STARR PASS? SURR PASSES EXPECTATIONS

Why the griffin?   Who knows--but I like it!

How do you feel about Marriott hotels?  I kind of like them.  And Steve has held many, many meetings at Marriotts.  Which means lots of Marriott points.  Which means free stays at Marriott.  Which means lots more stays at Marriotts.  And that’s a good thing; they’re nice!  And a few weeks ago, we stayed for the first time at their fancy dancy brand, “JW Marriott.”  And boy, that was a REALLY good thing!

Fred & Lynette on their wedding day

We were going down to Tucson to have a lunch celebrating Steve’s sister Cindy’s birthday—which actually was over a month ago, but I’m positive you don’t want to hear the details of that explanation—and decided that while we were there we’d just be wild and have dinner with our friends Fred and Lynette, too, and, oh boy, stay the night.  (As you may recall, I LOVE staying in hotels.  One of my hobbies, you might say.)  So I checked around and discovered “we” (read, Steve) had earned enough points for a room.  I was planning on booking us at the Marriott University Park (located right at the University of Arizona, see how they did that—University Park?), where we have very happily stayed many times.  (After all, Steve went to the UofA for eight years, I think it is as he tells it, to earn his undergraduate degree, and still considers himself a Wildcat.  I guess we should be grateful he isn’t actually still a Wildcat.  That just a short eight years did it for him.)

 

Abbott and Costello

The last time we stayed at the Marriott University Park we had the nicest exchange with a gentleman named Michael who played host at breakfast.  He had such an interesting way about him—hearty and friendly and interested and just a je ne sais quoi aura about him (hey, that’s French for I don’t know what.  I mean I do know what it means; it means I don’t know what. Wait!  I think I'm hearing...  Hey, Abbott!)  And he talked very knowledgeably about UofA football.  Which was enough for Steve to bond with him immediately.  We even ended up asking him all about things in addition to college football and had a great lengthy chat while we ate our breakfast.  He turned out to be as interesting as he first appeared (even to me, who is fine with college football, but frankly, I don’t want to eat an entire breakfast over that topic alone).  He was charming and gracious and fascinating.  A true ambassador of hospitality.  We now, when trying to jog each other’s mind about which Marriott we’re referring to, use him as the defining point:  “You know, the one with that guy who was called to the Middle East by the military to teach them how to be gracious and curry favor.”  Of course!  The Marriot University Park!  (See?  I told you he had more to offer than UofA football.  Not that there’s anything wrong with UofA football, I hasten to add before Steve divorces me.)

GO CATS!

But despite that fabulous experience, this time I happened to notice that, for the same number of points, we could choose to stay at the new-ish JW Marriott Starr Pass.  And I snatched that chance without a second thought!  (Yes, sad but true, fancy trumped really nice guy, this time around.)  See, most of Tucson and all of its resorts (virtually all of which I’ve had the pleasure to stay at—and enjoy) are on the east side of the 10 freeway.  It’s not that it’s a freeway-ish town; it just so happens that when you drive down there from, say, Phoenix, you get off the 10 and head east on any one of a dozen or more exits, and there you are, in Tucson.  The 10 is really the western border of most of Tucson.

Glenn Ford - W O W!!

Well, what’s west of the 10, you ask?  Ha!  West of the 10 is desert and mountains.  Really beautiful desert and mountains.  As in, The West.  In fact, it’s so nice and desert-y and Glenn-Ford-in-a-cowboy-movie-like that it’s the location of many dude ranches.  (Wait, I think we’re supposed to call them Guest Ranches now.  Who would have thought that even “Dude Ranch” would become politically incorrect?  Pardon me while I’m sick.)  So guess where the JW Marriott Starr Pass is?  Exactly!  West of the 10.  And that means, if you’ve been following closely, that it’s in the desert and mountains.  Not very far from the freeway and the rest of Tucson, but nestled into mountains and desert and about a million saguaros, nonetheless.  Feeling like a million miles away.  And that, truly, is neat. 

So we booked our room and headed down.  We had just a fabulous lunch with Cindy and her partner Imarra at this neat little restaurant called Delectables, in the area of Tucson called Fourth Avenue. (And guess what, it’s on Fourth Avenue.  They’re really good at naming things down there in the Old Pueblo.)  And we had a really fun dinner with Fred and Lynette, too—this time at a Vietnamese restaurant whose name I don’t think I ever learned, darn it.  Very fun, with great food and lots of colors everywhere, and a sort of general charming chaos.  I’d recommend it, if only I knew the name. 

And in between lunch and dinner, we headed west!  To the Starr Pass (OK, I’m going to stop calling it the JW Marriott Starr Pass at this point.  Too long to keep typing, annoying to keep reading, I imagine.  Starr Pass will do it, agreed?  This isn’t an advertisement for Marriott, after all.  I swear!)  Even as we crossed under the 10 to the mysterious West Side of the Freeway (this reminds me of the A.A. Milne

poem about, “You must never go down to the end of town without consulting me”--but back to my point…) things were looking good.  Just heading in that direction is awfully pretty.

And as the road wound around and around, we were really enjoying the scenery.  Really felt like we were out in the desert (despite the housing developments arising all around us, that is).  We finally turned around the last bend, and there it was.  The Starr Pass.  Standing tall amid the saguaros.  Nicely nestled on the side of the foothills, even blending into the desertscape—as much as a giant, six-story, 600+-room resort can blend in to the scenery, that is.  But from the moment we saw it, life was good.

The Starr Pass

Truly, virtually every aspect of being there was just great. 

Discussing the parking situation.

The only down side to the whole thing was our very first experience.  We decided to park ourselves.  (Make that, we parked ourselves when Steve misinterpreted my, “There’s a sign that says ‘Guest Self-Parking’” to mean, “Stop!  Turn here!  Park!”)  Which was a bit of a bummer, as it turns out, because the resort is kind of long and stretched out, and this parking garage is on the complete opposite end as the lobby.  Strange, but true.  We thought we were having a golden moment when we found a spot right by the elevator and then, doubly golden, as we approached the elevator a man going the opposite direction said, “Just arriving?  Enjoy yourselves!” with a little grin.  Which we happily mistook as a lovely and friendly greeting, not realizing till later that he was most likely being facetious and secretly snickering at what lay ahead for us.   

Which way, please?

And what lay ahead was a trek of oh, I’d say roughly two and a half miles--through lovely corridors, I’ll grant you that--to the lobby.  Along the way we only had to ask one cowboy and two Indians for directions.  We even passed an outer corridor with a view of the pool, outdoor lounge, and small mountain to one side, and a larger but still small mountain on the other side covered with saguaros.  Covered!  And we learned something, too.  Did you know that, despite all those wheels, suitcases get REALLY HEAVY when dragged long distances?  Now we all know.  Just a little travel tip for you.

When we reached the lobby, however, all was forgiven.  It’s just lovely!  Sort of Mexican/Indian classy, earthy, yet elegant décor.  Somehow they’ve managed to combine heavy wood furniture and leather appointments with that sleek, clean modern look.  To very nice effect.  Just lovely, I tell you.  There are stone walls and sleek tile floors.  There are rustic but beautiful wrought iron candelabra chandeliers.  (Although all I could think of was, DO NOT STAND HERE GAWKING UP AT THIS GORGEOUS BUT GIANT, HEAVY CHANDELIER IF YOU WANT TO LIVE.  Just in case.)   The carpets have a pattern of Indian rugs in them.  The ceilings not only have vigas, but latillas, as well, if you can imagine.  Of course you can’t—only a few people living in Arizona, or possibly Mexico, even know what that means.  Luckily, I am one of them.  Vigas are those rustic wooden beams you see in the ceiling; latillas are lots of little sticks laid right next to each other that cover the ceiling

Cool chandelier.  See the vigas and latillas?

between the beams.  (And now you’ve learned even more than just something about your wheeled suitcase.)  There’s a huge, and I mean two-story huge, picture window overlooking a small mountain (containing a golf course, if you can believe that), the pool, and tons of saguaros.   So as you can imagine (and yes, this I think you really can imagine) we forgave them the long trek from the car.

Until we were sent to our room.  Which was three-fourths of the way back to the car.  Avec suitcases.  (Why did we each have a heavy suitcase when we where there for only one night?  There’s just no reasonable answer for that.  I will tell you I suggested we use one suitcase, but that idea was rejected immediately.  So.  That’s all I’ll say about that.)  But the bright side of that, and I always try to look on the bright side, especially when Steve is doing the really heavy hauling, was that our trip to the car would be pretty short now.  See?  Always a bright side.

But let me hasten to add that check-in was quite a nice experience.  Our agent, who was very classy, dressed in a snazzy jacket and looking very handsome (not a requirement, certainly—but so nice, don’t you think?), was friendly and professional all at the same time.  He handed us our keys, then went into the back on a secret mission and came back and presented us with a gift bag (containing water—which we’d need for the journey to our room, no doubt—and iced tea).  Boy, once you get to that frequent traveler level, the perks just keep on coming.  A gift for us for accepting a free room!  He wished us a nice stay as we left.  And it was sincere!  I could just tell.

Photo courtesty of TripAdvisor

Our room, when we arrived a half hour later, was worth the trip, as well.  Not over the top, but so nice and lovely with dark furniture and a breathtaking view of the pool, (small) mountain, and golf course.  The bathroom was fabulous—lots of granite and mirrors and a separate tub.  And fluffy towels.  Aaah.

F & L again!

We didn’t get to have dinner there, since (have you been following?) we had dinner with Fred and Lynette.  (Remember?
Nameless Vietnamese place?)  Next time, I’m sure we will have dinner there, if only because the patio setting at Primo looks so inviting.  I’m sure the food is pretty fine, as well. 

Signature Grill   So pretty!

We did have breakfast in the Signature Grill the next morning.  Our first meal with only each other for company.  So we brought our books.  (Not that we don’t love each
other’s company; we both just love to read and that’s not something one can really do when one is

Reading at breakfast

socializing with others.  We’ve found others usually frown on it and come to the conclusion that you are not great company.  So, often at breakfast, we read until I keep interrupting Steve to tell him something funny I just read, or point out something I just saw fly by the window, or ask him about those eggs he ordered or maybe his book….  So actually we begin by reading, but by the end of the meal, books have closed.  My apologies to my very patient husband.) 

How cute is that?

And the Signature Grill was grand!  The room is quite pretty, with more stone walls, windows all around with breathtaking views, and a smashing breakfast buffet.  They served these teeny tiny little glasses filled with muesli and granola, topped with raspberries--that's not the kind of thing I usually eat in the morning, but it was so cute I had to take one; and it was just delicious!  Steve told me that, earlier that morning, someone had gone through the lobby offering those little treats on a wheeled cart for anyone who was up and at 'em early.  Neat!
  

Keep your mitts off my bagel

And they did this cool thing with the bagels.  You know how, at a buffet, there's always the dilemma of how to get the guests to NOT grab the rolls with their grubby paws?  So they always put out tongs, certain that everyone will use them.  Yeah, right.  Well at the Starr Pass, they've come up with a clever (but hilarious) system to make sure one's hands don't touch someone else's bagels.  Bagels on a stick, with little wooden separators between each one.  So sanitary!

The sweet blue-eyed Jessica

We were waited on by a pretty, friendly server named Jennifer, who took care of our every whim in a very professional and eager manner, and was very concerned when we pointed out that at the top of the menu it mentioned “Belgium” waffles, whereas further down it referred to them—most correctly, thank God!—as “Belgian” waffles.  See, that would be like saying “France Toast” instead of French Toast, to use a breakfast analogy.  We thought it was amusing (imagine how fun we are at parties); she thought it was something that needed correcting, and fast.  And we’d thought perhaps she would simply roll her eyes at these two weirdos who instead of delighting over the fabulous breakfast buffet the Grill had served up (and it was fabulous), were editing the menu.  So we were impressed.  (And relieved, I have to say.)

There was one little glitch in our breakfast experience.  Just a little thing.  Apparently, there was a convention going on while we were there.  And it was apparently for the Cord Blood Registry.  Which I’m sure is a fine organization, helping you save your baby’s cord blood (yes, as in, umbilical cord) for future treatment for serious conditions that may arise.  Heck, I’ll support that.  But was I wrong not to want to be reminded of that as I walked into breakfast?  Was I wrong to feel horror as the hostess escorted us past a much-larger-than-life billboard showing a giant baby’s stomach and belly-button and the words CORD BLOOD—as we were on our way in to eat?  Gross!  Call me insensitive if you will.  I say it was major icky, and I’m sticking by it. 

Breakfast, anyone?

After breakfast, we discovered another great thing about the Starr Pass.  They have a gift shop!  Hallelujah!  Did you know many hotels are giving the gift shop the old heave ho?  Oh, the pain!  You can always count on hotel gift shops to have neat stuff—jewelry, stuffed animals, interesting articles of clothing.  And then there’s all the stuff that one must have in a hotel—snacks, books, magazines, band-aids, and who knows what all?  But there’s this awful trend these days toward eliminating the gift shop.  (Who are these people who travel and don’t need Advil?  Nail polish remover?  Books?  Trinkets?  SNACKS???  That’s just not the way we travel, I can tell you that—despite our large suitcases.)  So anyway, not only does the Starr Pass have gift shops--a series of shops, all connected--but they're quite nice!  They’re all pretty and large and have lots of great stuff.  Including very friendly staff.  The lady who helped me, for example, told me lots of interesting things about when she used to work at Disneyland.

Interesting, indeed.  And once again, very friendly, indeed.  And not only did I find tasty snacks, I even bought a cool Tucson t-shirt.  Very successful gift shop experience all around!

When it was time to check out, we were bummed to leave.  We hadn’t even been there 24 hours, yet we’d been treated to great, friendly, and efficient service from every single staff member from the moment we stepped off the elevator.  (Which is

Scary Indian

actually where we were greeted by our first member of the staff—who hurried to walk us a bit of the way toward the lobby—probably so we didn’t get attacked by Indians.  Just kidding!  About the Indians, that is.  The gentleman really did walk us part way!  And was just lovely.)

Our whole experience was fantastic.  I’d stay there again in a heartbeat.  Even if we have to use dollars instead of points.  My only advice is to drive to the lobby first, before checking in.  (Like, duh, you wouldn’t do that anyway.  I’m going to have to talk this over with Steve once more—why did we park first, again?)  If you do that, it’s all sunshine and roses from there on.  Wait, or is it green lights and good things?  Lollipops and rainbows?  Anyway --  you’ll love it.

I dare you not to!

(What's your favorite place to stay?....)

TWO WILD AND CRAZY LUNATICS

OK, so one of my idols is Dave Barry.  I admit it.  A hilarious, great writer, often tending toward off-color bodily function man humor.  Anyone who knows me would tell you that’s not my cup of tea, normally.  At least the gross-out bodily function/man humor part; the rest is exactly my cup.  (NO SEX-RELATED CUP JOKES HERE, PLEASE.)  But really, the guy is just so darn funny, how can you not love him?  And guess what, he’s kind of a good writer, too.  And it seems I’m not the only one to think so—turns out, he won a Pulitzer Prize!  Restores my faith in humanity, that does, I tell you.

So the other day, I was looking through the Events Calendar for my favorite book store in the world, The Poisoned Pen, in Scottsdale.  The owner, Barbara Peters,

Barbara Peters

has this just unbelievably great program she started many years ago, where she has authors of new books come in and do a talk and a book signing.  And boy, has she grown the program over the years.  There’s a Coffee and Crime Club, there’s a Hardboiled Crime Club, there’s even a Nancy Drew Club, if you can believe it.  (If she creates a Trixie Belden Club, I’ll think I’ve died and gone to heaven, I swear.).  There’s now a book signing/author appearance virtually every day or evening.  Sometimes twice a day!  And sometimes there are even added fun festivities to accompany the author—an afternoon tea, a pot-luck dinner.  One Saturday evening, my friend Deb and I brought our pot luck dishes (Deb: granola cookies, me: peanut butter fudge) and watched a special viewing of the latest PBS Mystery series.  I believe it was an episode of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starring Jeremy Brett that evening, and we were even served an extra bonus of the latest Foyle’s War, which PBS was about to run in a week or two.  So neat!  Anyway, every event is fun and full of people who love to read and interesting authors and, usually, the interesting and extremely well-read (and well-traveled) Barbara Peters, who is a great interviewer, to boot.  So it’s always a treat, even if you’ve never heard of the author.

So like I said, I was checking out their Events Calendar the other day.  And who do I see coming up?  Dave Barry.  Wait, Dave Barry?!!  Whoop dee doo!  He was coming on the upcoming Friday night to talk about his latest book, LUNATICS!,
along with his co-author Alan Zweibel.  Who is Alan Zweibel, you ask?  (I did.)  Well.  Turns out, he’s no slouch, himself.  No Pulitzer, no, but how about the Thurber Prize for American Humor?  One of the original writers of Saturday Night Live?  How about the originator of the characters Roseanne Roseannadanna
and John Belushi's Samurai?  Writer on It’s Garry Shandling’s Show?  Monk?  Curb Your Enthusiasm? 700 Sundays (Billy Crystal’s one-man show)?  How ‘bout that?   So, just to be clear: this is one funny guy.

And Alan Zweibel plus Dave Barry?
Makes for two funny guys.

So Steve and I were lucky enough to go to The Poisoned Pen last Friday and enjoy these two funny guys.  And let me tell you, they’re not just funny on paper.  They’re pretty darn funny sitting on stools, too.  It was just a real treat.  They told funny (duh) stories about their careers, about each other, about writing the book, and about just stuff in general.

(Including quite a few stories, told gleefully by Dave, about Alan’s large head.  Go figure.  And even that was—wait for it—funny.) 

After they talked, we all lined up, cattle that we are (and I have to say some sheep—who just couldn’t quite seem to understand how to line up numerically by the NUMBER WE WERE HOLDING), to get a moment in person with the Two Funny Guys and get their autographs on our own personal copy of their new book.  (Called LUNATICS!  Did I mention that?  Yes, I know I did.)  A really cool thing was that these guys are about as regular and down-to-earth as you can get.  Very friendly, very nice, very approachable.  And yet, by the time I got to the front of the line (I was Number 10), my palms were sweating, my heart pounding.  I mean, Dave Barry!  And (now that I know who he is), Alan Zweibel!  A great moment to come.

I explain to Dave and Al how to write humor

So as I stood in line, I prepared to be my most interesting, mature, impressive, sophisticated self.  And when it was my turn?  I sat down and started babbling like a school girl.  I mean, I knew I only had about two minutes to express my admiration while, at the same time, letting them see how cool I am, as well. And as a result, I believe they hardly got a word in edgewise.  But they were both so kind and pretended to find me normal, signed my book (with a very nice little note that I won’t quote here, because if I do, I’m sure I’ll hear from hundreds of others saying that’s exactly what they wrote in their book—and I couldn’t stand to hear it), and both shook my hand at the end.  What a thrill!  And guess what?  In person, face-to-face, talking to me, they were nice, quick-witted, and yes, funny, darn it.

Dave shakes my hand.  See how nice? 

So thank you, Barbara.  Thank you, Alan. And thank you, Dave.  And thank you to Steve, my photographer for the evening.  An evening to remember and laugh about for a long time!  How cool is that? 

Just my humble (but always correct) opinion.

(By the way, have you ever met your idol?)

TO CHECK OR NOT TO CHECK, THAT IS THE QUESTION (and I have the answer!)

How do you feel about flying?  It used to be a big deal when I was a kid.  It was exciting, an adventure.  We actually used to get a little dressed up!  And the flight attendants actually used to attend to us.  Even give us wings, if we were under 12.  So neat!  (I even still have a pair of TWA wings in my jewelry box.)  But boy, are those days over.  I won’t even go into the attire of current flyers or the visual of flight attendants hanging around in the back talking for most of the flight, instead of offering us more Diet Coke—my psyche can’t handle it.  Let me just skip right to the nightmare of boarding. 

 

For most of us, we’re not in first class.  Right?  Well that right there is bad enough.  But then, we’re subjected to piling up in the jetway.  (Why do they call the next zone to board when there is still a 10-minute line in the jetway, not even close the to the door of the plane???  Why???)  We loom forward, then stop and stand around bellowing into our cell phones.  And why are we piling?  Why are we looming?  Because we’re waiting for the cattle—and possibly some sheep—ahead of us to put their damn bags in the overhead compartment, get all their stuff out for the flight, get their jackets folded neatly, and get themselves all settled in before getting their old selves out of the damn aisle. 

Apparently I have some hostility on this issue.

Steve and I both ALWAYS check our bags.  You may find that hard to believe, because obviously everyone else on every single plane has found it necessary to bring all of their giant bags on board.  Valiantly determined to cram them into the overhead, tying up the aisle both coming and going.  Yes, we are the ones who still “check our bags.”  We are the ones who still use the “baggage compartment.”  We are the two waiting in the “baggage claim area” to get our bags after the flight.  (Unfamiliar with these terms?  You’ll find them in your dictionary, in the archaic English section.)  Are we in less of a hurry than everyone else?  Are we luckier than everyone in the whole flying world?  (We’ve never lost a bag.)  Do we just pack more than the rest of humanity?  Are we idiots?  I’m going to say that some of those are probably true.  (I won’t, however, say which ones.  You be polite and don’t say, either, OK?)

Let me tell you the many advantages of checking your bags.  By starting with the many disadvantages of not doing so.  Well, just one big disadvantage, really: admit it, wheeled or not (not wheeled?  OK, I’m dating myself), that bag is a damn nuisance to cart around the airport.  Because of course it’s not alone.  Be honest, you’ve also got its little companion, that one “personal item” you’re allowed, that you’re also lugging around.  And that one ain’t necessarily so tiny, either.  Or lightweight!  So you’ve got to get these things through security (a nightmare in itself, even if you’re not carrying one darned thing, let’s face it), you’ve got to drag them through the snack line to get your coffee or your cinnamon roll or your sandwich or even your Dippin’ Dots.  You’ve got to deal with them—God knows how—in the restroom.  You’ve got to watch them every second.  (You know about all those people who sneak into the airport terminal, get past security, and scout around for unattended bags to a) steal them and get all the good stuff inside, or b) put a bomb in them while you’re not looking.  Either way, you’ve got to keep vigilant.)  So when you don’t check your bag, there’s no reading without care, no talking on your cell without care, no enjoying CNN’s trashing of the latest Republican senator or nominee or governor or whichever Republican it happens to be that day.  There are no carefree airport moments for those who refuse to check their bags. 

And you haven’t even gotten to the plane yet.  You get everything to the gate, and find a chair or three for you and your little wheeled entourage.  And no, this is still not the time for relaxation, my friend.  Because boarding is coming.  And once you feel that coming—certainly well before the actual announcement is made—you’ve got to gather up all those wheels and shoulder straps, and start jockeying for the best position to be the first one on board.  (Now of course this only goes for economy flyers; first class passengers have no cares.  The flight attendants make sure there’s room galore for whatever bags, boxes, musical instruments,

or hanging outfits might come aboard on the arm of a first class passenger.)  And if you’re not one of the first ones on board?  Bad things can happen.  This can come in the form of a) you are sitting at the front of the plane and your bags are in the back (making you the absolute last passenger off the plane, thereby delaying your travel time even more than if, say, you’d checked your bag in the first place, nyah, nyah, nyah), b) you’re forced by a militant flight attendant to check your bag anyway because all the other baggage non-checkers have filled the bins before you got there, or c) you have a heart attack right there in the aisle from all the pressure of trying to find a darn empty bin...  Oh, the humiliation.  Not to mention the annoyance.  Or the insurance nightmares to follow.

And those are just the disadvantages off the top of my head. I’m sure there are more, but really, how would I know; as I said, we always check our bags.

I know at this point you’re thinking we are fools.  I’m not sure why.  But I know people think this about people who check their bags.  So let me tell you why it’s the best thing to do.

See how carefree?

Maybe you'll fit a cat in your bag

First, it’s carefree.  Even in packing, there’s no stress.  Have a lotion—or any liquid, really—that you’re crazy about that’s oh, say, four ounces?  Into the suitcase it goes!  Want to bring all your make-up, including your indispensable $100 face cream that makes you look 10 years younger and is in that 6 ounce jar?  Get it in there!  Got breakables?  Well.  Hmmm.  Maybe….   No wait, you have two options here: a) bring a towel to wrap them in—after all, you’ve got a whole suitcase to fill! or b) just put them in the “carry-on plus one personal item” you can bring on board.  See?  Packing’s a snap.  All you need to bring on board (other than possibly those breakables) are your book, your millions of must-have-with-you-at-all-times electronic gadgets (personally, I have one), and your reading material.  Well, and your snacks, of course.  And none of those make for a very heavy—or large—bag.

And since you’ve only got a small, lightweight carry-on (and none of those silly plastic bags to deal with, no 1-1-3 Rule or 3-1-1 Rule or whatever the heck it is to heed), security is a snap, too!  The main hassle, truly, is getting stuck in line behind someone who has chosen not to check their bag, and therefore is unloading bags and lotions and prescriptions and heaven only knows what else (I certainly don’t want to) onto the conveyor belt.

Look, ma, you can even stretch!

This leads me to what I think is the best part of checking your bag: your airport experience can be a calm one.  Yes, even serene.  Because once you’ve checked that bag, you’re worry and hassle free.  You can wander to a restaurant, get through a crowd, use the ATM, even use the bathroom, all without stress.  You can put your carry-on on your lap and READ.  You can be mesmerized by the latest CNN story trashing the Republican presidential nominees and lose track of your surroundings.  You can pay no attention to that odd-looking man near you who appears as though he’s hankering for someone’s bag other than his.  You can do all this without worry.  Because your own stuff is right there on your lap. 

But wait, there’s more.  You can BOARD without a care.  Holy smokes, that’s worth its weight in gold!  Don’t you think? 

Waiting serenely during boarding

So here’s the scenario:  We’re at the gate.  We’re in Zone 2.  They’re “pre-boarding.”  (Who knows what that means, other than it never applies to you or me.)   So the natives are getting restless, and they’re starting to crowd the entry to the jetway.  The jockeying for position has begun.  The subtle elbowing, the cutting in line.  And what are Steve and I doing?  Ha!  We’re sitting in our seats at the gate, calm as can be.  (Steve is reading, I’m watching all the stressed-out people and noticing what they’re wearing.)  Because even if we end up being the last two people on the plane, it doesn’t matter.  All either of us need is the seat in front of us to put stuff under.  No reaching involved.  No hoping, no worrying, no Is it too big, no Will there be enough spaces….?  Because all we’ve got is small stuff.  Our big stuff has been handled by “people.”  And by that I mean, people other than us.  And it’s the best, I tell you.

Lest I sound too smug, as if we are better than anyone, I’ll put this in impersonal third person.  Here’s how one can board if one has checked one’s luggage:  One waits until one’s zone is called, one calmly gets at the back of the line (or, if one is truly carefree, even waits until everyone else is on board, thereby eliminating the Jetway Wait altogether), and one walks into the plane.  One steps into one’s row and sets the carry-on and/or one personal item under the seat.  And one sits down.  Seatbelt on.  Boarding over.   How neat is that?

One Sitting on Plane

Then, when the flight is over?  You get up and walk off the plane, darn it.  How simple is that?  No pressure-induced health problems there.  No terrorist concerns necessary.  (Or at least none that have to do with your bag.)

OK, so now you do have one more step the Others don’t.  But it’s easy!  You simply go down to baggage and--after one possible tiny, momentary, terrifying worry that your bag is circulating endlessly on some conveyor belt in some airport other than this one—feel that freedom that comes when you spy that pink and gray tweed little number lumbering up the tunnel and tumbling down onto the belt.  Wheee!  And you’re off. 

So, see?  Why carry your bag on board?   You can have a carefree life!  Try checking!

Although, come to think of it, if everyone who brought their bag on board started checking their bag instead, the “baggage claim area” (see dictionary, as advised above) would be overrun with people stressed out that the airline has lost their bag, yelling into their cell phones, pushing people out of the way, creating a stress-filled environment for one and all.…

Never mind.

ALL THAT AND A HOTEL, TOO

Last fall, Steve came with me to LA for a class I was taking. I made the airline reservations. I always make the reservations. But for the first time, this time I noticed some hotels pop up along with my flight options. It’s probably happened every time I’ve made our reservations, I’m guessing. But this time I noticed because one of the hotel names caught my eye: Beverly Garland’s Holiday Inn. The Beverly Garland? I used to love Beverly Garland! She has a hotel? How odd, and how cool.

She's so cool

In case you don’t know (I didn’t), Beverly Garland played the lead in the first TV police series starring a female cop (in her show Decoy), she was among the first actresses to star in her own TV drama, and she was also one of the first actresses to star in both movies and TV. Man, this gal got around! (I thought that was a new phenomenon—you know, all those people like Glenn Close and John Goodman and James Woods going from movies to TV and back again. Nope, looks like Bev pioneered that one way back when.) I learned all that info on the TV in our hotel room at Beverly’s Holiday Inn—which of course we stayed at--where one entire channel is dedicated to running a general but interesting biography of her.

But really, I grew to know and love Beverly Garland through My Three Sons.

My Three Sons  The First Family

My Three Sons  The Second Family

I just loved My Three Sons. I loved Steve (played very lovably by Fred MacMurray) and Uncle Charley and Robbie and Chip and Ernie. Even Tramp (the dog). I don’t remember it very well before that, when Tim Considine played the eldest of the Three Sons. After the first few seasons, though, he left the show, leaving a sticky wicket for the producers. Hello—my THREE sons!! But crafty heads prevailed, and Tim Considine was replaced via a clever plot twist that resulted in widower MacMurray adopting one of Chip’s friends just as eldest son Tim Considine left home to do something or other that would not involve him being a son any more--thereby avoiding the need to change the name of the show to "My Two Sons."

My Three Sons The Final Family

Anyway, later on in the series, after Robbie grew up and became Rob and got married to Katie (played by Tina Cole, who in real life is married to Beverly Garland’s stepson--and was a member of the King Family singers, if you can follow all that), I’m guessing they could kind of see that it didn’t make sense for a cool, eligible bachelor like Steve to still be single after all those years. So he started dating, and voila, enter Barbara (Beverly Garland), the classiest and nicest and most fun gal a man could ask for. She very soon became Mrs. Steve. And another year or three of the show was born.

And a fan was born, too! (That would be me.) After My Three Sons had run its course, Beverly remained a fixture on TV, usually playing a mother or mother-in-law or sometimes just a mother figure in many shows. I bet you’ve watched her and don’t even know it. Remember Scarecrow and Mrs. King? If you don’t, I’ll refresh you. It had the perfectly reasonable premise of a divorced single suburban mom (Kate Jackson, post Charlie’s Angels) accidentally becoming a suburban mom turned spy partner to the very hunky Bruce Boxleitner (code name: Scarecrow).

The perfect 80's hunk

He was an absolutely adorable hunk in my opinion. But that opinion was dashed on the rocks when he later married Melissa Gilbert. Not because that meant that he was off the market, but because—well, Melissa Gilbert? Really? He came down a few pegs in my book, after that one, I have to admit. I mean, I’m sure Melissa is a fine gal, I hear she’s even the head of the actors’ union or something. But a match for Bruce Boxleitner she ain’t. I wish he had consulted me; I would have come up with a better match for him. And no, it would not have been me. Perhaps Beverly Garland would have been a better fit!  (And by the way: the two are now split up.  Enough said.  Once again, just my humble, but always correct, opinion.)

Still cool and cute in the 80's

Beverly played Mrs. King’s live-in mother. Who, despite the fact that she lived in the same house as Mrs. King, never had a clue dear daughter was anything other than a single, divorced suburban mom. She went about her business, hanging out in the house with her daughter (international spy), babysitting her grandkids, and never knew anything was up. She was always entering the room just as the bad guy leapt out the window, or just after a bullet had flown through the kitchen (“Dear, did you leave something on the stove?  There's a burning smell …”), or pulling up just as a car disappeared around the corner, tires squealing, guns blazing ("Boys!  Would you turn that TV down!  Honestly, those cops and robbers shows are so ridiculous.") And yet, class act that she was, she always came off as smart and on the ball. Now that’s talent! It was one of those great shows that flourished in the early 80s, along with Hart to Hart, Murder, She Wrote, Remington Steele, and about a zillion others, that were like comic books come to life: ordinary people becoming involved in madcap capers and international intrigue, complete with real guns and, usually, love. And lots of good-looking, but fun, people. Wearing great clothes.  I loved them all.

And just as a little aside, here, I recall Boxleitner was Scarecrow, but I don’t recall Kate Jackson having a code name. Just Mrs. King. Amanda. I wonder why? Is it my faulty memory, or was it that she just didn’t have one?

But really, who cares?

Beverly Garland’s TV career didn’t end with Scarecrow and Mrs. King. No, ma’am. No, sir. In fact, she played mom to Lois Lane (Teri Hatcher) in Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman (Superman: the role that Dean Cain was born to play!  And the one that made him a household name. He was so great!  Too bad that was his last--his only--big hurrah.  So sad.)

Born to be Superman!

 Mom to Laura Holt (Stephanie Zimbalist) in Remington Steele (perhaps your first introduction to Pierce Brosnan?).  And even a stepmom, I think it was, on 7th Heaven. And my own mom remembers her well from the 50’s/60’s shows Pantomime Quiz and Stump the Stars. That’s a lot of mom-dom!

So that's it for my little tribute to Beverly Garland:  down-to-earth, gorgeous, fun, talented, adaptable, smart, girl next door, and glamour girl, all rolled into one.  And let's not forget hotelier!   Wow.

And oh yeah, the hotel was pretty neat, too! So if you’re looking for a hotel near Hollywood and want to be reminded of the old hey days of TV and movies, I suggest the Beverly Garland Holiday Inn. You gotta love Beverly.

The Beverly Garland Holiday Inn

And I’ll even give you a review of her hotel soon.