Lima, Not Peru

I woke up this morning, looked at the clock, and realized that, if it had been a Saturday in my childhood, I might have been packed in a station wagon with my family heading to Lima, Ohio to visit my grandparents.

Paul with "Big Blue"

 As I recall (although I admit to the timing being fuzzy), we would make the trip once every six weeks or so when the weather was decent. Also, when I was very small, we went down on Friday nights. Since we only had one car, this required my mom to pack us and our stuff in the car and pick up Dad at work. They decided at some point this was too much. So instead, we would leave very early Saturday morning (6:00 a.m.).

Mom made sure we were packed the night before. Departure time was non-negotiable. Your butt had better be planted in your assigned seat, or you would face the wrath of Dad. And no one wanted that.

Seating was determined by seniority. Dad drove, Mom was in the passenger seat. My two older brothers sat in the very rear seat, facing backwards. (Later, they were allowed to put the seat down and recline in the back.) My two sisters and I sat in the middle section. As the youngest of the three, I had to sit on the hump. And my younger brother sat between my parents in a "car seat" that would have passed no safety regulations today. It hooked over the back of the seat and had a little steering wheel on it for the occupant to turn. The only "safety feature" involved was my mom's arm, which would reflexively reach out across Paul when Dad made a hard stop.

Thus, seated in our respective places, the adventure began. It was a 3 1/2 hour adventure.

There were several rules that came into play. Aside from staying in your seat, the most important rule was, "No reading of ANY kind." All six of us were prone to getting carsick. And when one of us did, it was likely the rest of us would follow. How many times did we hear, "Open the window, breathe the air, think about something else." One of the things that was a must on any trip was a box of small green garbage bags, which would get passed around when the barfing started. In early days, there was also a small pink potty that was used for this purpose, but the dark green bags (contents unseen) were better for the job.

So, what to do to pass the time? We tried the free games provided by a local gas station. Like Car Bingo -- see who can find one of each of the items on their card to make a bingo. We had to be very careful about some of these games, however. (See previous paragraph.)

My brothers had transistor radios to listen to. My sisters could look out their respective windows. I would crane to see over the back of the front seat. Mostly, I stared at the back of Paul's head.

"Are we there yet?"

Mom devised a system whereby we would track our progress by each of the towns we went through. Bellevue, Tiffin, Findlay, then Lima. The trouble was, there were several tiny towns we traversed, like "Republic." Mom would get grumpy having to explain (every trip) that, no, this was not a big enough town to put on the list. "Why not?" Because it only had one traffic light and you would be through it before you blinked four times.

Boredom also produced a desire to eat. Invariably, we would hit the road, and half an hour later, someone would say, "I'm hungry." My mother would deny this was the case, and advise the would-be snacker to wait until the proscribed time. At some point in the trip, she would cave and agree to feed the beasts. Travel fare included bologna or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And store-bought cookies. You know the kind, the "variety" pack that included those swirly cookies with a red piece of hard jellied something stuck in the middle. We only got these cookies when we traveled, so we saw them as a delicacy.

On one fateful trip, my mom failed to bring a knife to spread the peanut butter, and was forced to do the job with her finger. I don't think my father, who excelled in guerilla germ warfare, ever recovered. We kids didn't care. As I recall, he detoured to try to find a store that would sell us one knife.

As for liquid beverages, if you were smart, you didn't. There was exactly one rest stop on the way, and it was of the outdoor variety. At a young age, I was taught the art of lining the seat with TP and holding my breath and never, ever, looking down the hole. But if you had to go, it was still a godsend. Invariably, my mom would tell the story from her childhood about her fear of using the outhouse at a relative's house because she got chased and bitten by a goose. (I sometimes stop and look heavenward and give thanks for indoor plumbing.)

Honestly, I don't know how my parents managed to keep it together through all those years of travel. Looking back, it must have been exhausting for my mom to organize and manage us and our shenanigans through hundreds of road trips over the years.

And it was always so hard to say goodbye to my grandparents at the end of the trip. My dad and all of us would sit with the car idling, waiting to go, while my mom would continue yacking, saying, "I'm coming" for the hundredth time. My folks weren't predisposed to spend money on long-distance calls just to chat, so letters were the only means of communicating with my grandparents in between visits.

I'd love to go back in time and visit them all again.

But I think I'd skip the part in the car.

O Canada

Many moons ago, I promised Mr. Ginley we would visit the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. This week, I finally made it happen.

Location of HHOF, formerly the Bank of Montreal

Thursday morning, in true Ginley fashion, we scrambled to pack for our trip. Our estimated time of departure was 9:00 a.m. Translated into Ginley time it was actually 10:00 a.m. We were pretty close to schedule.

The ride up was mostly uneventful. At the Canadian border, in spite of the fact that I tried to hand the border guard three American dollars, (I could feel her roll her eyes as she said, "Passports, please!") we answered a few simple questions and were sent on our way. (In my defense, there was a toll, but it was collected at the next gate.)

It wasn't until we neared the big city that things got a little dicey.

First of all, we were hitting Toronto during rush hour. The real indication that we were going to have a little trouble was after deciding to follow the hotel's instructions rather than the Google's.

The hotel told us to get off at the Yonge Street exit. A giant flashing sign on the side of the road advised us that this exit was closed. (In fact, it was demolished.)

Back to the Google map.

With Mr. Ginley navigating and me driving, we managed to get off at the right stop and negotiated heavy traffic to arrive at our hotel, the Omni King Edward.

In spite of the pricey digs, there were two reasons for choosing this particular hotel. First, it was within walking distance of the Hall of Fame. Second, they offered valet parking. At the time I made the reservations, the fee seemed steep ($48 per day). Once we got there, I was more than willing to part with the cash, given the pain it would have been to locate a parking spot on our own. We decided to travel on foot during our stay, and pick up our car after checking out of the hotel.

The room was very nice, but not over the top. The bed was uber comfy, the towels extra plush, the shower had plenty of hot water, the little soaps were quality, the TV was expansive, and the fridge worked just fine. The staff were great. In fact, for the first time I can recall, we got a handwritten thank you note from the person who cleaned our room.

The hotel was built in 1903, during the reign of Edward VII, for whom the hotel was named. There were a couple of paintings of the king and his bride, as well as snapshots of what the place looked like back in the day. Like many hotels of its time, this one fell on hard times and became dilapidated until it was rescued in the 1990's and restored, if not to its former grandeur, to a comfortable facsimile.

Our first night, we approached the concierge to ask the location of the nearest bookstore. We were directed to Eton Centre and a place called "Indigo." We were not disappointed. Better, I think, than Barnes and Noble, it was chock full of goodies, which we proceeded to purchase. (We kept telling ourselves we had to take advantage of the favorable exchange rate. P.S. Canadian money is very cool.)

Contrary to current trends, Eton Centre is a hopping place, a gathering spot for those wishing to see and be seen. Many opportunities for people watching. Lots and lots of young urban hipsters. Lots and lots of skinny jeans. 

Toronto is a very cosmopolitan city, with plenty of diversity. Everything appears in both English and French, so, fortunately, there was no need to use the interpretive skills acquired by Mr. Ginley from four years of French I.

It was exciting to sashay among the throngs of people. Each city has its own vibe, and Toronto's was very cool. Fast paced and vibrant. We adapted pretty quickly...Mr. Ginley managed, just in time, to sidestep and avoid collision with a roller skater whose eyes were glued to his phone. In fact, all of Mr. G's big city skills came rushing back, and I often clung to my husband's hand as we navigated busy sidewalks, dodged cars, and hugged the right side of stairways and escalators so faster commuters could whiz past us.

Thursday morning, while Mr. Ginley caught up on his Z's, I went off in search of a coffee joint. Although Starbucks was right around the corner (isn't it always?), I kept on going, until I found a place called "Second Cup," where I ordered a latte and nabbed a table in a nook by the window, where I could watch the city go by.

Later, I returned, got Mr. Ginley started, and we headed to our destination. According to the ticket taker, some folks spend as little as a half hour in the Hall of Fame, others spend several hours. It was a given that we would be part of the latter group. And, of course, we were.

The HOF did not disappoint. Like the proverbial kid in a candy store, Mr. G. moved from exhibit to exhibit, reading and gawking at the uniforms and equipment from players old and new. I was surprised at the number of names that were familiar even to me, who is a hockey fan more by association with my husband. (I guess after over 30 years together, something has stuck.) We even had our photo taken with the Stanley Cup.

The only thing that did disappoint was the store. While we did a fair amount of damage, there was not much information about the history of hockey or the museum itself. Lots of hats and t-shirts and gewgaws, though.

Friday night we decided to eat at an Irish Pub. We were both pretty tired, but enjoyed our meals and drinks, before toddling back to the hotel to crash.

My only failure in planning our trip was not realizing that Victoria Day, a national holiday, would be celebrated the Monday after the weekend of our trip. Which meant that thousands of Canadians were trying to leave town on Saturday morning, just like us. As a result, it took us twice as long to get the border as it would normally.

It was probably just as well that I had decided earlier not to make a detour to Niagara-on-the-Lake. It would doubtless have been a crowded spot.

Oh well.

In the end, I came to the conclusion that Toronto was a fabulous place to visit, and I'm glad we went. I imagine that, as a young person, it would be an amazing place to live.

But I was also glad, small city mouse that I am, to return to my humble home.

Clenching My Jawbone

The conversation with Mr. Ginley went something like this.

Letting your fingers do the walking doesn't count.

"You want to get a what?"

"It's call a Jawbone. It's like a Fitbit, with less gewgaws. And it's cheaper."

"Tell you what. You can get your thingy if I can buy a book."

"Sold."

And thus, the negotiations led to the arrival of the device that now resides on my wrist.

For those of you who follow my blog, you could point out that, at some point, I swore I was not going to get one of these things. I even poked fun at David Sedaris for his obsession with his Fitbit.

Alas, I have succumbed to the hype.

It may have been when I stepped on the scale to weigh myself and nearly passed out. Or the fact that my knees and back have become increasingly painful, and the need for more movement was evident.

So now, what I have come to think of as my mini tattle tale, has become my latest accessory.

For anyone who has not had the pleasure, the device tracks activity and sleep on an app on one's phone. At any time of the day, I can sync it all up and discover how sedentary I've been. Having set the goal at 10,000 steps a day (at Jawbone's recommendation), I have become serious about moving. The other night before bed, Mr. Ginley inquired as to why I was doing figure 8's around the living room/dining room. I was just a few hundred steps shy of my goal, and by golly, I was not going to be defeated. (And yes, I did that Rocky thing when my wrist started buzzing.)

Okay, David, you were absolutely right. For anyone who is even mildly obsessive-compulsive, this thing is like crack.

One of the selling features is that it tracks your sleep. This is cool. For example, last night I got 1 hour and 6 minutes of REM, 11 minutes of deep sleep and nearly five hours of light sleep. I only woke up once to hit the ladies' (unusual for me). And my resting heartbeat was 63, which, my "Smart Coach" tells me, is well within the normal range.

Yes, I have Smart Coach in my phone. Just one of the many perks. Some of the messages are helpful ("As you become more fit, your heart rate will decline and your heart will get stronger"). Others are just plain nagging ("Close your eyes early tonight to treat your body well.") Yes, I know I didn't get as much sleep last night, but give me a break it IS the weekend.

Swell, now I'm talking back to my phone.

So far, it's working. Will it be a passing fancy? As my mother would say, "we'll see." In the meantime, I have a constant reminder that no, I really don't want that donut, I need to do a workout today, and I'd better make sure I get enough sleep.

Come to think of it, this device is right at home on the wrist of anyone who grew up with Catholic (or Jewish) guilt.

Mazel tov!

Everybody Wants to Be a Hero

As we approached the dollar store last night, we couldn't miss the line of folks that stretched down the plaza sidewalk.

But why?

Were they protesting? No signs. A closer look revealed some were wearing costumes. There was a subdued kind of festival atmosphere.

With some trepidation, we walked between them into our destination, where the mystery was solved.

"They're giving away free comic books tomorrow morning," the clerk replied to our inquiry.

Apparently, today is designated as "Free Comic Book Day," and the huddled masses were hunkering down so they could be among the first to get their freebie.

I often forget that the comic book store is located in Kamms Plaza. Apparently, it is a hot go-to place for those who are into such things.

Growing up, my parents would cast disapproving glances our way when we became engrossed in comic books. Librarians would gasp at the thought of carrying the rags. And thus, they became something of guilty pleasure in my growing up years. However, I must admit that I was more prone to read Archie than Batman or Spider-Man. Somewhere, in the pit of my closet, I still have some beat-up copies of comics from my childhood. I think there's even a Man From Uncle issue.

Fast forward to today, and comics plus graphic novels (which didn't exist in my youth) are all the rage.

Comic Con is huge. My local Barnes & Noble has shelves full of graphic novels. And even the library carries them. Today's librarians rationalize that at least kids are reading something.

Of course, it isn't just kids who are captivated by the genre. Plenty of adults will dress up and play out the characters. The level of detail they achieve is impressive. And while, admittedly, it's not my scene, I can certainly appreciate the thought and creativity that goes into developing their persona of choice.

The super hero theme is a topic Mr. Ginley and I have discussed. He can't get past the idea that, if Superman is super in all phases of his life, this must also apply to his skill between the sheets. In which case, wouldn't he fatally injure mere mortal Lois Lane, who would not be physically equipped to handle such aggressive lovemaking. (And yes, I'm cleaning up ALL of the language here, I'll let you create your own mind picture.)

We have also had the Betty versus Veronica discussion. (Mr. Ginley picks Betty every time.) And pondered the question, "Which super hero would you be?" There's just so much responsibility associated with saving the world, I'm not sure I'd want that.

However, if I had to be a comic book character, I think I'd choose Cat Woman. Neither hero or villain, she lives in the grey area. And she's got some really great moves. Plus Cat Woman has the goods on Batman. I like that.

On the other hand, I could be The Invisible Woman.

With the state of affairs in this country today, it wouldn't be much of a stretch.