Hostel environment

Someone who viewed my Youtube page asked where I stayed when I was on San Juan Island, which is off the coast of Washington, not far from Vancouver. I said that I was spending only one evening there (the other days, I’d be kayaking to and camping on surrounding islands), and didn’t want to spend a lot of money at the expensive hotels. So, I elected to stay at a hostel.

She was surprised and said she didn’t realize there were any hostels in the United States. I had never given it any thought. Maybe we usually call them boarding houses or something else.

Fresh out of college, she had hitchhiked across Europe and enjoyed her stays at hostels. She wanted to know what my experience was like. I doubt if it was near as glamorous as hers, but here it goes.

Disembarking the ferry from the mainland and weighted down by a large duffel bag, I trudged uphill through the few blocks of bars and restaurants that comprise the downtown of Friday Harbor. It’s a tourist area, with the main attraction being killer whale watching. But, this wasn’t the season.

Outside of downtown, it transitioned to older frame houses and some businesses. I turned at a corner bracketed by a fundamentalist church and a junkyard. Glamorous.

It was a potholed, dead-end street. Past the junkyard were a handful of shoddy frame houses. The hostel was one of them, a rambling ranch with a dumpster in the front yard.

To the right of the foyer was the master bedroom, which was the province of the owners. Going left, you walked through the living room, dining room and kitchen to the two other bedrooms. The smaller housed the owner’s children. The larger contained four bunk beds, which comprised the hostel.

I entered and gratefully dropped my heavy bag in the living room. A family was having dinner in the dining room and scrupulously ignored my presence. After some throat clearing and foot shuffling on my part, the mother told me to sign in (pointing to a book on the coffee table) and pick a bunk in the bedroom. I signed in and walked back to the bedroom.

The door was ajar and I just walked in without a second thought. There was a middle aged woman pulling on a pair of slacks. I froze. “Hi!” she said cheerily. She indicated two bunks that she knew to be unclaimed. I took the lower.

I fumbled around with my stuff until she left and then changed out of my travel clothing. Then, I went out to the living room to relax from the ordeal of travel. My bunkmate was there, engrossed in a book. But, as soon as I plopped down, she took the opportunity to reach out.

Her name was Betty and she was from San Diego. She came up here twice a year to listen to the whales talk through the hydrophone located at one of the waterside parks. She liked to keep in touch with them. Who doesn’t?

“This is a long way from San Diego. Can’t you do that through the web?”

“You mean like Facebook?”

Do whales post on Facebook? “I’m having seal for lunch. Yummy. This is a cell phone shot of me at buoy 43 waiting for a container ship to pass so I can cross the channel. Boring! Take this test and see what kind of mollusk you’d be.” I told her it was more like I assumed someone streamed hydrophones on the web. She said she’d look into that, but didn’t think it was likely. Probably more likely than Shamu posting on Facebook.

Before we could pursue that any further, Duffy arrived and shared the couch with me. In the physical sense. Mentally, I don’t know. My guess would be that Duffy had spent a lifetime using his body as a chemistry set. His responses ran toward the non sequitur.

Then, Cammy and Peter arrived. Cammy was a stunning Swede. Peter was an Australian who traveled the world doing nature photography. They had met in South America and he just trailed along with her after that. Few could blame him. Certainly not Duffy who unabashedly ogled her like a wolf stares at a pork chop.

In walked Conrad. We asked about his interest in being on the island out of season and made other small talk. His responses were a uniform, “Why do you want to know?” There were no further inquiries. At first I had him pegged for a backpacker. Now, I envision him assembling pipe bombs in a remote cabin in Montana.

Peter was using a laptop to share some of his photography when a tall couple walked in, clad in bicycle togs. The older man was Jim and his younger companion was Stephanie. The conversation got around to the cramped accommodations and Jim said that anything would do for unwinding after their long ride.

Duffy had been zoning out, but suddenly took an interest. He tried to focus on Jim and sneered, “I’m surprised you didn’t get a private room for what you must have in mind.”

Jim was quite poised. “I believe what you have in mind is illegal in this state and probably all the others.” I thought the family resemblance was apparent, but I wasn’t looking through Duffy’s foggy eyes.

“Oh, into the kinky stuff, eh?” There was an understandable lull in the conversation, mercifully ended by Cammy producing some wine bottles from her rucksack and offering to share.

Peter helped her serve, but I declined the grape, anticipating some demanding days of kayak camping. Peter tilted his head toward his own gear. “Ever try tequila?”

“Yes, I believe I have. But, I’ll still pass.”

We spent a couple more hours, mostly listening to Peter expound upon his adventures and Duffy answer questions that had probably been posed to him one or two or ten years ago. His interjections held no discernable connection to our conversation. Conrad’s eyes continuously flicked from face to face, trying to detect a conspiracy against him.

I was still wired from my trek and wanted to wait them out anyway, rather than engage in a rugby scrum of apparel changing in the confined bedroom. The participants fell off, until it was just me and the ever-vigilant Conrad. I don’t think he wanted to risk one of us slitting his throat while he slept. I was beginning to see his point.

I had an early launch and the benefit of my body still functioning a few time zones east. So, I was up and away before anyone else awoke. No matter. The previous evening’s experience sufficed.

They don't make pirates like they used to

The Somali pirates are at it again. And, I do mean again. They just attacked the cargo ship Maersk Alabama for the second time in seven months.

This time, they failed. News reports detail that they were repelled with gunfire and a high-decibel noise device.

Noise? They don’t make pirates like they used to. I checked out acoustic weapons and it’s legit. Even so, noise?

So, if you’re sailing the high seas, you might want to pack the latest version of an LCAD. Or, you could just borrow the neighbor kid’s car.

Timing is everything

A young man asked me how I afforded a good engagement ring when I was his age and got married. I didn’t. On our tenth anniversary, I gave my wife carte blanche to go out and get anything she wanted. I don’t think most people are in the financial position to prudently allocate that much to jewelry at the onset. Besides, look at the odds of the marriage lasting that long.

My thinking may be a little influenced by the imbalance. The woman’s ring set is usually elegant and expensive. The guy’s looks like something that came in a Crackerjack box.

I guess part of the tradeoff is the bachelor’s party, but the timing is wrong on that. The day before you leave on a honeymoon with your dreamgirl, you’re inundated with liquor and nubile strippers? Who needs it then? That would also fit better with the tenth anniversary.

In the same vein, at your funeral, they invite all your friends to laud you and throw a big feast. You’ve been accorded the most expensive accommodation in the house. What do you care on that day? I want that party, now.

Your china and good silver sit in a cabinet until some third echelon distant relative comes to town. Meanwhile your family eats off Melmac or whatever every day. Shouldn’t you get out the good stuff when those closest to you put their knees under the table?

Your kids can get their drivers’ licenses at the age of 16, which is after you’ve already done the lion’s share of the chauffeuring for teams, lessons, parties, shopping, appointments, etc., and the necessary waiting around. Too late to do you any good. Get them behind the wheel at nine and let them drag their own butts all over town.

Voting at 18. Is this a joke? How many teenagers know what’s involved in running a business or other substantial organization, eking out a profit and hitting deadlines? What percentage knows what it takes to manage a large group of people? Forget that scale, even. How many have supported a family, maintained an abode, negotiated contracts, paid toward tax levies or financed an education? Oh, but they know what it takes to run a city, state or country. Right. Is it any wonder the same standards are applied to voting as selecting the prom king and queen? When I need to add or replace a key department head, why do I go to the trouble of interviewing candidates when I could pull some kid out of the mall to do the screening for me?

The most obvious evidence of puerile thinking is the prevalent attitudes toward panacea services. When kids are in the toy store, it’s “I want, I want, I want.” No thought to if and how it can be afforded.

Christmas, Hanukkah or whatever. You receive new bikes, golf clubs, scuba gear or whatever. Hey, it’s the dead of winter. This stuff will rust before I get it outside.

You say it’s about religion? Tell me that when space and time about the spiritual side in media approach 10% of the ad wells. Anyway, you can keep the rituals in December. Just move the presents up to May.

By the same token, mowing and gardening in summer? I’ve got better things to do and who wants to work themselves into heat stroke? A civilization that can genetically engineer the tangelo or grapple can surely get the lawn to grow a few months later.

Year-end bonuses. They’re intended to inspire employees to make the extra effort that will generate a greater bottom line in which to share. How many employees start thinking about what they can do to break the threshold before November? Incentives should be weekly or monthly, depending upon the business cycle, so the goal is in sight all year.

Timing is everything.

Distracted driving

I was on an Interstate highway in Kentucky one night last week when I rounded a curve. Straddling the road overhead was a huge sign with the lettering comprised of a multitude of very bright individual bulbs. It blinded me momentarily and I almost rear-ended the guy in front of me, who had decelerated in the fast lane to let his eyes adjust to read it, or because it stunned him, or for whatever reason.

What did the sign say? “Distracted driving is deadly driving.”

Funny you should bring that up.

May the force be with you

I gave a speech last night and there was someone in the audience intent upon trying to turn it into a debate. Not unusual. If you have thin skin, don’t give speeches, write articles or columns or go on radio or television.

I’ve done all of these for years, so it’s not a problem. However, this individual introduced a new wrinkle. While some confuse parroting what they’ve read somewhere with cognitive process, they usually cite credible sources. This guy was effusively quoting Obi Wan Kenobi and Yoda.

As a rule, I don’t debate with fictional entities, especially about public healthcare policy. I didn’t point this out in an effort to spare him further embarrassment. However, I couldn’t help but think of this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94MMOhIcf5A

Specialization

In the heyday of “Saturday Night Live,” they spoofed the emerging mall specialty stores. Dan Aykroyd managed one that sold Scotch Tape and nothing but. In the last couple weeks, I’ve come across real life examples that rival that.

This past weekend, I attended a dinner party. The hostess isn’t known for her culinary interests, so I assumed it would be catered. I was right.

I arrived and found the caterer’s van in the driveway. And the caterer. He was employing a gas-fired wok to make paella. I chatted with him a bit and he asked if I would take his card for future reference. I agreed and he gave it to me. He’s the Paella Chef.

“That’s all you do is paella?”

“I am the Paella Chef.”

“So, this is a hobby or what?”

“No, this is my job.” You can make a living catering nothing but paella. Who knew? As I approach retirement (again), I wonder if I could do something like that. Might not be as much demand for the Grilled Cheese Chef.

A couple weeks prior, the post of my mailbox finally rotted through. I’m not the original owner of the house, but I’d guess it was there from the beginning. I had never given it any thought until it was time to replace it.

Where I grew up, we didn’t have mailboxes. You had a slot in your front door. After college, I had an apartment with the community lock boxes in the foyer. Later, my houses had boxes mounted next to the front door. This was my first streetside apparatus.

I had noticed sprinklings of new identical plastic mailboxes popping up in the neighborhood. Maybe someone had been going door-to-door selling them. I’m never home and would’ve missed that.

But, how difficult or expensive could it be? It’s an aluminum can on a stick? Yes, I am a city boy.

I do a web search and am mildly surprised by the cost. There just isn’t that much to these things and they’re hardly unique in attributes, unless you’re trying to pose as the Hearst Castle. They’re a commodity and should be dirt cheap.

Then, I investigate installation. Apparently, I’d have to buy or rent a post hole digger and then gnaw away at the impacted clay that is my front yard. There is no single definitive way to then prep the hole. Some swear by drainage gravel while others eschew it. There’s a camp for those who advocate concrete filler and another for those who warn against it. The heck with it. I have better things to do with my life and there seem to be people who do this kind of thing.

Back to the web search. I find three sources that look promising. The last one has no website that I can find, so I phone. It’s called “Mailbox Installers” or something like that.

A gravelly voice answers, “Yeah?” like I’m imposing.

From the scant information on line, I don’t know if they do this type, the multiple wall units or what. “Do you sell and install the residential curbside mailboxes?”

“That’s what the name says.” This was punctuated with a hacking cough.

“Do you have a website where I can look at your boxes?”

“No, I don’t have any damned website. You can’t see quality on a website. You wanna see them, you come in. I’m open till two on weekdays.” I heard him mumble something that was indistinguishable except for “jerk.”
There was clearly only one course of action. I went to see him.

It was one large, dark room, bristling with a dense mailbox forest. They were stuffed into barrels, pails, boxes and about anything else that could support them at all angles of lean. To one side was a raised platform, dominated by an old desk and a corpulent senior citizen. He was framed by high piles of paper, yellowed and curled at the edges with age. Precariously perched on one was a plastic clock radio, circa 1960s. A coat hanger was being used to amplify reception.

“I’m here about a mailbox.”

“I assumed that, what with what the sign outside says and all.” Yep, this was the guy.

“I don’t want anything fancy.”

“I’ll show you our most popular model.”

With great effort, he stood up and waddled and wheezed down a narrow aisle through the clutter. They all looked alike to me but he stopped abruptly and leaned on one. “This here is stainless steel with a powder coating.” He quoted the price, which was more than I would’ve thought.

“What else do you have?” There were only about 300 others on display. “I was looking for something a little less expensive.

“You don’t want any of that shit and I won’t sell it to you.” Easy to see why this was the most popular model.

Given no alternatives, I agreed to the deal. We trundled back to the desk and wrote up the order on an old multipart form.

Before I could stop myself, I heard me asking, “This is all you do, sell mailboxes?”

Silently, I replied along with him, “That’s what the sign outside says, doesn’t it?”

I journey into darkest customer service

I find it paradoxical that customer service has become a science and one hears more complaints about its poor practice than ever before. There are other forces at work. Cutbacks of staff create work overloads. There’s more stress on standardizing responses than thinking, etc. Or, maybe the idiots are just breeding faster than others.

Nonetheless, I set my expectations low and am seldom disappointed. Likewise, I ratchet down my irritation threshold, because that can cause you to lose sight of the ultimate goal. It helps to go in knowing that you will be tested. There may be some other lessons in this of value to you.

And, I’ve been tested several times in recent history. The most challenging was in regard to returning a camera for warranty service.

The first step was finding the maker’s website and drilling down through all the screening steps. I understand the reasoning, but I know what’s wrong and don’t need to run the gauntlet of their FAQs. But, I fight through the maze and am rewarded at the end with the pellet of instructions for making the shipment.

It’s not easy or cheap, and it’s on my dime. I’m not wild about that, but go along to get along. I have experience in these matters, so I strip off anything that isn’t necessary to function and load it with the cheapest battery and smallest memory card I possess. Repair facilities are notorious for stocking their parts bins with your stuff. By accident, of course.

The website says that upon receipt, they will send a postcard with my work order number and password, so I can check on the progress. Postcard. That’s high tech. While I’m on the site, I access their predictions of typical repair times and add 20%. Keep expectations low and you’re less likely to get irritated. Life’s too short to allow yourself to become irked by the shortcomings of others.

I had the Post Office notify me of delivery and awaited the postcard. And awaited. And awaited. Nothing.

I run the customer service gauntlet again through their website and finally get an email address. Noting I have received no postcard, I request the numbers that I can use to check up on the repair progress.

After a few days, I receive an email with the work order number. No password, just the number. I try it without the password and it doesn’t work. The email informs me that if there are any further problems, just reply to it. I reply and get a bad address error message. The same is true for the next three attempts.

Once again, I plunge into the customer service maze to unearth the hidden phone number. I assume that will yield an automated phone answering ziggurat to negotiate, which does turn out to be the case. I hang in and am finally rewarded with a living being. Well, Tobey.

Tobey listens to my tale of woe with something approaching mild interest. When I wind down to a halt, he sweeps away my narrative with an impatient request for my address. Obviously, he’s using it to call up my record.

“You have water damage. That’s not covered by warranty. You’ll have to give me a credit card number.”

“It’s a waterproof camera.”

“It is?”

You must understand that the majority of responses are coming from prompts on the customer service rep’s screen. You have to attempt an override by inducing a cognitive process.

“Tobey.” Put it on a personal basis. We’re human beings, not avatars in some computer game. “You advertise this as a waterproof camera. So, wouldn’t water damage come under the warranty?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, we agree on that. So, give me the password.” He does. “Thank you.”

“Won’t do you any good if you’re thinking of using it on our site.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I know I’m going to regret asking this, but why won’t it do any good?”

“Because we started subbing out the repairs two months ago.”

“But, it’s still on your site.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work.” I got that. My point was more directed at why it’s still on there, but walking Tobey down that road is going to lead to a deadend.

“So, how can I track it?”

“You could go to the site of the company we sub it to.”

Pause. Pause some more. It’s not coming. Oh well, I gave him the chance. “And what might that be?”

I check the status. There’s a standard blurb advising what the normal time of repair is. It’s two weeks longer than what the company’s website says. My camera is on hold, awaiting parts shipment from the factory. They note this isn’t predictable. I recall the factory customer service site that promoted itself as the best solution since that have technicians and parts under roof.

I check the site every day for progress. Okay, maybe every hour. Finally, it’s classified repaired and shipped. Expect delivery within five to seven days. When it’s at my expense, I have to ship the premium route. Not so on their end.

Six days later, I receive an automated call from the carrier, informing me a package is scheduled for delivery the next day and the shipper requires signature. When I bought the camera new, that wasn’t even required. I call the shipper and advise I will not be home and want to arrange an alternative. I’m told that can be done, but not until after the first attempt.

If I know I won’t be there, why can’t we do it now instead of waiting? Because that’s the procedure. Oh, and here I thought they didn’t have a good reason.

I arrive home from work the next day and there’s the notification stuck on my front door. It lists my options. One is not that I can sign it and leave it for the next attempt, taking my chances. Per the notification, I go to their website and elect to pick it up at their terminal the next day. It confirms this, and responds with their address, office hours and notification that I must bring a government-issued photo ID and the delivery notice number. Whatever.

The next day, I zip down to the terminal on my lunch hour. The package is out on the truck for delivery. How can that be? I took the option of picking it up there.

They overtly express doubt. Then, how I could I know where, when and how to pick it up? They have no idea, but there’s nothing in their computer so I must be mistaken. They pronounce “mistaken” as in “making it up.”

Arguing that isn’t going to go anywhere. I suggest I sign something now and they can just deliver it the next day. They can’t do that. They can’t deliver it unless I’m home (for some nebulous time frame) and sign for it. They can’t do this. They can’t do that.

One might think that they would be equipped with more than what they can’t do. One would be wrong. I shift the focus by asking what they can do. They don’t know but will have someone call me.

I’m driving back to work when the phone rings. It’s a supervisor with an extended list of what they can’t do. I redirect her to what they can do and help her venture into the realm of creative problem solving. We arrive on the solution that I might be able to intercept the driver enroute. She’ll call me back.

She does and asks if I know where a particular street is. If I can get there, call the driver and arrange the meet. I u-turn and punch it. As I’m approaching the street, I call the number. I get the “call cannot be completed message.” Sure, why not?

He’s got to be here somewhere. I burn down the street, see a truck with the right logo up ahead, blow the horn and cut him off with a squeal of rubber. I jump out and the driver’s eyes are about the size of dinner plates. I adjust the expression on my face. “I believe you have a package for me.”

As he’s rooting through his cargo, I dig out my driver’s license and the delivery notice. He waves it away. “Not necessary.”

Say again? All this crap about procedures and now you’re giving it away? I need an ID and shipping number to pick up at your terminal but you just cough it up to anyone on the street? Good grief.

Well, that about completes my day. Wait, no. I open the carton to check function of the camera. The memory card is missing. Now, it’s complete.

The workshop

He was 90 years of age when he died last week. With a friend, I helped look after him and his wife. They had outlived most friends and family.

After driving his widow to the funeral, I took her to lunch and then home. She asked if I would fix a couple things in the basement. She said tools were in the adjoining garage.

The first thing to grab my attention was the smell. It penetrated my memories as much as my olfactory senses. A heady mixture of old oil, solvents and adhesives.

The bench was a massive construction of heavy wood, bearing the gouges, burns and other scars of projects completed long ago. A large vise was mounted on one end, carrying a patina of rust and dust. At the other end stood an archaic belt driven table saw.

There was no pegboard behind it. Just a sheet of plywood with nails to support an assortment of hand tools. Like the vise, they showed no signs of recent use.

Nary a power tool among them. Anything with moving parts was driven by a hand crank. Most of the handles were wood, stained with the sweat of hundreds of jobs. Likewise, the clamps were wooden. The assortment included a spokeshave, drilling brace, draw knife, spiral screwdriver, non-electric soldering iron and a dozen other devices I couldn’t name.

A horizontal plank was mounted on top of this. On it roosted oil cans (the kind you used by depressing the bottom, from which we derive the term “oilcanning”), turpentine, kerosene, shellac, naval jelly and an assortment of other potions. Under it, were jars mounted by a screw through the lid. They contained a dizzying array of fasteners and unidentifiable components salvaged from God knows what.

I had been in this workshop a hundred times before. Not this one, but ones just like it an age ago. The memories came flooding back.

It was everything I recalled from my youth. I scanned the walls, drinking it all in. Wait, I stand corrected on the “everything.” There it was. The pinup calendar. Any bona fide workshop had to have one. I took the time to authenticate it. Yes, 1959 was a good year.