Before I begin, allow me to confirm that Americans are still the most welcoming, friendly and effusive people on the planet. They are large (my god, the amount of sugar those people go through) and loud (but that’s part of their charm) and will give you the shirt off their back (if not the sugar and butter icing off of their cake) if you ask for it, and it is a joy to be among them.
Unfortunately, before you can be among them, you have to pass through the gauntlet of thugs, thieves and Jack-booted bullies who collectively make up the the odious organisation known as the TSA.
This year, it was our pedometers.
We have been carrying pedometers for many years, and have passed through airport security a number of times with them, but there now appears to be some unwritten prohibition about them because, after the usual “I can see you naked” scan, we were pulled aside and treated to full-body pat-downs and I had my hands swabbed for explosives residue. All because we were carrying pedometers.
It’s not really their fault; TSA agents obviously have to fail an intelligence test in order to qualify for the job (they don’t want people who can think, they just need to be smart enough to follow orders — “Jawohl mein kapitan!, um, I mean, sure thing!”) so the agent in question probably couldn’t pronounce “pedometer”much less know what one was and he innocently mistook it for a nuclear detonator or something.
|Really, it's an easy mistake to make.|
|Also, I found one of these in my suitcase when I got home.|
They didn't steal anything, though, so I guess I should consider myself lucky.
Obviously, I have been living in southern Britain too long; I am turning (no, I have turned) into a weather wienie.
Fortunately, warmer weather followed, and before we left, we enjoyed sunny skies and temps in the high 70s, so “well done” New York.
The Radio: One day, while driving around on my own, I turned on the car radio and tuned it to my favorite oldies station, only to find they were playing songs from the 1990s! That’s not oldies! What happened?
These Kids Today: My grandsons are now 5 and 4. When we showed them our digital cameras, they had no idea what they were. In their world, photographs are taken with phones or tablets.
These Kids Today, Take II: My grandsons aside (they are the definition of precocious children) people seem to be getting stupider. I noticed, with some alarm, that you no longer have to tax your brain figuring out a tip. Tips are helpfully printed on the receipt, showing you how much to pay if you want to give 15%, 18% or 20%. That is truly astounding, both the fact that people are no long able to figure percent in their heads, as well as the notion that 20% is a reasonable tip. I consider myself fairly generous, but even I stop at 15%.
|Apparently, even the people who figure out the tips can't do math, either.|
In her defence, I was in a Wal-Mart, so I really shouldn’t have expected anything different.
Driving: I take to driving on the other side of the road fairly well. I admit to “going British” on occasion, and finding myself in the left lane wondering why cars are driving toward me, or pulling to the extreme right when a truck approaches, thinking the road will not be wide enough for both of us, but for the most part I am a careful, polite driver.
The indigenous population, however, are not.
They have forgotten how to use their blinkers: Now, using the turn indicator was never a popular sport in the Capital Region but, since my last visit, they seemed to have agreed to abandon it altogether. Negotiating round-abouts, turning into a side street, changing lanes? No need to alert anyone to your intentions, just swing your car in any direction you feel like.
They have learned how to run red lights: It used to be, if you were waiting at a red light, you would wait for the other light to go red, then you could go, even if—for a second or so—your own light remained red.
Now, it seems, you have to wait for the other light to go red, then wait for your light to go green, and then wait a few more seconds as two or three cars run through the red light. Then you can safely go through the intersection.
It keeps you on your toes while driving, and it reminds me of this joke:
A guy and his girlfriend are out driving. He runs through a red light. “What are you trying to do,” shouts his girlfriend, “get us killed?” “Relax,” the boy says, “my brother does it all the time.” Next red light, same thing. The girlfriend protests again and, again, her boyfriend says, “Relax, my brother does it all the time.” At the next intersection, the light is green. The boy stops. “Why are you stopping,” the girlfriend asks. The boy says, “My brother might be coming.”
Okay, back to my observations.
Christmas: There were an unusual number of houses still decorated for Christmas and, at night, many of them were lit up. On the drive from my son’s house to the place we were staying, we counted six houses lit up for Christmas. Now, the distance we drove was several miles and I admit that six is not a very large number, but when the number you would reasonably expect to see is ZERO, six is quite startling.
|Come on people, it's April FFS!|
NOTE: I stole this off the web; it is not one of the houses we saw.
All of them were more tastefully decorated but I was driving and couldn't get a picture.
|Fly the friendly skies of Virgin|