rating of 3 (out of 10). Not so good, eh? I’d love to debate that grade with those who fly Spirit. But what if those travelers also learned Spirit received a mere 4 for “value for money”. Value for money? This is an airline that touts itself as “the leading ultra-low cost carrier in the United States”! Have we been duped?
One of my family members flew Spirit earlier this week, and from her I learned the extent to which a business model can go “no frills”. I thought Spirit simply attached a fee to everything outside of the ticket itself. It’s more convoluted than that. Best example: Spirit’s checked bag fee starts at $30 (paid at time of booking), increases to $35 (before online check-in), then to $40 (during online check-in), then to $50 (at ticket counter), and summits at $100 (at gate). Pack carefully too, because an “overweight bag” begins at forty pounds (not fifty), and the fee-on-top-of-the-baggage-fee for overweight begins at $25.
Here are some other gotchas with Spirit; enough to consider your nearest emergency exit. Choosing a seat yourself runs $50 and up (not so unusual with the airlines these days). Carry-on bags that can’t be jammed under your seat cost you $55. Boarding passes are $2 if printed at a kiosk; $10 if printed by an agent (must be premium-weight paper, huh?) Unaccompanied minors are an extra $100 each way. Finally, the drink you’ll need to survive this a-la-carte menu starts at $3, even if it’s plain ol’ water. And don’t forget to press the flight attendant button or your beverage will never, ever arrive.
All of the above might read as criticism, but it’s apparent the Spirit model works for enough passengers to keep their planes in the air. If you choose to fly Spirit you are – ideally -a person traveling alone, carrying only one bite-sized piece of luggage, and you don’t mind where or with whom you sit on the plane. You also don’t care about comfort, because Spirit proudly reduces legroom to create “more seats for less airfare”.
I waged a little fares-war to see how Spirit’s “bare fare” stacks up to the competition. I chose five of Spirit’s larger-city destinations and compared those fares to the next lowest carrier. Here’s what you pay if you book a one-week round-trip flight from Denver starting April 15th:
- Chicago – Spirit: $108, Next Lowest: $117
- Atlanta – Lowest: $167, Spirit: $270
- Dallas – Spirit: $78, Next Lowest: $86
- Phoenix – Lowest: $130, Spirit: $150
- Los Angeles – Spirit: $91, Next Lowest: $138
Percentage-wise, the best deal is to Los Angeles, where you only pay 65% to Spirit vs. the next lowest. But are you going to fly all the way to the coast with a bag that fits under your seat? Not likely, so add another $55. Whoops – Spirit is no longer the lowest-cost option.
I’m not necessarily throwing Spirit under the bus here (even though a recent DOT report showed they had the highest number of complaints per-passenger among major U.S. airlines). I’m not saying they don’t care about you the customer (even though my sister-in-law took three hours and five agents/supervisors/managers to get her storm-delayed flight re-booked). I’m not even saying Spirit doesn’t run its business above board (even though the FAA recently slapped them with a $375,000 penalty for false advertising and refusal to reimburse customers).
What I am saying is do the math and know what you’re paying for. Don’t be duped.
I’ll conclude with a bit of irony. Three years ago my overnight flight to Florida was cancelled because I couldn’t connect through Houston on account of bad weather. But I simply had to get to Florida by the next morning. After exhausting all options the counter agent informed me my only option was out of another airport an hour’s drive to the north, and the only option out of that airport was… Spirit. And I’ll be damned if Spirit didn’t get me to Florida the next morning – right on time. So there you have it – I’m a fan of Spirit! Er, that is, after exhausting all other options.
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Sounds Good to Me
At the movies last weekend, as we waited for the lights to dim, two women were having a conversation in the row in front of us. What struck me was not what they were talking about, but how they sounded. Their voices projected loud and clear above the quieter chatter of others in the theater. Yet they were talking normally, neither straining nor raising their voices. It’s like they had built-in megaphones.
I find that fascinating about the human voice. With one person the words come out all velvety and smooth, like honey-dripped taffy. With others it’s all cymbals and brass band.
Take “Debbie” on the current season of television’s “Survivor”. If you watch, you know who Debbie is (the self-proclaimed uber-intelligent “Brain Tribe” member). But even if you didn’t know all that about Debbie, you’d recognize her voice in a heartbeat. There’s just something about her combination of accent, volume, and non-stop blah-blah-blah.
When I hear voices like Debbie’s, I’m spirited back in time to high school speech class. Midway through that semester so many years ago, our teacher brought in an “alumna” to demonstrate public speaking at its most refined. I’ll never forget it. Our guest spent several moments standing quietly in front of us; eyes closed, breathing deep, as if preparing for a long delivery. Then she simply said:
“Thank you for the plums. They were delicious.”
That was it. That was her entire speech. But I was utterly spellbound. The way she delivered just two lines: enunciating each word completely, starting and finishing each sentence smoothly, captivating her audience with her words as well as her body language – was the total sensory experience. I could hear her eating those plums. I could see the juice dripping down her lips. I could even taste those plums myself (and they were delicious). To this day it is one of the most powerful moments of speech I have ever witnessed.
The accents in the Southern states – i.e. Virginia or South Carolina or Georgia – are similarly spellbinding. I remember touring a plantation house once when I was a teenager, and our guide was a short, heavy-set black woman who possessed one the softest, sweetest voices I had ever heard. Her words were so calming and mesmerizing I found myself falling asleep on my feet, jaw dropped. I hope she realized that was a compliment, because I can still hear her voice to this day.
The Irish accent is even more affecting to me. Male or female; on the Emerald Isle or watching the movie “Brooklyn”; there is something utterly captivating about the Irish spin on the spoken word. It is soft and fluid, with subtle twists of pronunciation and emphasis. It’s like an audio massage. I could listen to the female Irish voice for hours on end (just as my wife could listen to the male equivalent. Hate you for that, Colin Farrell).
Since I am neither Irish nor a resident of the South, nor even a refined public speaker, I settle instead for using words that simply sound nice. Search the Web and you’ll find lists of “the most beautiful words” or “the sweetest-sounding words”. Here are some of my favorites:
- cashmere
- cinnamon
- chimes
- dulcet
- effervescence
- grace
- lithe
- mist
- murmur
- rhapsody
- sapphire
- serene
Don’t those sound nice and velvety? Don’t they bring just a tinge of comfort, or conjure up images of the nicer things in life? To conclude, some of us may not possess the most pleasant of pipes (like Survivor Debbie). But at least we have some sugary words that can bring us a little closer to that honey-dripped taffy.
About Me
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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Life In A Word 