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Confessions of a travel Pollyanna

February 21, 2012 in Boomers, Living, Travel, Uncategorized

My name is Dena and I am a plane-o-phile.  No, there is no ten-step program to rid myself of this pleasant addiction.  To me, the anticipation of air travel means more than reaching a destination. It’s the experience that still thrills me.

Aside from the giddiness I feel at takeoff, seeing objects below get smaller and eventually disappear (okay, I am the person who interrupts any conversation with the stranger next to me to press her nose against the tiny window to feel the enormous piece of gadgetry in which I am contained lift itself off the ground), I still marvel at how quickly commercial airlines can get us places in an incredibly short period of time.  You need not think of me as an octogenarian. I am merely the chick who is in the habit of adding up where we have come from in order to appreciate where we are. Five and a half hours to New York?  Four to Hawaii? Eat dinner, watch a movie, take a nap and you’re in Europe? What’s not to appreciate, when countless decades of travelers faced days, months and even years to get somewhere?

Air travel was once considered a glamorous experience, first class or coach. There was no point in shopping around for the best deal, because airfares were controlled by regulation. Travel agents regularly booked air travel for you, especially if you traveled on business, since the airlines all gave them a commission for doing so. If a roundtrip ticket between San Francisco and New York was $249 on one airline, it was the same on all the rest who flew that route, making them vie for your business by touting the superior service they offered.  That means there were more airlines giving you more choices and planes need not be full to make an airline profitable. Before such intense security concerns transformed airports, there were even observation decks where you were allowed to watch planes come and go in an elevated, fresh-air location. Flight attendants, both male and female, were decked out in snappy uniforms, slender enough to navigate aisles without having to even think about it, food was served free, and coats were taken from you and hung in closets.

With the huge changes that have taken place within the airline industry since then, all I hear are complaints. And while I lament the loss of travel-ease, comfort, better service and choice of carriers, I still think air travel is miraculous. When we can catch up with the rest of the industrialized world and bullet trains become another viable means of transportation within this beautiful country of ours, I will become slack-jawed once again.  I guess I am a product of all those futuristic films they used to show us in elementary school, where actors would touch buttons that would drive cars and cook food (much of which has actually come true). For me, to jump on a train in San Francisco and end up in LA just two and a half hours later will surely knock my proverbial socks off and give me even more choices than I have now.

Am I a bit simplistic?  Perhaps.  I believe in the ingenuity of the human spirit to better our lives as long as we can all see the vision and get out of our own ways to make it come true. And since I have but one time to go around, I suppose I am a bit selfish and want it all now. But even if it does not all come to pass, I know I am living in an amazing era, where diseases can be eradicated and where home entertainment has become an art form. It’s also a time when I can order merchandise from my smart phone, whose technology hardware once took up an entire room, and even better, from a desktop computer from which I can tap out my blog, hit the “publish” button, and make it available to millions of readers.  I am still flying high and I hope I never come down.

Classy customer service: An oxymoron?

February 20, 2012 in Living, Places

Chanel. Hermes. Dior.  For the first time, I joined my daughter, who recently moved her business operation to the Los Angeles area, in walking up and down Beverly Hills’ Rodeo Drive, the boulevard whose establishments can be seen in the background as paparazzi flash candid photos of celebrities going shopping in their off-time for magazines like People.

The elegance of beautifully displayed items within these stores was just what I expected.  Colors and window dressing were cleverly arranged to catch your eye. And the salespeople within their hallowed walls were as attractive and perfectly outfitted as one would surmise.

To set the scene, I will tell you that my daughter and I were well dressed and did not appear particularly tourist-like as we entered each store. So we waited to be fawned over, similar to what we’ve seen in movies. Something went wrong with this picture, however.

As we entered each store and approached salespeople behind gleaming display counters full of ridiculously priced merchandise, we noticed something was amiss.  For every five employees we encountered, three of them had their heads down with their thumbs and index fingers flailing wildly on tiny hand-held devices.  Yes.  They were immersed in texting, emailing or even chatting on their cell phones.  And as we made casual conversation regarding their wares as we stood directly in front of them, we were the last entities to get their attention. In one store, we even spied four employees stuffed into a tiny storeroom talking on their cell phones as we waited to be acknowledged. In another store, when I asked to test out some makeup, I was handed makeup and a few cotton pads to apply it myself.

We were crestfallen as we finally made our way back to the car.  My daughter, who has a highly successful ecommerce business and a room full of customer care personnel hand-picked for their affable, service-oriented personalities, asked what had happened along the way that retail stores would permit this to occur.  Were the store managers unaware of how rude this was or were they just not privy to what was happening? Did they not have rules governing the use of personal devices on a retail floor? Were these employees never trained in the art of customer service? Or do most customers simply no longer expect outstanding personal service? It was difficult for me to fathom that thought when stores like these sell pieces of merchandise that carry the price of a mortgage payment.

Then it occurred to me that this is the kind of impetus that causes so many people (like me) who go into a store to see something up close and personal and resort to ordering it online when they get home.  You get what you pay for.

Disappearing acts

February 1, 2012 in Our Lives

It has hit me lately how certain gestures, habits and even sounds have disappeared from American life since my parents’ generation.  I can’t say I miss them all, but I wonder why some small things just disappear and if anyone else but me has noticed.

Here are just a few I thought about recently:

  • Whistling.  Can you imagine seeing people walking down a sidewalk whistling?  Whistling used to actually be an art form.  I think Bing Crosby was born doing it. In fact, there were times I KNEW precisely when my father would whistle. When we traveled across the country to visit his parents in the Midwest. I distinctly remember each time he got out of the car to talk to a motel owner about spending the night in places like North Platte, Nebraska.  He would emerge from the car while the rest of us stayed expectantly quiet, hoping we could “afford” a motel that had a pool as he did his serious negotiations with the proprietor. And as he sauntered up to the motel office whistling, he slicked his hair back with a comb. Today’s crude form of whistling involves the placing of two fingers in the mouth at sporting events.

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Climbing into the TV with an old movie …

January 8, 2012 in Entertainment

Dena Kouremetis

From the time I was tiny, old-movie-watching was a disease in our household.  My father, a lover of television and communication technology in any form, would excitedly yell (not call) out to the entire family when a good old movie was about to start on TV.   And because he was the smartest man on earth to my brothers and me, we would rally ‘round the old tube-laden console and try to see things through our father’s eyes.  He would explain who the actors were, what the story was about and we would learn to love the past through movies.

As a child, I saw the movie world that lived inside our TV set as one that must have existed on another planet.  Movies made in the 1940s had people wearing huge shoulder pads, hats at all times, suits  even in the hottest weather and dresses in the kitchen, spouting their lines in fake British accents.  They spoke to one another just a few inches from another actor’s face (tight screen shots, no doubt), which made me wonder about halitosis on the set. Still, I was riveted.  They spoke more rapid-fire than you and I, and they miraculously never interrupted one another.