Ode to a Wary Road Warrior

I've said it before...I'm a road warrior.  I spend a lot of time in the airport, on planes and in hotels.  I do absolutely everything I can to make my travel enjoyable, and more importantly, efficient.  That's why I was in shock last week to breeze through the metal detector in Montreal just to hear the damn thing scream out its opposition to my speedy passage.

George knows the airport game pretty well.

I think for regular travelers it's constant challenge to not slow down the process by being the one that makes the machine beep...you can feel the other road warriors behind you in line... “Amateur,” they think.  I know they think it, because I think it.  You get behind someone who looks like they know what they’re doing, because that line will move faster, then shazam, the alarm goes off when they forget to take off their shoes or their belt, and they’ve got to go through again.   Amateur.

So imagine my surprise last week in Montreal when I went through the detector, strutting proudly, as I do, because I know there is not a shred of metal anywhere on my person.  Not an errant penny, not a stick of gum, nothing.   When to my great surprise, and horror, the thing went off and the CATSA people sprung into action.

I must of looked surprised when I stopped dead in my tracks during the afternoon security rush hour.  “Don’t worry…” she said, “…you’re clean.  Very clean, in fact.  You’ve been selected for a random search.”  Random Search.  That’s something you rarely heard ten years ago, but it’s part of the modern traveler’s lexicon today.  That means that you get a pat-down for no real good reason.

You're the lucky winner of a random search.  Just let me glove up.

Up until a few months ago, you had no choice when it came to a random search.  In Montreal it involved a pat down by whoever the lucky CATSA employee was who was assigned to your line.  It involved arms, legs, and if you were lucky, a foot massage, as they had you sit down, and they ran their hands over your feet.  My life changed a few months ago when they installed those full-body scanners that everyone was freaking out about.

Yep, give me that pat-down.  It's been a slow week.

There’s some controversy around exactly what those lucky CATSA employees get to see, and for how long they store the images.  Here’s how I feel about it.  If you’ve read this blog, you know I’m not a fan of being touched by strangers, so go ahead and scan me baby!  You stand in a big round phone booth, and this x-ray machine swoops around you taking a full body shot and transmitting it to somebody in a room that you can’t see.  They then send a thumbs-up or thumbs-down signal back to the security employee and they either let you go, or feel you up to get a better sense of what you’re trying to stash on your body.

One to beam up, Mr. Scott

I don’t know if people want to get assigned to the X-Ray room, or if it’s where you get assigned if you’re being punished.  I don’t even like to look at myself in the mirror when I get out of the shower in the morning, so I can’t imagine sitting in a room looking at images of people like me every single day.  I know the thought freaks people out, but if a guy, or girl, that I can’t see is sitting in a room looking at X-Ray pictures of my junk, and, it gets me through security faster, bring it on. 

Ewww.  Imagine this all day long.

I’m not sure how you would describe that position in a job posting…Requires long hours of sitting alone in a dark room with no windows looking at pictures of naked people on the computer.  Come to think of it, there are probably millions of people who are qualified to do that job.  They probably don’t have too much problem hiring for that one.

Wanted:  X-Ray room monitors

I’ve been traveling for business in Canada for a long time.  I’ve been to 18 different airports in Canada, and most of them many more than one time.  I have a memory for the important things, like where the washrooms are.  Once I crossed that magic chronological threshold of 40, knowing where to go, to go, got much more important.  I have no idea why your bladder seems to shrink when you hit that magical milestone.

I had it all sorted out for a long time.  I knew my path through the airport, that included the requisite bio-stop, both when departing and arriving.  It was all good.  That is, until, they started building new airports.  It started with Ottawa.  It’s a lovely airport, but when you knew where the washroom was, in relation to your gate, then they go and move it on you, things get a little dicey.  The same is true of Edmonton, Calgary, Vancouver, and most recently, Winnipeg.  Winnipeg is a beautiful new terminal, very bright, but the washrooms are in a really different place then they used to be.

There's even a cool map for the new Winnipeg terminal.  But where's the john?

Airport designers are becoming more and more aware of the needs of the road warrior.  The most obvious change is that there is now much easier access to power outlets.  It used to be that you needed to wedge yourself between a chair and the wall, and sit on the floor to plug into an outlet usually reserved for a vacuum cleaner.  Yesterday I noticed a whole new seating arrangement in terminal 3 in Toronto that allows a number of people to sit in a circle around a power pole.

Looks like something grown-ups should be doing

Convenient?  Yes.  Comfortable?  I doubt it.  The configuration of the chairs has people who don’t know each other almost sitting on top of each other while they charge up their devices.  The airlines have cottoned on to this concept as well, and have made power available at your seat for your long haul flight and your short haul battery.  As a nod to Air Canada, they’ve even got a USB port at your seat to power up your iPods and your Blackberry.  Very thoughtful.

Notice the USB and the power outlet.  Thank you, Air Canada.

Speaking of plugging in your devices, I see an incredible number of iPads.  I’m sure there are a hundred million of them in circulation.  As I sit on the plane, and if I’m lucky enough to get upgraged to Business Class with the executive types, I notice that almost every suit on the plane pulls out their iPad.  I don’t have one, so I feel a little left out.  So I look around, and do you know what’s going on on those executive iPads?  Updating spreadsheets?  Executive memos?  Nope.  It’s Angry Birds.  That’s what’s going on.  Virtually every cuff-linked exec I’ve seen with their iPad on a plane is, at some point during the flight, playing Angry Birds.  I don’t begrudge them their downtime, I just think it’s kind of a hoot.  And, I’m jealous.

I want an iPad so I can play Angry Birds too

It’s not that hard to separate the real Road Warriors from the Road Warrior Wannabes.  The Road Warriors have their liquids and their gels already packed in an approved ziplock baggie.  (Note:  Don’t try to slide through the Halifax airport with your stuff in a freezer bag big enough for your Easter ham, they’ll make you repack it.)  They’ve got their laptops and other devices stored in their briefcases in a way that allows them to access it with one unzip.  (Don’t shove them in your suitcase between your gitch and your socks…it’s embarrassing when you pull your laptop out and your leopard print thong comes with it.)  They’ve got their ID and their boarding pass ready for the gate agent.  (Your Costco membership, even though it has your picture on it, isn’t good enough for most Air Canada gate agents.)   

If you find your leopard skin thong on the floor of the airport, you need to pack better.

I’m not sure if being a Road Warrior is something to be proud of.  But I am proud.  I’m proud that I can leave the office in Montreal at 4:30 and if traffic cooperates, be at my gate at 5:00, because I’ve navigated the system correctly.  A lot of people (my lovely bride included) don’t think that work travel is actually work.  But it is.  It takes training, planning, perseverance and energy to survive it.  A lot like going to the office everyday.

One Day Careers: Jobs I Kinda Want

There are times when I’m driving, or riding, or flying when I see something, or someone doing something and I think to myself, wow, that would be a cool job to have.  Then, I think to myself, well, maybe just for one day.  For example, I would like to be the guy who changes the messages on the overhead electronic highway signs.  But just for one day.  I’d like to be able to message the drivers with reckless abandon, with no fear that I’m going to lose my job.  I’m sure it’s not a job that people vie for on a day to day basis, but imagine you had the job and you weren’t afraid that your messages were going to get you fired.

Apparently, highway signs are being hacked.  Who knew?

Instead of ‘QEW very slow beyond Guelph Line’, if it were my last day, drivers would read something like ‘Listen Dumbass, it’s rush hour, did you expect it to be fast?’  Instead of ‘Right lane closed at Yonge Street due to accident’ you might read ‘Some crazy bitch was texting and hit the guardrail.  Deploy middle finger as you pass’.

Just one time...I'd love to see this sign.

I’m not even sure it’s an actual job…it could just be a part of another job.  Thank God for the people who do it everyday, I’m sure it’s not the most exciting job watching traffic cameras and keeping your opinions to yourself as you put pre-approved, sanitized, mundane messages up for all the drivers to see.  Once I’d like to see one of those guys lose it like the flight attendant on Jet Blue who deployed the exit chute and ran screaming across the tarmac.  It would make driving so much more interesting.  Maybe if there were interesting things to read on the overhead signs, people wouldn’t have to read their email while they were driving.

Another one-day career that I’d like to experience is aircraft marshall…he’s the guy who waves the orange flashlights at the pilots to help them guide the plane into the gate.  I have a couple of rules on that one, though…first, it’s got to be summer.  I see those folks and it doesn’t look near as fun when it’s -40, snowy and windy.  Second, it’s got to be sunny.  Waving your hands around while standing in the rain doesn’t seem that exciting either.

Fun?  Yes.  Doing it in a parka?  No.

But what could be better on a warm, sunny day.  They get to go to work in shorts, they’re out in the sun, almost like a lifeguard, but without screaming kids and drowning swimmers.  I imagine that you could get a bit creative in how you bring the planes in.  I’m sure there are some required moves, but maybe they can jazz it up a bit…give the pilots a bit of a chuckle.

That's the life...Next stop, Baywatch

Sounds like fun for a day.  One drop of rain and I’m outta there.  As a frequent flier, I really appreciate the work these people do…I’m just not sure I could do it.  At least for more than one sunny, warm day.

I once took a job that should have been a one-day career… I agreed to help a friend entertain at a corporate Christmas party.   She was a clown, and she needed somebody to fill out the clown troop.  It paid thirty bucks for two hours of work.  I was in high school, so thirty bucks sounded like pretty good money, especially in the run-up to Christmas.

Not me, but you get the point

She loaned me a costume and a wig, and we created a face for me.  I had no clowning skills, so my job was to carry stuff and shake hands with the little kids, and hand them their presents after they had a chin-wag with Santa.   We were in and out, and I got home with three crisp ten dollar bills in my jeans.  I was rich, rich, rich.

I said Thirty Dollars

Before I knew it, I was booked for about four more Christmas events.  I had my borrowed costume, and an ever-evolving clown face.  By the end of the holiday season, I was pretty hooked on clowning.  My one-day career had morphed into a part time job without me even knowing it.  My boss, Marshmallow the Clown, put her gigantic clown foot down and told me that if I was going to continue, I needed to go to clown school.

She had to put her foot down

Because of my willingness to help her out on a moment’s notice, she gave me a full scholarship to the JLI School of Clowning, and after two Saturday mornings, I graduated.  We learned clowning etiquette and behaviour, the art of face painting,  and a couple of close-up magic tricks.  I had a Clown School diploma…My major was Birthday Parties with a minor in balloon animals.  What a hoot. 

I would love to tell you that I had some butch clown name like Bozo, Ronald, Chuckles, or even Crusty.  But alas, I graduated JLI School of Clowning as Mr. Glitters.  And I was fabulous.   I was documented, educated, and ready to hit the birthday party circuit.  And hit it I did, with my friends PomPom, Lollipop and Marshmallow.  A quick search of www.clown-names.com today shows 1180 known clown names…Glitterbug, Glitterbell, and Glitterdot.  No Mr. Glitters.

No photographic evidence of Mr. Glitters exists today

In those early days, I got paid 35.00 for a one-hour birthday party.  I would walk in, read a story, do a couple of magic tricks, amaze them all with animal balloons, paint their faces, cut the cake, and take off.  It was a sweet gig.  Some weekends I would have three or four birthday parties.  Pretty good cash for being 15 or 16.

Birthday parties...easy cash

I’ve written about my Dad before.  He’s a conservative guy.  He was leery about the clowning from the get-go.  He wasn’t exactly proud to be the father of a clown, and the worst part for him was when the fabulous Mr. Glitters would need a ride to a gig.  In full make up and costume.  Super proud.  Once I hit 16 and secured my drivers license, surprisingly, Mr. Glitters got the car whenever he needed it for a job.

How to embarrass your Dad and get paid at the same time

Clowning got me through high school with some extra loot in my pocket.  It was mostly weekend work, even in the summer, so I was able to work my other part time job at the same time.  I was able to see how really well-to-do parents would completely blow the wad on a party for their four year old twins, Porsche and Mercedes (I swear that’s true.  I also swear that when I pulled up, there was both a Porsche and a Mercedes in the driveway).  Mr. Glitters wasn’t even the star attraction at that extravaganza…nothing but a balloon-twisting sideshow, playing second fiddle to a drunken magician and an ornery pony.

Why don't middle class people call their twins Ford and Chevy?

I got to meet and work with (or beside them, as a sideshow) some well-known people of the day, including Miss Fran from Romper Room (you remember, Romper, Bomper, Stomper Boo…Tell Me, Tell Me, Tell Me True…I see Johnny, and Suzie, and Shaniqua.  Never Sean.  But she saw Shaniqua.  Often.); Andrew Sachs from Fawlty Towers; Canadian Ballerina Karen Kain and her husband Ross Petty and others. It was a pretty cool job for weekends throughout high school.  

Andrew Sachs with John Cleese in Fawlty Towers

Mr. Glitters had become pretty well known on the party and event circuit, and where I started out making $35.00 for a birthday party, within a few years, I was making $125.00 for the same one hour parties.  Huge clown coin.  I was also getting my pick of the big jobs, traveling as far away as Guelph and even once, Toronto.  That’s big in the clown biz.  :o)

Clown Cash

In the spirit of quitting at the top of your game, I moved to Ottawa for university in 1988, and Mr. Glitters retired, never to be heard from or seen again.  I lost my costumes and my wigs, and I traded the glittery world of kid parties, parades, and grand openings for the equally as exciting world of fast food.  Another of my jobs that was supposed to fill a short-term cash-gap that wound up becoming a multi-year career.  Almost nobody in my life today ever saw Mr. Glitters, and I’m sure many don’t believe he ever existed, so once in a while, for the kids, I bust out some animal balloons and twist up a poodle.

The Mean Lady Made Me Cry

I believe there is a continuum of failure…from your run-of-the-mill dropping of the ball to your large scale fails…the epic fail.  The only thing is that because of its overuse, the word epic has lost its, well its epicness.  'Wow dude that shirt is an epic fail'.  If a word like epic isn’t epic anymore, how should we describe the true epic fail?  Super Duper Epic Fail?

I’ve been on the delivery end of some super duper epic fails, and I’ve been on the receiving end of some.  In the continuing saga of epic service fails, this is one that sticks in my mind.  I feel like I’m the victim in this story, but I’m not 100% sure that’s true.

Twenty years ago this week I had my first date with my wife.  I knew the moment I laid eyes on her that one day she was going to be Mrs. Slater.  Twenty years later and she’s still not sure.  At any rate, I didn’t completely screw up our first blind date, so we wound up with a second, then a third.  Before I knew it, we were a year in, and I was thinking about locking things down.  I started to shop for a diamond.

The first date was good, I was hooked.  Seriously hooked.

If you’ve been reading along, you’ve more than likely gathered that I’m a bit anal and slightly obsessive, so why would diamond shopping be any different?  Within the period of about a month, I visited every single store in Ottawa that sold diamond engagement rings.  I saw every ring that was available, including some stunning selections that were well beyond my modest budget.  I remember a lady in Birks showing me a 20 carat sapphire ring she had to retrieve from the safe.  She knew I couldn’t afford it, but I think she just wanted to show it.

I knew every single cut of diamond from the princess cut to the pear shape to the baguette cut.  I knew my colours, my carats and my clarities.  I knew some of the salespeople by name, and they knew me.  I remember walking by a jewelry store window in the Rideau Centre one day, and I saw what I thought was the most beautiful ring.  It was actually a set, with the engagement ring and the wedding band.  The engagement ring was a really pretty pear shaped diamond, and when it snuggled up close to the wedding band, some additional diamonds in the wedding band turned that pretty pear into a magnificent marquis (a diamond shaped diamond).

Not exactly it, but you get the point

I had to have it.  I knew Laura would love it.  I went into the store and saw Monique who I had spoken to on a few occasions previously, and let me tell you, she was thrilled that I had finally settled on a ring.  Holding the beautiful ring in my hand convinced me even more that I had made the right decision.  I threw down a three hundred dollar deposit, Monique took the sizing information, and we agreed I’d be back in a few weeks to pick that baby up.

I laid down all my cash...$300 

I should mention that at this point, while I had seen every single ring in Ottawa at least once, I also had about six rings on hold in various jewelry shops around town.  I hadn’t paid any deposits, but they were holding them for me.  Once I settled on Monique’s pear shaped beauty, I had the unpleasant job of releasing all those other rings.  My friend at Birks with the humungous sapphire wasn’t happy that I let the little diamond that she was saving for me go back into circulation.

The rings I had on hold may have been slightly more modest

So the job was done.  All that was left was to come up with the rest of the cash and then take possession of the ring.  One day I was in the mall with Laura, so I trotted her past the window and casually stopped to scan the rings.  My ring was in the right in the middle.  I was completely horrified when she nonchalantly dismissed all the rings in the window.  Holy Crap.  I had three hundred bucks on that ring, and she didn’t even notice it.

Laura wasn't as excited, and I was devastated

Back to the drawing board.  Instead of going back to all the rings I had on hold, I started the search over again, and within a few weeks, I found what I believed to be the perfect ring and bought it.  Now I owned one engagement ring, and was paying on another.  I was fairly certain my deposit was lost, so I didn’t think too much about it and went on with planning the big engagement surprise.  (That’s another story for another day, but suffice to say, it didn’t go nearly as well in real life as I had planned in my head.)

Not exactly it, but it's close to the one I proposed with.  She said yes, so it musta been OK

The day I was going to propose, I happened to be in the mall picking something up, and I saw the jewelry store, and inside I saw Monique.  Monique was a big French Canadian woman who may have been a cross-dresser.  I had spent a couple of months avoiding the store, but that day, I thought I’d see if there was any money I could get back…I was sure I would have to pay for the sizing, but I figured there might be some cash I could put back in my pocket.  So in I walked.

Just a little bit prettier than the real Monique

Monique saw me, and rushed over.  She was thrilled to see me, and happy that I would be paying the balance and picking up the ring.  When I told her that I wouldn’t be needing the ring, and asked about a refund, she said, “Listen honey, I’m working with paying customers right now…I’m busy.  Go walk around the mall for an hour and come back.  I’ll have time for you then.”  I was completely shocked, but had some things to do, and in order to not rock the boat, I went and did the shopping I needed to do.

Get out of my store and don't come back...I've got paying customers

About ninety minutes later, I returned.  Monique saw me from a distance and disappeared into the back.  I asked someone to let her know I was there, and they said that she had gone on her lunch, and that I should come back another time.  I told her that I saw Monique go into the back, and that I was just going to wait for her there.  I waited about 20 minutes, and was really getting pissed off with the sales people going back and forth, whispering, chuckling, and on occasion, pointing in my direction.  Nobody spoke to me, and nobody made eye contact.

There's only so long you can take it before you snap

I saw someone that looked managerial standing by the cash register.  I walked up to him and asked if he was the manager and he confirmed that he was.  I told him that I was having a problem with Monique and he was just about to dismiss me when from somewhere deep, I summoned up a tear, and a story to go with it.  “I put a deposit on this ring about three months ago and I was about to propose to my girlfriend.  About 3 weeks later, she was killed in a car crash.  I’ve had such a hard time dealing with it, and today, I felt strong enough to handle this, and then this is how Monique treats me…”   By that time, tears were streaming down my face and my eyes were puffy.  He looked distraught, and to this day, I have never seen three hundred bucks come flying out of a cash register so fast. 

I'm pretty sure my performance was better than ole' Dawson's

He apologized profusely, handed me a box of Kleenex and asked if I wanted a glass of water.  I dabbed my wet eyes, jammed the three hundred bucks in my pocket, and split.  I’ve never gone back to that chain since.  I don’t know if this situation had anything to do with it, but about a month later when I was in the mall, I saw Monique working in another jewelry store.  I gave her a big wave as I passed by her new store.  I may or may not have used all my fingers in that wave.

Cash, Cash, beautiful Cash...See ya Monique!

While I’m pretty proud of my acting performance that day, I’m not that proud of the fact that I lied to get cash…that may be a super duper epic fail in the personal ethics department, but I still think it pales in comparison to Monique’s super, super, duper epic service failure.

And the Oscar for Best Actor in an attempt to retrieve a deposit on a diamond ring...