On Leaping

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by Tiger Lilly

This has been a long time coming.

Sometime in the middle of the death march that was my college years, I was probably in the middle of an angst-session with my mother about what I was going to do after graduation when she said, “You should go overseas. You’re young and unattached, now is the perfect time to get that kind of experience that you can’t get anywhere else.”

Sure, traveling sounded great, I’ve always wanted to travel. Not to mention I was one of those strange people who didn’t blanch at the thought of taking the advice of their parents. It was pretty much a pipe dream at that point, though—I had no serious job, I was slogging my way through textbook after textbook, and let’s not forget I’d made the grave error of pursuing a degree in what I loved (English and writing) rather than what was useful.

Still, the wishful part of me did a small amount of research. I found a site that compared the cost of living between cities and started typing in cities from every country I’ve ever visited or wanted to visit. Edinburgh, Dublin, Inverness, London, and most places in Italy went right out the window pretty quickly, along with most of my hazy, romantic visions of renting an attic flat at the top of some ancient-but-still-trendy-and-somehow-affordable building in the middle of some cosmopolitan Euro hub. You know, the typical coming-of-age story that Hollywood had always promised me. I’d play the perky and naïve protagonist out to “find herself,” make friends with the local fauna (even though I’m not a Disney princess), have a smoke out on my balcony in the evenings (even though I don’t smoke), and pursue a career in which I’d briefly struggle before my brilliance caught the eye of the senior editor/art director/photographer/bagel-muncher and from there it’d be a straight shot to the top. There’d probably be a tall, handsome stranger involved at some point.

Okay, so I didn’t really think that any of that was going to happen, but it was fun to think about. Point being, I was sitting there trying to think of any other city I wouldn’t mind living in that wouldn’t also smack me upside the head with financial worries. All the big names seemed to be out of the running. Then, what’s that place with the cool clock?

Judge me if you want, but I think that Prague’s astronomical clock by itself is a perfectly good reason to want to visit.

Anyway, Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, czeched out (I’m so sorry). Much lower cost of living, large community of American ex-pats, cheap beer in a place famous for its beer, what could be better? There was the teeny-tiny problem of Czech being one of the hardest languages to learn and I’d never done more linguistically than a deeper look at my native language and one semester of French, but I blew that off. In fact, that gave me an idea for how I could gainfully employ myself! Everyone wants to learn English, right?

As it turns out, in the Czech Republic, the answer is yes. A brief Google search told me that there was a huge need for English teachers there, and suddenly my pipe dream was becoming a little more solid. But what’s this? “Certification?” Damn those bureaucrats, always getting in the way of a girl’s need for adventure and—oh, here’s a program that will give me TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification and guarantee me a job with them once I’m certified?

This was getting to be a little too good to be true. I suspiciously surveyed the area for either flittering songbirds for me to befriend, or someone hiding in the bushes, waiting until my hopes were sufficiently raised to jump out and yell “PSYCH!”

Why yes, the world does revolve around me, why do you ask?

Anyway, if I couldn’t befriend wildlife, I was at least befriending Google, who told me that this certification program wasn’t a scam, and they probably wouldn’t kidnap me and sell my kidneys on the black market.

After a few days of mulling all this over, it was time to get a second opinion. No, not God, I was a little too absorbed with myself and my ideas to check for divine approval at that point. I ran it past Mom first, who said something along the lines of “what do you mean you’re leaving me?”

Talk about mixed signals.

Well, whatever this looked like then, it was too soon to be focusing too much energy on it; I was drowning in essays and I would need a degree to make my application to this program look nice and shiny anyway, so it was back to the educational grind. Still, as the months wore on and I packed on the credits, the need for an after-college plan was becoming more apparent.

I went and found more information on the TEFL program—how much it cost, how much money I’d need to support myself while taking the four-week certification program, plane tickets, all that jazz. I figured out a number: $6000 to cover the tuition and plane ticket and have enough money left over to not feel like I needed to have a financial freak-out while unemployed. I had some savings already, but not nearly enough at that point, of course.

Now, if there’s one thing I truly hate with every fiber of my being, it’s the idea of going to the same place every day to do the same thing over and over for years on end.

If there are two things I truly hate, the second one is customer service.

These mindsets are what had contributed to the initial angst-session with my therap—I mean, mother, way back at the beginning of this post. How could I ever find employment to fund this trip? I had worked a couple different jobs while in school, including a political campaign and as a chocolatier at Godiva (way less fun than it sounds, but that’s another story). Towards the end of school and after my graduation, I’d taken a few jobs as a freelance editor/proofreader for college students who wanted some shine on their papers before submitting them for grading, but I was doing that at extremely low rates (college students always want to pay in bottle caps and old homework) for very few people. It’d take me decades to earn enough money!

That’s where my church family came in. On the one hand, jewelry making is my hobby, I’ve been doing it for 10 years and I’m not too shabby at it, so I got to set up a small stand in the church bookstore and sell my accumulated inventory there for several weeks. On the other hand, my church is a very tight-knit and supportive community, and anyone can ask for help with anything at any time. I told the church what I was planning and hey, if anyone has any odd jobs that need doing, I’m available!

So there were a few brief engagements, things like helping people move or dog- and house-sitting. The most notable one was a friend who called and said she had a friend who needed a nanny for her three-month-old son, and so I nannied for her for nine months (even though I’m an experienced baby-sitter and my sister has four children ages five and under, I learned a lot more than I ever wanted to know about child care and myself during that time). Between all of these sources, I managed to pay for my plane ticket and the course’s tuition, with a couple thousand extra.

Somewhere along the line, I got to thinking. I had been planning all of this on my mother’s advice and my own whim. Had I ever actually said to God, “Hey man, was this Your idea or mine (or my mother’s)?” And then I got really nervous. Here I’d been telling people what I was planning, and I’d completely neglected the first and most important step. What if I asked Him and He said I needed to stop? It’d be so embarrassing! (Never mind how embarrassing it would be if I never asked and everything went belly-up later.) And I’d already spent all this non-refundable money on a plane ticket and tuition.

So it took me a few days to scrape up the courage to do what I was supposed to. I mean, on one level of course I knew that I needed to find out ASAP, since if it wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing then it’s better to find out sooner rather than later (nobody wants a repeat of the Jonah incident), but hey, pride is a thing that I have, believe it or not. Well, I finally got around to it, and the answer was nearly immediate, and I imagine He said it with a roll of His eyes: “You’re good.” (Paraphrased.)

Well, that was a relief! And His will in this became more and more apparent as I was given more and more opportunities to make money, or money was just flat-out given to me. I sold my car quickly and easily. My grandmother gave all her grandchildren a generous, surprise sort-of-nest-egg. My church family and friends sowed “seed money” into my life. Before I knew it, I had more than I thought I needed: $6000, after paying the tuition and the ticket fee!

So now the time has come upon me, and I’ve run the gamut of every emotion known to man. Excitement, nervousness, dread, disbelief, “how can I be doing this? How can I be leaving everything I know and love behind?” That last one has become especially prevalent with all the goodbyes I’ve said lately, to close friends and closer family. Sometimes it feels like I am exiling myself, and sometimes I (ridiculously unfairly, I know) wish that the world would pause while I’m away so that I don’t miss anything here.

The tumultuous situation in Europe is no consolation, either. The refugee crisis, the suicide bombers in Lebanon, terrorist attacks in Paris, and now I want to move to the heart of Europe? But here’s the thing: It’s not just me that wants to go. God wants me to go. What am I going to do, say no? (I mean, the alternative is probably going to be something along the lines of getting eaten by a giant fish.)

And under the layers of fear and doubt, I do want to go. Of course I want to go. I’ve always wanted to have adventures, and while I sense there’ll be a distinct lack of dragon slaying, stepping off into the wide (and far, so very far) blue yonder with just my faith and my suitcase sure sounds like one anyway. I’m a perennial traveler and a perpetual student, and there are things to be learned out there.

Onward!

I think I saw George Ezra

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by the Night Writer

Our first glimpse of Budapest was from the airplane window as we prepared to land. It was 9:00 p.m., so there wasn’t much to see in the dark but the lights of the city. Even so, there was something almost magical about it as the jewels below weren’t in regimented grids, but appeared as whimsical whorls of some kind of electrical paisley.

Morning brought a strange mix of sun and fog, and Marjorie and I walked the mile to Danube from our hotel. This was inspiring for a couple of reasons; one being that a year ago my walking limit was about half a mile. When we got to the river I found a shady bench while Marjorie decided to walk up to the Freedom Bridge, back down the other side and to cross the bridge nearest me for her morning exercise (this was another five miles – stats provided by her Fitbit watch). The temperature was very pleasant, in the upper 50s, and I was quite comfortable sitting by the jogging path that runs alongside the river. As an observation, there appears to be 8 women joggers for every male runner that went by. I also saw several people go by with their dogs, none of which were on a leash.

It was a kind of foggy day, but we had a great view of the city from a hill overlooking Budapest.

It was a kind of foggy day, but we had a great view of the city from a hill overlooking Budapest.

Since I had time to ponder, I thought about how I was sitting beside one of the great historical waterways of Europe, if not the world. I tried to imagine the history these banks had witnessed as I watched barges go by, and wondered what we might find if we could someone peel the water back and examine the river bed. At the time I assumed the river must be dozens of feet deep; I later learned that it’s typically no more than a meter deep as it runs through the town. While the water in the photo above is suggestive of the “blue Danube”, this particular morning it was more gray-brown. I was experiencing a bit of a cultural mash-up myself. While it would have been appropriate to hum the notes of “The Blue Danube Waltz” I instead had the following running through my head:

“I’m going back someday, come what may, to Blue Danube.”

Ach du lieber!

Below is the bridge Marjorie crossed, beneath the “Liberty Monument” (see caption for the irony that accompanies the iron).

One of the bridges over the Danube. This one is named "The Liberty Bridge," as named by the Russians after they "liberated" Budapest in WWII. Like many Soviet political phrases, it means the opposite - think "5-Year Plan" or "Affordable Care Act."

One of the bridges over the Danube. This one is named “The Liberty Bridge,” as named by the Russians after they “liberated” Budapest in WWII. Like many Soviet political phrases, it means the opposite – think “5-Year Plan” or “Affordable Care Act.”

There is still no love lost between the Hungarians and the Russians. Our tour guides were pretty blunt about their feelings – without any prompting – about the Russians, and worked some rather arch comments into their descriptions of many of the sites we visited. I’ll probably share these observations and my related thoughts in a later post.

We had fun storming the castle! This archway from the courtyard frames a great view of part of the castle and Pest below. And Marjorie, of course.

We had fun storming the castle! This archway from the courtyard frames a great view of part of the castle and Pest below. And Marjorie, of course.

Buda Palace commands the city – and your respect. It is beautiful in form and function, projecting both power and a certain grace. The sweeping lines of almost luminescent walls speak of the power and the perspective of the past, and are more than a little reminiscent of the White Tower of Ecthelion. We easily could have spent much, much more time here. Unfortunately, our route didn’t afford us a good photo op of the outside of the castle this day, but I’ll try to rectify that. You can get a sense of it from these photos, however.

Another view from inside the castle's courtyard, looking at stairs leading to a tower.

Another view from inside the castle’s courtyard, looking at stairs leading to a tower.

 

Marjorie goes to the bathroom. (Rather, she's on her way, following the signs.) It's important when traveling to know the word for "toilet" in any language. In Hungarian, it's "Toalet".

Marjorie goes to the bathroom. (Rather, she’s on her way, following the signs.) It’s important when traveling to know the word for “toilet” in any language. In Hungarian, it’s “Toalet”.

 

This is the church of King Matthias, who was Holy Roman Emporer, King of Hungary and Croatia, and King of Bohemia (apparently there wasn't enough royalty to go around). The symbol of his house, though, is what caught Marjorie's attention. (See next photo.)

This is the church of King Matthias, who was Holy Roman Emperor, King of Hungary and Croatia, and King of Bohemia (apparently there wasn’t enough royalty to go around). The symbol of his house, though, is what caught Marjorie’s attention. (See next photo.)

 

That black bird is a raven, symbol of Matthias's house - and a close cousin to Marjorie's crows. King Matthias is also the one who imprisoned Transylvania ruler Vlad Tepes (the model for Count Dracula) for 30 years - for tax evasion, not for being a mutilating, mass murderer.

That black bird is a raven, symbol of Matthias’s house – and a close cousin to Marjorie’s crows. King Matthias is also the one who imprisoned Transylvania ruler Vlad Tepes (the model for Count Dracula) for 30 years – for tax evasion, not for being a mutilating, mass murderer.

 

Say, there's another awesome view.

Say, there’s another awesome view.

There’s more to see than just castles, of course.

Marjorie stands before Parliament.

Marjorie stands before Parliament.

Here’s another panorama to wrap up this day’s adventures. On Saturday we took a bus tour into the country – and into another country, Slovakia – to see some more sights. More to come. By the way, if you see George Ezra, we saw a number of houses for sale (“Elandro”).

For a little more insight on how we ended up in Budapest, and why, go here.

Another panoramic view, this one from one of the walls of Buda Palace.

Another panoramic view, this one from one of the walls of Buda Palace.

Travelogue layover

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by the Night Writer

Marjorie and I have had a great first day in Budapest. I was planning to share my impressions and photos with you here, but I’m having a little issue with importing images into the template. I’m using my iPad, and I think I can solve this by switching to the laptop – but that requires accessories that are up in the hotel room where Marjorie is sleeping, and it won’t bode well for a great second day in Budapest if I wake her. So that travel post will be delayed … call it a “layover” if you will.

In its place I’ll provide a summary of the 29 hours it took for us to get here. Don’t worry – this will go by much faster (and I hope more entertainingly) than what we experienced.

First of all, Marjorie (aka “The Reverend Mother” in these parts of the blog-world) found this Budapest/Prague trip on Groupon. It was a great deal, costing only a few hundred dollars more than our round-trip airfare for the two of us just to get to Prague, with the bonus of three days in Budapest plus accommodations and services in Prague. The only issue was that the deal was based on flying in and out of Chicago. Not a big deal, we could rent a car one-way affordably enough, even if it meant factoring a 7-hour drive at each end. The day before we left though, the travel company offering the voucher called to tell us that due to the Lufthansa strike (we were scheduled to fly Lufthansa from Chicago to Munich and then onto Budapest), they had booked us on a United flight – but leaving at 6:15 p.m. instead of 9:35 p.m.

So Marjorie was at the rental office at MSP airport at 7 a.m. We made it to O’Hare in plenty of time. As we walked and wobbled through the airport (guess which of us was which) with our pile of luggage (including all the stuff that Patience couldn’t fit into her suitcases but would still need for a two-year stay in the Czech Republic) we were collected by a young man pushing an empty wheelchair who offered to get us through the check-in process. I’m getting along pretty well these days, but I still use my cane and braces for longer jaunts (like airports). This young man was a god-send, not only did he move my carcass and all our luggage, we were expedited to be next in the check-in line. Here we found out that, again due to the strike, our Chicago to Munich leg was now a Chicago to London trip…with a 10-hour layover at Heathrow. The agent made multiple attempts to get us there more quickly but there were no better options (especially with some 100,000+ ex-Lufthansa passengers all scrambling for different flights.)  Oh well, we’re still getting there, and we’ll have some time in London.

Upon boarding our flight we saw that our tickets were “economy”, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was that the plane’s bulkhead extended under the seat in front of me, taking up half the space available for my feet. This was not a pleasant prospect for an overnight, overseas flight. In addition we were surrounded by Putin Youth, tween-aged Russian boys who were not evil, per se, but were bouncing around, trading seats and generally being hyper, tween-age boys. When the crew announced that there were seats available in Economy Plus for a mere $129 each I was on that like a duck on a june bug. As we repositioned ourselves the flight attendant said they were kind of busy with take-off and other duties and that they’d come back by later and collect my credit card info for the upgrades. I guess they were really, really busy all flight, though, because they never came back around other than to give us wine, a three-course upgraded meal, and show me how to operate the movie screen in the back of the seat in front of me. And I didn’t want to be a nag about it.

At Heathrow, with thoughts of a London walk-about in our heads, we found out that they no longer offer a held luggage service, according to the woman at the information desk (and contrary to what Trip Advisor says). While our main luggage was checked through to Budapest, we still had our carry-ons and didn’t feel like clearing Immigration and then tooling around London dragging our rollers. There was no option but to spend a tedious day waiting for our 6:05 p.m. flight.

Sitting guard. Heathrow layover.

Sitting guard. Heathrow layover.

In addition, before we could “lounge”, we had to clear security again because we were switching from United to British Airways. You should understand that it takes a lot of energy for me to motorvate from place to place. Being an exothermic kind of guy anyway, even a short “walk” makes me pretty sweaty. It’s also a hassle to take my shoes off because the braces are very slippery on hard floors. In Chicago the TSA sensibly understood the situation and (since I’d been wheeled there I was cool, calm and collected) and I’d merely been swabbed and scanned. A wheelchair wasn’t handy at Heathrow, and it’s one of the most far-flung airport layouts I’ve ever seen. By the time I got to Security I was a flop-sweaty, profiler’s dream. It took a little more explaining but fortunately I did end up with a similar review as Chicago and not in rendition.

After that the day was uneventful – grindingly tedious, but uneventful. We boarded our flight about 8 hours later than the originally scheduled one, and instead of reaching Budapest in the afternoon we cruised in under cover of darkness – a darkness that permitted a magical glimpse of what was in store for us. More about that in the next post.

Blowing the dust off

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*Cough*Cough*

A bit dusty in here. Still, everything looks to be reasonably functional in the old Night Writer HQ. Update a few plug-ins, clear out some spam, freshen up the theme, a little Lemon Pledge – and we’re back in business.

It may be a limited engagement, but I’ve pulled the sheets off the the furniture and fittings of the old blog in order to add a new chapter of the “Nights on the Road” series as we launch into a new adventure, based in a new city: Prague in the Czech Republic. As I write this, the Reverend Mother, Tiger Lilly and I are preparing to leave the country on an extended journey. Tiger Lilly is embarking on a new career and life in Prague, and my wife and I are going along for the first two months to usher her out of the nest in style. Some folks have asked for a public website to follow the account of this latest expedition and re-opening this blog is the easiest way to do this, allowing us to write more creatively and extensively than on Facebook. I’ll post photos and possibly even videos along with my writerly observations, and hopefully the Rev. Mum and TL will contribute as well. Heck, we may even see the Mall Diva check in, all the way from Iowa, Land of Mystery.

As for the last five years of blog silence, let me explain. No, there is to much. Let me sum up.

The Mall Diva was last seen here leaving for Iowa with her husband, Son@Night, and their child, Baby Moose. That little family unit is significantly bigger now with the addition of another son and two daughters, collectively referred to as “the Moosen”. Son@Night has another flock as well, the congregation he is pastoring amidst the rolling hills of soybeans, corn and the tour buses of presidential candidates.

The Reverend Mother is now a part-time graphic designer and full-time minister and associate pastor at our church and still ripping around the countryside on her motorcycle, which I believe she had just acquired right about the time we stopped updating this blog.

Tiger Lilly has used the intervening time to win a couple more writing awards while earning her B.A. in English at age 20. For the last two years or so she has been aiming toward this move to Prague where she hopes to be certified to teach English as a Foreign Language, along (hopefully) with some freelance editing.

I’m happy to say we’ve stayed in regular contact with many of our blogging friends from the old days, and we’ve continued to visit Keegan’s Irish Pub often. Keegan’s was Tiger Lilly’s choice for the site of her send-off part last week and most of the old crowd was there for the occasion.

Send off

As for me, there’s not much to report aside from being diagnosed with ALS, retiring from my job, being “un-diagnosed” (and miraculously healed) from ALS and un-retiring. You can follow that whole story on the new blog I launched in April of 2014 to chronicle that experience, No Longer I Who Live. (The first post on that blog is here.) When I came back to work it was with the same employer but in a new role that has me supporting the company globally rather than a single business unit in Minnesota. Because my  management and internal clients are located in distant cities I’m able to work from home – and home is essentially anywhere I have WiFi, which includes Prague. This enables me to set up my office in Prague and anywhere else we may travel over the next few months. I’ll definitely be taking some time off over the course of this adventure, but I’ll also be working while TL works on her certification and the Reverend Mother helps her find an apartment.

Stay tuned.

So I had this bird

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by Tiger Lilly

She was a beautiful girl, turquoise feathers with a yellow cap (a very rare color for parakeets). My aunt found her after a huge storm in 2005, so I should have named her Gale. I didn’t. I was terrible with names back then, and we just ended up calling her Birdy-Wirdy (we also had a guinea pig named Piggy-Wiggy. We were a creative bunch).

She was six months old when I wheedled my parents into letting me take her in, as her owners were nowhere to be found. I trained her to be comfortable around me. She was a vicious thing, biting was one of her favourite pastimes. There was a point when I had twelve bite marks each on three of my fingers.

I loved her anyway.

She was vocal and wild, yet tender towards me, allowing me to scratch the sides of her face when she was tired. She showed me affection in ways that only a bird could- regurgitating her meals on occasion. Mostly she would simply kiss my face whenever I had her out. I would try and play piano for her every day, something that she (and her playmate, Chiquita, which we rescued a few years after taking in Birdy-Wirdy) greatly enjoyed.

A week or two ago, I noticed that her plumage on her belly near her vent was brown and picked-over. I didn’t really think much of it, as she was acting healthy and just fine. Chiquita had no signs of anything like Birdy-Wirdy had.

This morning, when I gave her water, she drank a bit and was sneezy and tired. I knew something was wrong, but I had to leave for work right away. I had hoped she would be fine until I got home.

She wasn’t.

She was cold in the corner of the cage when I returned. I spent a good half-hour cradling her and sobbing or playing the piano. Eventually, it dawned on me that I should look up her symptoms.

It turns out that they are symptoms of ovarian tumors and/or eggs that have gotten caught in the wrong area. Most people were recommending to take the sick bird to the vet and fix the diet.

Now, I wish that I had thought to look this up when I first saw the feathers, but what’s done is done.

Anyway. If you have a female parakeet and see anything like this, TAKE HER TO THE VET IMMEDIATELY. Don’t leave her be. Birdy-Wirdy was only 7, less than half the lifespan of a parakeet (15 years).

Good night, pretty bird. I love you. Fly high.

What Have They Done?!

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by Tiger Lilly

So my father directed me to an article from CBS news, which stated that, contrary to popular belief, chocolate actually helps people maintain a lower Body Mass Index, despite the amount of calories.

I have a problem with this information.

I have heard from other sources that chocolate may become extremely rare and expensive in the next fifty years or so, due to what I’m sure are many good reasons that I was never very sure about.
So if people are writing articles about how chocolate is good for your health and helps you maintain a girlish figure (which I’m sure all you macho men out there are very concerned about), people will be flocking to the chocolate shops in hordes. HORDES, I tell you! And what does that mean? That means chocolate is going to become ever harder to come by, faster! It means that prices of chocolate are going to go even further up, because of the increased demand!

WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS TO MEEEEEEEEEE?!

Of course, on the other hand (which is also holding chocolate), people don’t eat healthy foods as often as they should. Maybe, just maybe, since chocolate is now a healthy food, people will lose interest and leave the good stuff for the more devoted chocolate dabblers (myself).

My name is Tiger Lilly, and I am a chocoholic approve this message.

Ciao for now!

Tipping- Not Just For Cows

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by Tiger Lilly

As a barista, I feel that it is part of my duty to make sure that the public is informed about tipping. I know that many people are in tough straits money-wise, and that’s why this is merely a guide (and also my own personal opinion). You don’t have to follow it. Really.

I’ll just glare subtly as I whip up your extra-tall raspberry peppermint mocha skim no-whip extra shot latte. And then spit in it.

Okay, so I wouldn’t spit in it.

Anyway.

1. You should almost always tip.

Unless the service is exceptionally poor. Baristas aren’t paid on commission, and some don’t even make minimum wage (same goes for waiters).

2. If the coffee shop is busy and you’ve had to wait in line at least two people, tip.

Please. Maybe this doesn’t go for places like Starbucks or Caribou or shops that get a lot of customers, but I work in a small shop. Less than a hundred people stop in every day. But sometimes, we get those 10+ lunch delivery orders, meanwhile we have three people waiting to be served in the shop, and two at the drive-through, and then there are those caffeine-deprived assassins we have to fight off. I, for one, am someone who is easily stressed. It is not fun to be a stressed barista. We forget things, or miss things, and agility just goes down the drain.

So if we’re balancing all of that, and then don’t get a tip, it makes us very sad.

3. (Related to 2) If it looks like the shop is understaffed, tip.

Oftentimes I am left alone in the shop right before lunch rush while the previous people finishes their shift and the next person has yet to arrive. It is almost inevitable that right away a couple people will come in with large to-go orders.

4. If you need something made in a rush, tip.

Seriously. I did not just make you that mocha, sandwich, and bowl of soup in under five minutes (which is quite a feat when you’re working by yourself) just for you to complain and walk out the door.

Now that we’ve finished that part, time to move on to:

How much to tip.

In restaurants, the general rule of thumb is to tip 15%. If your drink order is $3.03, the tip would be $.46. This is a tip I enjoy getting. I practically dance when I see people put a dollar in the tip jar.

I work in an establishment where there are two people on staff, and they have to split tips. It’s fine because there are only two, but if you walk into a coffee shop where there are four people working and only one tip jar, please tip a little extra if it’s at all viable.

Then there are those people who just drop the coins from their change into the jar. I both love and dislike these people. Sometimes it’s $.92, sometimes it’s $.08. Sometimes people are good about pulling out some more coins from their pockets, but don’t be the person who puts 2 cents in the jar. It’s practically an insult.

Moving on to:

When not to tip.

Amazingly, there are times when you should not tip (or at least tip less).

1. When the server is very obviously in a bad mood, and is letting it affect his or her work.

I once went into a bakery/coffee shop where the server was slamming things around, got angry when I didn’t hear what he said (he was mumbling), and when I asked if I could lower one of the window shades (the sun was in a nasty position at the time), he simply muttered, “Go for it.” Upon trying to lower the shade I promptly found that it had been made in such a way that it could not be lowered further than it was. It was a stupid design, but the server could have warned me before I tried the others.

As a barista, I find it very unprofessional to let your bad moods affect what you are doing when you serve people. People have their own problems, and don’t really need yours projected onto their coffee.

2. Don’t tip when the barista performs the least amount he or she can.

If they only hand you a scone, you don’t need to tip.

Situations where we love you if you tip, but it’s understandable if you don’t:

If the coffee shop is out of something. Sometimes this isn’t our fault- for me, the delivery person is usually late, and it bothers me a lot. I get stressed when we’re out of things. However, it is still the shop’s fault, and we understand if you don’t tip.

If the kitchen messes up your order. This is completely our fault, and we apologize. I smack myself mentally (and repeatedly) every time I mess something up.

If the coffee is luke-warm, the scones are cold, etc. Sometimes equipment malfunctions or strange things happen, but hey, that’s not your problem, its ours. (That was meant in a completely non passive-aggressive way, I swear.)

Someone drops something that you just bought. Speaks for itself.

We love you if you still tip in those situations.

Well, there we have it. My guide to tipping. If you have anything else to add, please tell me! I’d love to hear your own thoughts on tipping do’s and don’t’s.

Remember, barista is Italian for bartender. And you always tip your bartender.

Ciao for now!

A letterman

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by the Night Writer

The clinic called today. My 6-week post-op ultra-sensitive PSA test results were in. The percentage of Prostate Specific Antigen in my blood stream clocked in at less than 0.01%; in other words, the nurse said, “undetectable.” Of course, that’s what we were expecting following the surgery, but it was good to hear none the less.

That’s a very good thing, but I couldn’t help thinking about being in Indianapolis two weeks ago for the funeral of my uncle Carl who had succumbed to lung cancer. Despite the occasion, it was good to see my cousins again, their kids, and experience a family gathering in the style of that branch of clan. Despite their grief, my cousins each expressed their relief that I had come out of my bout healthy. That was good to hear, but it also made me feel kind of odd given what they had been going through.

After Indianapolis the services moved to Missouri where another batch of family and friends gathered for a visitation and the interment. Here I received another bundle of well-wishes including many from people I barely knew, which felt more than a little awkward I can tell you. I said to my brother, “Geez, does everyone in town know what I had surgery for?”

“Well,” he said, “when you’re on the prayer chain at five or six churches the word does tend to get around.”

In the last six months since I received the first call from my doctor I’ve experienced a lot of emotions; fear, anger, love, joy, and even laughter. And now I could add one more to the list: ambivalence.

Yes, technically, it was a life or death situation, but then so is crossing the street. My cancer had appeared almost unnoticed, had been diagnosed, treated and blown to oblivion with barely an outward sign on my body. My recovery has been going extremely well, with even the dreaded side effects of incontinence and impotence rebounding quickly in a matter of weeks when I had been told to expect it to take months at least. When my aunt, a nurse, congratulated me on being “a cancer survivor”, I cocked my head and told her I felt as if I was receiving an honor I hadn’t earned. “Nonsense,” she said. “You had major surgery. You had something that kills people. You probably shouldn’t have been able to drive down here so soon after all that. You should be proud.”

“I guess I am,” I said, “but it almost feels as if I’m in high school and just earned my letter jacket even though I barely played. It is like I should only get a little “C” on my jacket instead of a big one.”  She laughed at that, patted my shoulder, said, “Don’t worry. You’ve earned it.”

I know I have been blessed. While I’d just as soon not have had cancer, I’ll happily accept this outcome compared to the alternative. There have been inconveniences, sure, but I honestly, deeply,  thank God and his steady hand that I haven’t endured the rigors and indignities of chemo, haven’t seen my medical expenses break into the five- or six-figures, haven’t had to see the worried looks from those around me whenever I’ve had a coughing fit. It might all even seem like it was a dream but for the red scars on my belly, though even now I can feel the skin smoothing out under my fingers.

I am a cancer survivor.

I’ll take it.

 

Related posts: 

Vorpal blades and manxome foes, Part 1 – ‘Twas brillig

Vorpal blades and manxome foes, Part 2 – Jubjubs and frumious bandersnatches 

Vorpal blades and manxome foes, Part 3 – Tumtums and other trees

Vorpal blades and manxome foes, Part 4 – Snicker-snack

 

Thoughts on Growing Up

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by Tiger Lilly

Throughout my childhood, whenever I reached a milestone, this was my thought process:

When I reached the height of 5 feet: I’m officially an ADULT!

When it began to be with me after the manner of women: I’m officially an ADULT!

When I turned 13: Dude! I’m officially an ADULT!

When I started college courses: I’m officially an ADULT!

When I got my driver’s license: Holy crap I’m officially an ADULT!

When I got a job: I’m officially an ADULT!!

My 18th birthday is in ten days. You can imagine my thought process at that point.

Holy crap I’m so old.

Ciao for now.

Thug-lite on the LRT

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6

by the Night Writer

It was 6:30ish last Tuesday night, and a group of us seasoned LRT riders were waiting at a downtown stop, poised at the place on the platform  where we knew the doors would open when a train came. When the train arrived a couple of hoodied kids who looked to be about 15 years old barged the queue for the door, even blocking a couple of people who were trying to disembark. As it so happens, these gentlemen were black, though I’ve seen this behavior from many of the youthful riders regardless of color.

The two guys sat across the aisle from each other in some forward-facing seats and the other riders seemed content to give them space, choosing other seats. They didn’t concern me too much, though, and they were sitting in my favorite section, away from the cold drafts that come in when the train doors open, so I took a seat kitty-corner facing one of them, against the window. I pulled out my iPad to do some reading and the kid starts asking me about it – what model, what can it do, etc. He asked how much it cost. I told it him, “a lot”. He pressed, I responded with the same. He asked again and I gave him a ballpark. Then he said, “I bet you’d be upset if someone took it from you.”

I didn’t take it as a threat. The two kids together might have weighed as much as I do and the train had too many people on it, and we were too deep into the car, for a good snatch and run (which apparently have been a recurring problem on the LRT); I’d have had him by the hoodie within two steps. My sense was he was trying to have some fun playing with the mind of what he took to be an uptight white guy, so looking him in the eye – as I had been doing in the rest of our conversation – and in my same tone of voice  I told the kid that I wouldn’t get too excited, I’d simply activate the tracking app on the Pad and call the police and have them go get it for me.

The kid said, “What if the guy sold it?” I said he’d have to move fast because the last story I read in the paper about someone using the tracker to recover an iPad the police had arrived at the address with the Pad in about an hour. He then wanted to know if the police would give it back to me. “They would,” I said, “but maybe not until after the trial.”

That seemed to put an end to the conversation so I went back to reading. Shortly after that the kid put his feet, wet and dripping from the snow, on the seat next to me. Now this selfish behavior (also observed in young people of all colors) is a pet peeve of mine though I usually keep quiet about it. Since the kid had already engaged me in conversation, though,  and I wasn’t going to be intimidated, I said in a friendly tone, “Hey, what about the next person that wants to sit in that seat?” He gave me the blank face, tilted his head to one side and shrugged his shoulders. “What if the next person to sit in the seat turned out to be you?” Same shrug.

At the very next stop a couple of black women in their 30s boarded with children and made for where we were seated. One saw the slop on the seat and made a disgusted noise and moved on. I looked at the kid, and he had his head down, staring at his feet. At Lake St. they got off. I kept a grip on my Pad and then watched their reflections in the window out of the corner of my eye as they reached the platform. I figured there’d be some parting shot so I wasn’t surprised when I saw the kid draw back his fist to hit my window as he went by. If he thought he’d get me to jump he was, again, disappointed.