Captain’s Log-Day 5. Costa Rica Suave.

Traveling with my friend Trish from Mrs. Toralbas’ Spanish Class.

Today, we left our 1400 square foot suite and traveled 90 minutes to the Bay of Papagayo, where we are staying at El Mangroove, a very hip eco-friendly hotel in the middle of a mangrove forest. We were told by our bellman that at sunset monkeys would be in the trees above our balcony. I saw no evil, heard no evil, spoke no evil, but also saw no monkeys. As we waited until dark to see monkeys, I got excited when I saw movement nearby only to realize it was the reflection of my calf in the plexiglass. Tomorrow, we will go on a safari where I’ll see my hip and my forehead. We did see the North American species known as the Canadian Marriott Elite Caller, as this dentist, Dr. Barry Schwartz bragged about how he as a doctor and Platinum member gets great upgrades and treatment. As he told us about his hotel rooms around the world, he managed to drop that he was a “Dr” with every other word. It turns out that dentists have one of the highest suicide rates, but that having to listen to him was the causal effect. I wanted to tell him that we were in the best building and not him and just stayed in the biggest room yet, but we Titanium Elite are in our own Fight Club. The first rule is never share that you can play 5-on-5 half court basketball in your room. However, although we didn’t see any monkeys, we met my new friend, Bigfoot, as you can see. Now, that’s a guy who needs square footage. After being out for Costa Rican nightlife; which goes to 830p, I must get some sleep before our last day with a big tour. Hasty Mañana from an undisclosed suite in the jungle.

Captain’s Log-Day 6. Costa Rica Suave.

Traveling with my friend Trish from Mrs. Toralbas’ Spanish Class.

Esta es una dia finalemente. Since it’s our last day here, we did the Mega tour of Buena Vista at Rincon De la Vieja; which consisted of ziplining (bad idea for bad shoulders), water slide (even a worse idea), horseback riding (bad idea for me and the horse), locally sourced lunch (bad idea for restaurant chains), volcano (bad idea for virgins), and hot springs (bad idea for mattresses). We started out at a waterfall with our trusty guide, Humberto, who seemed to be suffering from a blood clot in his eye from a non-disclosed tour mishap. Once we got into the mega tour, I was convinced in several languages that ziplining wouldn’t affect my shoulder. Turns out the ziplining itself does not, but as they hook you in, you must jump/pull yourself up. That not only affects shoulders, but on the 2nd run, it also affected the zip-lifeguard, as in jumping up, I inadvertently kneed him in the gringones.. Aye caramba! He went down, while I went up. I guess I hit him square in the zipper line. I quit after that, as my shoulders could not shoulder on. I walked back on hanging bridges passing this 500 year old ficus tree. (Doesn’t look a day past 480!) Patty finished all 7 runs joining a Canadian tour group getting embraced by them like a Canadian goose, who returned North after a long winter. We both took a pass on both the water slide and the horseback ride ending up by the volcano. Got to lav it! We then did the steam room, mud bath, and hot springs, as Humberto took 87 pictures of us and an armadillo. After a locally sourced lunch that Humberto explained to us in great detail, we headed back. Just as Humberto explained cream of squash soup or that we could put marinara sauce on spaghetti, we’ve found that Costa Rican’s explain things to us, as if our heads are still soft from our births saying things like “this is the couch in your room (long pause), here are towels to dry off with (extremely awkward long pause)”.

On the way home, I thought I saw a cougar, but the woman couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than her boyfriend. So, Patty and I realized it was a jaguar that we were seeing sleeping up in a tree. After another no monkey see, no monkey do evening, the sun set on our Costa Rican vacation. After bidding goodnight to the aforementioned couch and towels, we called it a night to get up super early for our long trip home. As they say here, “Pura vida!” Until next time!

 

Captain’s Log-Day 1. The Great Grey North.

Traveling with the wayward warrior cheerleaders.

Lynne Messner, Ellen DeFlora Sciortino and I mixed it up and instead of going to a Palm Beach spa, we are in Vancouver. The only thing this place has in common with South Florida are the mullets. It’s going to rain the entire vacation, so Lynne is the whitest entity that we will see in the Great White North. In fact, I’ve taken up curling, as the keratin washes away and I am left with my native Jewfro. As expected, the people here are incredibly polite. Even at the hockey game tonight, when the Canucks fight and check, they say please before hitting the Red Wings. Lynne stayed behind and Ellen and I went to the game. We decided late, so came about 1/3 into the game; which with the exchange rate being 1.33 US to Canadian dollars, equaled seeing a whole game in the states. We bought tickets from an incredibly polite scalper, who allowed Ellen to go through the security before I paid him. Just like they do in NYC at Madison Square Garden! We thought instead of seeing the Canucks, we were going to get Canfucked, but Dudley Dooright hooked us up. Every time you pay for something here, it’s like Wednesday sale days at Macy’s that you’re not exactly sure what you paid, but it’s far less than you expected. If you don’t want to pay in Canadian dollars, they’ll except 1 Dunkin Donut for every 1.33 Tim Horton’s. Unlike the Yanks, the Canucks won. After being up almost 24 hours, it’s time to send in the Zamboni and call it a day, eh?

Captain’s Log-Day 2. The Great Grey North.

Traveling with the wayward warrior cheerleaders.

Today, we borrowed umbrellas from the polite bellman and went over to Granville Island to the market; which had a huge farmer’s market, shops, and food stands with many foods to choose from like poutine, donuts, salmon or poutine flavored donuts, poutine topped with salmon, or donuts filled with poutine. Lynne Messner chased her lunch down with a nice glass of maple syrup, while Ellen DeFlora Sciortino drank a sidecar of poutine gravy. We’ve yet to exchange any of our currency for Canadian cash mainly since we all remember a time that we were denied a gumball or a laundromat coin operated washing machine or a parking meter, as a damn dirty Canadian coins infiltrated our American coin slots. I will not be party to filling our American coin slots with similar looking, yet suspiciously tinnier currency!

We went to the 1000 acre Stanley Park. If you get the special drink at the park’s concession stand, it’s served in a commemorative Stanley Cup. We took a horse drawn carriage ride around the park taking in the sites. As I tried to blend in with the native totem poles, somehow my singular face and lack of height caused me to stand out from the crowd. As we tried to get a cab out of the park, I called the Yellow Cab Company (Checker was still in the penalty box from last night’s hockey game) and spoke to a rude dispatcher. I found out that since Canadians are so polite, they import rude dispatchers from NYC along with squirrels from Central Park. In exchange, we were given Canadian Geese that shit all over parks. Anyway, the cab didn’t come, as it got wetter, darker, and colder. After an hour, just when we thought we’d need to find some hibernating bears to snuggle up to and weather the night, a Mexican man graciously led us out the park into Civilization. Once we told him it was urgent and we NAFTA get right back to our hotel, our friend from the most southern part of North America saved us.

We ended our night in Gastown, a hip neighborhood that has nothing to do with farts, especially old ones.

Captain’s Log-Day 3. The Great Grey North.

Traveling with the wayward warrior cheerleaders.

Today, was like planes, trains, and automobiles as we traveled to Victoria by taxi-ferry-taxi. Victoria, or as I call her, Vickie, is the capital of British Columbia, as parliament sits in its beautiful harbor. Depicted is that government seat during the 15 minutes that it stopped raining on this trip. We slogged through the rain to the Empress Hotel, but failed to impress the Empress with our soggy clothes, although our’s looked better than the Emperor’s new clothes, We went to the colorful Fisherman’s Wharf where we sought refuge from the incessant rain on this guy, Noah’s houseboat, but he sent us away for being a trio of the same gender.

As we returned to our rooms, I now understood Victoria’s Secret, as I blow-dried my bra, sweater, and jacket. I’m going to be their first runway model with chub rub from the friction of my wet jeans. I felt like I’d been Canadian Goosed! At least I was fortunate to find that a salmon had swum upstream up my pant leg to defray our dinner cost. Better to bear Victoria’s Secret than to have Prince Albert in a can-adian city!

Captain’s Log-Day 4. The Great Grey North.

Traveling with the wayward warrior cheerleaders.

Well, hello my dajeerling! Today, we started the day with high tea at the Empress. For $82, you’d think you’d at least get a sandwich with crust. Apparently, the high price supports the cost of all the finger sandwich crusts to be shipped to feed the starving children in Africa. As our tea steeped, the cost of the scones got steeper. All in all, high tea was a tealicious experience followed by a trip to the washroom for the subsequent high pee ritual.

With our pinkies still out, we moved on to Butchart Gardens, a lovely botanical gardens. Of course, as soon as we got there, it started to pour. The gardens nicely provide you with umbrellas made in China; which, coincidentally, the rest of our fellow tourists found out that they were all no more than Six Degrees of Kevin Bac-Yen in the manufacturing of the aforementioned umbrellas. Aside from the horticulturists and the Japanese Beetles, we were the only non-Chinese in the gardens. Somehow, they were so up our butts with their picture taking that they somehow ended up in our selfies and will be seen in our future colonoscopy films.

From there, we walked around Victoria’s downtown and went to a British Pub to watch the Yankees win. Our polite Canadians allowed for all TVs to be on the game until its conclusion, at which time, they returned to their regular viewing of SIFN, the Saskatchewan Ice Fishing Network.

Vancouver and Victoria are at the literal roots of the locally sourced food movement. We finished our day with a locally sourced meal. At home, I go to the closest ShopRite to locally source mine. By the time we heard in detail about the no-pesticide, no-GMO, grass-fed, organic, sustainable, greenhouse gas free ingredients that compose the menu, their locally sourced produce had rotten and could not be served. We shared a package of twinkies from circa 1967 and called it a night.

Captain’s Log-Day 5. The Great Grey North.

Traveling with the wayward warrior cheerleaders.

We set out early from Victoria to return to Vancouver for our final day of vacation. Ellen DeFlora Sciortino must’ve seen the Wizard, as she pushed through her fear of flying to enable us to take a seaplane and return to Vancouver on a 35-minute flight instead of a minimum 4 hours taxi-ferry-taxi trip. Ellen has courage and will fight you with one hand tied behind her back. Interestingly, as the seaplane is on water and the air, the stewardess had gills and wings having adapted to her role. We landed safely in Vancouver and having paid for the Northern Exposure package, we were flashed by the pilot, as we deplaned.

With one fear conquered, we headed to the Capilano Suspension Bridge to walk between two mountains on a gorge. We Wallendaed our way across the expanse. At times the suspense was killing me, as I wasn’t sure if we’d go one sway or the other. Ellen finished the morning off skydiving, paragliding, running with the bulls, putting her head in a lion’s mouth, eating blowfish, and doing the tide pod challenge.

We descended the mountain and went to the Vancouver Aquarium where Ellen swam in the shark tank and fed the piranhas barehanded. Lynne and I had to finally pull her away from trying to plug an electric eel into a socket.

We finished the day with dinner in Gastown. Ellen wanted to light a homeless man’s canned chili farts in Gastown, but we felt that she had already faced too many fears and conquered too many dangers. Tomorrow’s challenge will be ordering the in-air seafood meal on our way home. Until next time…

Don’t Take the Brown Acid!

50 years ago, I missed Woodstock, as I was six and played with woodblocks. Tonight, to mark the festival’s 50th Anniversary, we are back in the garden. By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a sandwich strong. If I was around then, I think I’d be the one yelling “Damn, dirty hippies,” as I cringed at a woman with 6 feet of dreadlocks hiding Jeffrey Epstein’s madam in her hair causing the geriatric crowd in attendance to use their inhalers to combat her overpowering patchouli aroma. No need to stay away from the brown acid, as orange juice is enough acid dropped to warrant dropping the purple pill, Nexium. We are front row center, so if this was the real Woodstock, I’m sure I’d be plucked from behind the barricade by Joe Cocker’s roadie for some backstage orgy. I’ll settle for being here 50 years later sitting comfortably with an unobstructed view rather than slathering in some mud pit with Sunshine, Rainbow, and Porcupine. The tie-dye remains here, but as opposed to when I was a kid with a package of RIT dye, some rubber bands, and a tub; Chinese children counterparts are making the $40 versions in a sweatshop. In 50 years, the bathroom situation here hasn’t improved much except no one is picking through the overflow looking for magic mushrooms. As Ringo sings, All you need is love. Peace, love, and music.

Fucking Bunnies!@#%$&!

My favorite drinking game in college was called Fucking Bunnies. Now, everyday, like a modern day Elmer Fudd, I curse the endless infestation of fucking bunnies in our neighborhood. Two weeks ago, after the rain, I walked this two-headed monster, when they saw an aforementioned fucking bunny. They sprinted after it, as I ran on the wet lawns trying to stop them from eating Peter Rabbit. After a few lawns, I fell and dislocated my left shoulder. As I awaited the dreaded MRI prior approval, I gave my disapproval for animals that fuck like bunnies (most of which are bunnies), as I walk the white menaces.

Today, I finally got the MRI; which I repeatedly said needed to be stand-up MRI, only to show up to be placed in open MRI. Perhaps I don’t understand the medical definition of open, which is akin to sharing a coffin with a family of 4. As predicted, I freaked and would’ve preferred rotator cuff surgery without anesthesia than to spend another minute in stuck in the crisper draw. I ended up going to a stand-up place: which had no stand-up, but rather wedged me into magnetic jaws of life with walls that struggled to accommodate the Double Ds. After 40 minutes of being tilted in the worst tilt-a-whirl ever, I was finished, as I’m sure is my left shoulder. On my way home to hunt wabbits!!!