¿Habla Español?

In my never-ending quest to improve myself, I recently began taking Spanish lessons. Not with, you know, someone who actually speaks Spanish, but with my computer. My parents might be slightly confused to hear this, recollecting that I took five years of Spanish in high school. Haven't I learned it by now? I'm thinking of these lessons as more of a refresher course, brushing up on skills that I'm now too old to remember having learned in the first place. I wanted to learn Swedish, figuring I could do something no one I know can do and maybe even better understand those Scandinavian mysteries I've been reading, but then I realized this meant I'd be speaking Swedish to myself, and I do that enough in English.

I loved learning Spanish in school, and I was really pretty good at it. My parents even bought me a nightgown that called out in big, bold letters "¡Hola!" I practiced on anyone who would listen to me, including the dog, the kids I babysat, and occasionally the unsuspecting customers on the other end of the line at the answering service for which I worked after school. The 7-12th grade school I was in for 7th and 8th grades allowed me to take first year Spanish in the 8th grade, so I was already a year ahead by the time I got to high school. Probably it's what made all the cool kids want to hang out with me. I even got a chance to use it in real life during a cruise down the Mexican coast. My aunt and uncle, having spent a lot of time in a wide-variety of Spanish speaking countries, held many phone conversations with me in Spanish, so I was lucky to have multiple opportunities for annoying others with my evolving language skills.

But if you don't use it, you lose it, or so they say, and so, while I still recognize a lot, I  couldn't possibly speak it so easily anymore. Yet, recently, I've found myself wishing I could, either because it would be useful in communicating with a Spanish speaker or because it would allow me to visit Spanish-speaking countries I'd like to see or just because it broadens my awareness of other countries. Also, it's fun to say "pantalones."  Spanish is spoken as a native language by more people in the world than any language but Mandarin, more than 400 million people. Right here in the United States, Spanish is spoken as a first or second language by almost 50 million people.  It can only be a good thing for me to know how to hold at least minimal conversation. Not that any conversation of which I'm a part is minimal.

So when the library at which I work acquired a new online database for learning foreign languages, I decided it was time to renew my Spanish language skills. Imagine! I could read, write, and converse in Spanish with native speakers all without leaving my couch. Add food, and it's my idea of Heaven. There are several such databases out there, some designed for consumers (like Rosetta Stone) and some for libraries (like Mango). The one we're using is called Transparent Language from Recorded Books, the folks who have provided us with audio books for many years. With just my library card number, I was logged on and ready to start Unit 1.

So far, it seems a little on the easy side, but maybe I've retained more than I thought. The first unit focuses on easy words and phrases, the kind of thing you would use immediately upon visiting a Spanish speaking country. "Buenos Dias!" the program exclaims. The exercises run through recognizing words (which can be hard for me in English on a good day), pronunciation, and putting words together into short sentences. I can do this!  I like clicking on words and having them pleasantly repeated for me (funny how the voice never gets annoyed at me for asking so many times). One of the exercises is sort of a hybrid between hangman and Wheel of Fortune, where letters appear one at a time and you try to guess what they're saying. I'm not entirely sure how buying a vowel increases my foreign language skills, nor have I won any money for getting it right, but it's more practice. I have begun conversing with Sasha in Spanish, and so far, she doesn't seem to notice the difference. I recently began Unit 2, which covers terms needed while traveling in Spanish speaking countries. I don't plan to do so anytime soon, but can it ever be bad to know how to say "Take me to the hospital?" 

I plan to continue this adventure for, well, as long as it interests me. The program covers a slew of languages--perhaps next I can learn Farsi.

A Visit to Harry and Bart

If I had to write an school report about what I did on my Christmas vacation, it would be filled with descriptions and tales from visiting Universal Parks and Resorts (not to be confused with Universal Studios, the people who actually make movies) in Orlando. I was able to spend about a week with my parents in St. Petersburg, Florida for Christmas, and, being the active and interesting people we are, we decided we had enough time to spend a few days on the other coast. They don't let me go to school anymore--something about aging out--but I'm excited to recount the experience for you here.

The primary goal in going to Universal, of course, is to see Harry Potter. What's the point otherwise? But you know, while Harry was, as you would expect, fantastic, it turns out that Universal is so much more than that. Universal Orlando resort is made up of multiple parks and hotels, and you would truly need days to have a chance of getting to see everything. The two major parks are Universal Studios, Orlando, which opened in 1990 and includes actual production studios in addition to exhibits to help guests "ride the movies;" and Universal's Islands of Adventures, which opened in 1999 with six "islands" designed to emphasize a journey of exploration. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter opened as the seventh island in 2010. In addition, there are a million (only a slight exaggeration) restaurants, stores, and various and sundry other things to see. In 2011, approximately 30.8 million guests visited the Universal Studios theme parks, making it the third-largest amusement park operator in the world, and it was the only theme park in the Orlando area that actually had increased attendance after September 11.

Mom made sure we would get the most from our trip by reserving a room at one of three hotels on the property. This meant that we could park once and go back and forth between the room and the parks as often as we liked (by water taxi; a lovely path to the park was available, but why would we do that?). So, on a bright but chilly Friday morning before Christmas, my parents and I, the dog, and four or five suitcases took off for Orlando. After bragging to everyone I knew that Florida at Christmastime generally means 70 degree weather, the weather had chosen these few days to make a liar out of me. We bundled up in jackets and sweatshirts (except the dog, who already had one) and made our way through the desolate flatlands that is I-4 from Tampa to Orlando.

Lucky enough to get into our hotel room early, great discussion ensued over which park to visit first. One of the fabulous things about staying at a hotel on the property is that we got Express Passes, which not only got us into the speedy line at most of the rides but also got us into the park an hour before everyone else the following morning. Deciding that this privilege should be reserved for visiting Harry at the Islands of Adventure the following day, we settled on Universal Studios. Dad was especially excited about this, as it is home of the Simpsons ride. "Trust me, it's the best!" he enthused.

The first order of business was lunch, as none of us had eaten yet that day. There are a ton of restaurants outside the parks, but once you're in, your primary food groups consist of pretzels, churros, hot dogs, and turkey legs (I know, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself). We located a lovely cafe where we could grab not only a sandwich but a table in direct sunlight, much appreciated in the chilly air that Floridians were sure came directly from Canada but was likely only about 55 degrees. This proved fortuitous, as it had us moving towards the Simpsons ride just in time for a front row seat at the character parade. What with no longer being 10 years old, I didn't recognize most of the characters, but that in no way detracted from the dazzle that was the parade. The music had us tapping our toes, the costumes dazzled, and the dancing was soon imitated by those in the streets. The video above will give you a taste of the incredible talent to which we were witness.

After a stop to battle with the Terminator, we finally made our way to the Simpsons ride. Really, you can't call these activities rides.  There are stories, artwork, videos, animation--half the time, it's not you that's moving, it's whatever you're watching. Loving the express passes we had, we quickly got to the front of the line that led to Krustyland, the low-budget park created by that much-loved clown. Not wanting to spoil, I won't share details, but essentially, I sat in a box that shook me around while watching fast-moving animation on a screen in front of me. You know how, when you're on a roller coaster, and you're breathless, scared, and thrilled all at once, you tend to start laughing? I couldn't stop! That is, until my stomach dropped. I was distressed to find that, while I loved doing things as a kid that made me dizzy, I'm no longer able to handle that round and round and upside down feeling anymore. The ride ended and I began breathing deeply. "Are you okay"?" my parents asked.

"It was great!" I responded. And it was. Amazing, in fact. As we continued around the park, I realized that nothing Universal does is done halfway. Nothing is just a ride, but a story, with clever, funny scripts, awesome animation, and beautiful music and special effects. It's rare to find so much talent all in one place. Maybe I admire all this creativity so much because the only thing that comes out when I take pencil to paper is a stick figure. 

The rest of the afternoon saw visits to the Men in Black exhibit, Disaster! movie, and the Macy's Christmas parade that used actual floats from the original parade in New York. After a rest at the room (they wouldn't let us nap on one of the floats), Dad and I had dinner at a restaurant designed around the NBA and NBA memorabilia. Good thing, because we'd need the energy the next day.

In Dad's ideal world, that would have begun around 6am. Our express passes would get us into the park at 8am, an hour before everyone else. Mom and I were having none of that. By the time we rose, Dad had gone on to the park and been on the Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride at least once. Returning to the room to pick us up around 9am, we all made our way over to Islands of Adventure. Agreeing that if we did nothing else, we needed to get me to Hogwarts, we headed all the way to the back of the park (kind of the like the milk that everyone needs is in the back of the supermarket).  There's nothing that can explain what it's like to walk into the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Truly amazing. Walk through Hogsmeade, have a butterbeer, browse in Oleander's shop...it's everywhere around you, and that's all before you get to the castle. While there's always a long line to get into the castle, there's plenty to see while you wait. As we stood in line, I was terribly amused to see a couple of escapees from Azkaban ahead of us and trying to get into the castle. We saw talking portraits, Harry, Ron, and Hermione on a balcony wishing us luck, and even Dumbledore. No one offered me a wand. We were finally buckled into our seats and set off for a wild ride. As with everywhere else in the park, it could only be described as amazing. The animation was terrific, and other than that roller coaster feeling that had me breathing deeply again, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was better than any of the movies because you truly felt like you were flying with Harry. I truly can't adequately describe it here, but if you like flying with Hippogriffs, I highly recommend it.

After some lunch, we checked out a few of the other rides and exhibits, then went back to the room for a nap. I really liked this staying in a hotel on the property stuff. We went back in the late afternoon, checking out Shrek and the Despicable Me rides (I must immediately add Despicable Me to my Netflix queue). We got to see the entire Christmas parade this time (I can still hear the music in my head), and then hung out for a concert by Manheim Steamroller, which Mom had been hoping for but wasn't sure we would get to do. Making our way out of the park, we decided on dinner at Bubba Gump's, where I spent at least five minutes trying to figure out why someone had left a suitcase with a box of chocolates left on the bench outside the restaurant. We all failed the Forrest Gump quiz given to us by the waiter but thoroughly enjoyed dinner. After a good night's sleep, we headed back to the other coast.

I couldn't possibly express how impressed I was with Universal. The dancing in the parades, the animation in the videos, the creativity of the stories. It's so real. You can't NOT be there, totally, and I'm all about being present in the moment (well, I try to be). Don't wait. Run, don't walk. Let the kid inside you out.

Comfort and Joy

It's hard to imagine a time when you feel more uncomfortable than when you are sick. Be it a cold, headache, or stomach bug, not feeling well has most of us attempting to hibernate in some capacity and come out only when our faces are no longer red and puffy. Or, at least, we've washed our hair.

So, it's quite disconcerting to be sick during the holiday season, when everyone around you is seemingly at their best, smiling, laughing, and calling out "Merry Christmas!" (I actually think this is a huge ruse perpetuated by the masses to generate Christmas sales, because, really, who's that happy all month long?). I'm getting over...well, I'm not sure what, let's just call it an upper respiratory infection...and despite my massive sense of discomfort, I continued to run into shiny, happy people every time I turned around. I've spent the better part of five days sleeping, eating ice cream, and walking around the house with warm compresses on my face. Even Sasha, who would choose to become permanently attached to my body if it was possible, had enough of the coughing disturbing her sleep to stay away from me. All I wanted was to hide under my covers for a few days.

But it was not to be. It began at Sunday brunch, when, despite feeling lousy, I managed to get dressed, do my hair, apply a little make up, and generally look presentable to the world. I had a little time before meeting a friend, so I wandered a department store a bit, hoping Santa might pop out and tell me I'm a winner (of anything, I'm not picky). I quickly noticed that there were more staff members in the store than shoppers, which was fine by me, since whatever I had was starting to make me cranky by then. I meandered, undisturbed. Until I was overtaken by a coughing fit. Not one of my finer moments. Or two. Finally, I looked up to see two staff members, peering over their counter at me, probably wondering if they needed to call 911. I decided Santa was not paying me a visit here and moved on to the restaurant.

Brunch proceeded, a good time had by all, despite a momentary desire to run for the bathroom when a beautiful stack of pancakes were set in front of me. Afterwards, I decided to stop at the drug store to pick up some Claritin. Other than being certain I didn't have a cold I wasn't sure what I had, and allergies was as good a guess as any. Quickly grabbing a package, I waited patiently in line at the counter. Because I'm known for my patience, especially when I don't feel well. "Merry Christmas!" the clerk said to me. "How are you today?" he asked, seemingly genuinely concerned yet evidently unaware that I was purchasing medication. Responding that I'd feel a whole lot better once I could take a few pills, I paid and began to move on. "Hope you feel better!" he called out after me.

The next 24 hours were a bit of a blur. At some point, I decided that ice cream was just what my sore throat needed. Wearing sweats with a spot on the shirt, thick Christmas bed socks, and my hair held up by barrettes, I headed for the grocery store. Selecting a carton, I made my way to the self-checkout, hoping to avoid the conversation from the drug store. "How are you today?" asked a nearby clerk, sweeping the nearby floor. I looked up, coughed, and attempted to smile. Being the organized person that I am, it took a good minute for me to find my store card and begin the checkout process. Just long enough for the clerk to make his way past me again. And apparently long enough for him to have forgotten that he'd already greeted me. "How are you today?" he asked. Again. This time I sneezed, waved my hand, and watched as the tissue I'd forgotten was in my hand floated to the floor.

A day or two later (they all started to blend together at this point), I was sitting up on the couch, hoping that by sheer will I could clear my head of the post-nasal drip that had taken over. The mailman whizzed past outside, and since no one is more welcome than the mailman at Christmastime, I climbed out from under my blanket to go get the mail. I never had bothered to get dressed, wearing my only nightgown in an attempt to avoid overheating in winter jammies (I was still experiencing hot flashes). I peeked out the door, observed the quiet that is mid-afternoon in a residential neighborhood, and decided it was safe to head down the driveway. Right before a big, yellow school bus pulled up at my corner, letting out impressionable and easily frightened young children. Not to be deterred, I finished my mission, carefully avoiding looking at the children who were now sure to go home to ask mommy if they could stay in their pajamas all day.

While most of my symptoms have abated, I continue to cough all day and night, making it difficult to return to a state of comfort and joy. But at least everyone around me isn't responding to my cough with "Merry Christmas!"

A Turkey at Target

Every year, millions of people across the country count down the days, hours, minutes until Thanksgiving. Oh, not because they want to see their family, or because they love themselves a turkey sandwich. No, these people are only hanging around with Uncle Bob and Cousin Eloise tracing their hands on construction paper and calling them turkeys to pass the time until Black Friday officially begins. They people want nothing more than to dash head first into the sales and specials that kick off the holiday shopping season, suspiciously unable to tell you exactly what it is they plan to buy for Uncle Bob or Cousin Eloise. I can only assume these are people with money to spend. Whether they plan to spend it on Christmas gifts or themselves, I'm unclear. Me myownself, I try to stay as far away from crowds of people ready to start a fist fight over the last iPad as possible, and with the possible exception of a 5am excursion to Wal-Mart one year, I spend the Friday after Thanksgiving locked in my house with the blinds down. Not unlike how I spend Halloween.

This year, my Thanksgiving began as most others, happily ensconced in a book and cut off from the world as we know it. At some point during the day, my mom called with news. "There are some nice sheets on sale at Target," she announced. This was good news indeed. I had asked for new sheets for Christmas, and these were 600 thread count in a ton of different colors. Plus, how much do we love Target? And because Black Friday no longer actually begins on Friday, she added "They open at 9pm tonight."

There was one problem. "But, you don't like to go out at night," I reminded her. This was not really news, and one assumes she was already aware, but it did seem relevant here.

"Oh, no, I thought you could go and get a set for each of us," she responded, as though this should have been obvious. Hmmm. Well, 9pm wasn't so bad. In my world, it's a whole lot better than 9 in the morning. And really, I don't need much of an excuse to go to Target. I probably wouldn't have chosen the beginning of Black Friday madness, but Target is Target. Maybe I would pass by the deal of the century, or maybe I would meet Prince Charming. Who knew? So I agreed.

My aversion to standing any longer than absolutely necessary delayed my departure until about 8:40. The store is less than 10 minutes away, there's plenty of parking, and I had no intention of being one of those people with my face up against the window, peering inside and leaving face prints on the windows. I arrived with time to spare and found a line wrapped around the front of the building. Traffic was being organized around a single entrance, and well-behaved shoppers patiently waited for the doors to open. I slowly made my way to the end of the line, hoping to arrive just in time for it to begin moving into the store. I found myself behind one person on the phone (because it's a great time to catch up on phone calls) and in front of another person trying to convince a child that they could get some candy, but they needed to look at televisions first (seems to me the kid was getting a good deal either way). It wasn't long before we crossed the threshold, and I made a bee-line for housewares.

How did people who got inside approximately 30 seconds before I did already have so much in their carts? There were stacks of electronics piled everywhere, even in the grocery aisles. People walked around with a big television box or with a stack of games piled in their cart. Glad that I didn't have to deal with that, I pushed my way through the crowds and finally made it to the shelves of all things domestic. Unfortunately, not before three other people, who had made themselves comfortable (one was sitting on the floor) comparing sheets, pulling them down and putting them back. Openly pleasant but silently making nasty comments, I scanned the shelves until I found the sale tags and located the sheets in question. Excellent. That was easy, as the Staples folks like to say (probably not while in a Target store, though). But now I had to pick colors. Mom wanted white, and I accomplished that with a long lean over to the right. But what should I get? There must have been 12 colors on the shelf, and the chick on the floor had already cleared a couple of them clean. If I didn't hurry, I was going to be getting white, too, but I'm nothing if not colorful. Red? Empty. Brown? Love it, but I've already got brown. Settling on purple--won't that be fun?--I reached up to the top shelf (isn't that always where the stuff a short person wants is?) and grabbed my purple sheets. The voices next to me began to get louder. I thought two women were arguing with each other over which sheets to get. Turns out, it was just woman on the phone. I squeezed my way past the woman with multiple personalities and headed for the checkout counters.

I knew it had been too easy. Despite the fact that the store had been open less than 10 minutes, every checkout line had a, well, line. A long one. I had no idea that a set of sheets in each hand would be so heavy. Clearly, I should have brought a bag. Twenty minutes later, I made it to the cashier. Who, as it turned out, absolutely loved my sheets. So much so that she spent the next 5 minutes telling me just that. That? Right there? That is why I do not participate in the phenomenon known as Black Friday.

Mission accomplished, I headed for my car. Overall, it wasn't a bad experience. I was not trampled, my feet did not hurt, and I made it home before 10pm. Not to mention that I now have a set of shiny purple sheets!

Happy Honda Days

I've spent a good deal of time at the Honda dealership this week. While this was not exactly by choice, it was not an altogether unpleasant experience.

Unlike my drive home from work, which is really where this story begins. It's long, it's boring, and it's occasionally an exercise in patience (turns out, I don't have any). Occasionally, it's brightened by an audio book I can't wait to get back to or an interesting story on NPR. And occasionally, it's made even more frustrating by a car that is a little too smart for its own good. Which is what happened this week when, perhaps just to give me something to look at, my dashboard lit up with lights spelling out "IMA" and a picture of some unidentifiable car part. IMA? I queried my memory and came up with nothing that seemed to make sense. International Management Associates? Indianapolis Museum of Art? Independent Music Awards? And what was that picture supposed to be? I tried to get a better look at it, but every time I glanced that way, I got the sense that I was no longer driving in a straight line, and I determined that a closer study of the picture would have to wait. I would just have to hope that, whatever these lights meant, I wouldn't be studying them more closely from the side of the road.

Maybe I'd have better luck looking it up in the manual. As it happened, heavy traffic further on gave me an opportunity to slow down and pull the manual out of the glove compartment. My earlier difficulty with getting a lasting look at the lights did not dissuade me me from trying to locate the page that would enlighten me as to the origin of the IMA light. Why wasn't IMA in the index? I don't understand. Why wouldn't such an important piece of information be in the index? This was going to have to wait until I got home.

Pulling into the garage, I grabbed the manual and brought it into the house with me. Sasha, who likes to check out and approve all items coming into the house, sniffed it like she works for the TSA and gave a nod of approval. Flipping through, I quickly found the pages describing the light. Integrated Motor Assist. Of course. It was on the tip of my tongue. I read on. This refers to the battery that makes my Civic Hybrid a hybrid. It seems that, if this light comes on, it's not doing its job and saving me gas. Since I drive a minimum of 68 miles each day, I viewed this information with panic. I NEED that battery. I need the extra mileage it gives me from each gallon of gas. I need the money that it would cost to replace the IMA battery. I sighed. I looked at Sasha, who still doesn't have a job. Maybe I'd get lucky, and it just got wet in the rain. Perhaps, by tomorrow, it would be gone.

My life doesn't work that way. I started the car the next morning, ready to get to work more-or-less on time. The IMA light didn't come on, but the picture of the funny little cart part did. I never did find out what that was supposed to be a picture of. My life being too valuable to undertake another drive across the triangle with the dashboard lit up like Christmas, I headed for the Honda dealership.

I was greeted by Joe, my personal service adviser (this is equivalent to how flight attendants are now known as in-flight service coordinators). Joe has helped me before, and I was delighted to see him again. Most of my experiences with Honda service advisers have been excellent, but I needed someone who was going to get me in and out again quickly and for as little money as possible, and I was confident Joe was the guy to do it. I lowered the window as he approached and pointed at the dashboard. "I have a light on" I explained.

Anyone else might have found this to be an odd statement, especially considering that I've been known to have my lights OFF about 75% of the time, but not Joe. He nodded. "You have a light on," he agreed. Excellent. We're on the same page. But would he know what to do about it? And how much would it cost me to find out?

Joe smiled reassuringly. "Let's find out what's going on." He wrote down the mileage and VIN and sent me to the waiting room. I was impressed that he didn't need me to give him any of my information but was ready to find it in the system. It's good to be a regular customer.

I quickly emailed work and dug into an eBook (I love my iPhone). The people around me were quiet at this time of the morning, watching Good Morning America or reading the paper. A passing Honda employee smiled at me and said "Coffee and donuts are on the counter!" entirely too brightly for any time before lunch. I'm not generally a coffee drinker, but I could use something to drink. I wandered over and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Ooohh, Dunkin' Donuts. I opened one of the boxes and inhaled. Funny, sugar smells like sugar regardless of the form in which it comes. Even though I'm certain there was a jelly donut with my name on it, I lowered the cover of the box and went back to my seat.

I'd barely made a dent in my eBook when Joe returned. "I've already ordered a new IMA battery for you, and it should be here by tomorrow." Oh, dear. This sounded like the kind of thing that requires a lot of time and dollars.

I crossed my fingers and held my breath. "Is that covered?" I asked.

Joe waved his hand. "Oh, absolutely, don't worry about it." If he knew me at all, he would know that telling me not to worry was futile, but it did help to know that this wasn't going to hit the credit card. We agreed that I would try to come back in the next day or two, and he sent me on my way.

So the next morning, I found myself back in the waiting room, this time with my work laptop on my shoulder so I could get some work done during the expected 4 hour wait. I settled in at one of the computer stations and went through the somewhat slow process of connecting to Honda's guest network. I pulled out my snacks, got a bottle of water, and began a lengthy period of productivity. I could get used to this. Everything I needed right in this little space. Almost. At one point, I got up to stretch and throw away my trash but was stunned to find a trash can lacking in the waiting room. I saw cartons for recycling cans and plastic but nothing for trash. This was not agreeing with my overall pleasant perception of the Honda waiting room. Eventually, I found one in the ladies room. I then returned to the counter that served as home to fresh Donuts. Because I need more sugar. To my great relief (and, to some degree, disappointment), they were all gone. I returned to work.

When Joe found me a few hours later, I had already accomplished quite a few items on my list and was deep into reviewing a list of potential titles to purchase for the library. He handed me my keys and told me where my car was. Noticing the reluctance in my face, he said "Finish what you're doing. Take all the time you need." Evidently, Joe had seen this productivity phenomenon before. And why not? It was fairly quiet and there were few distractions. I couldn't help but zip through my work.

Eventually, I got hungry enough (the snacks had run out hours earlier) that I decided it was time to pack up and leave. I looked around the waiting room. A television, donuts, newspapers, and a network connection. And no charge for the work on my car. I could get used to this.