WEBCAMALOT

Go ahead -- tell me with a straight face this is
worth visiting family.

I may have said this before, but it's worth repeating (mainly because it's all I have to say
right now): I strongly dislike traveling. 

I mean, I've enjoyed the places my wife and I have visited -- Switzerland, the South of France, the British countryside, the Caribbean, Iceland -- but the actual traveling to get there often puts me off the whole idea of vacationing in the first place.

Getting to the airport either by cab or public transportation. Then spending hours at the ant farms known as airports. Then spending several more hours in a stuffy plane crammed with hundreds of others like jarred pimento olives. Then disembarking the plane, getting the luggage (if it arrived with you, that is). Then getting a cab to the hotel, while hoping the driver doesn't take you for the rube that you are... Unless you own a private jet, the physical act of traveling is right up there with dental work performed by a nitrous oxide addict.

The Virgin Islands haven't changed much since we
honeymooned there 30 years ago.

So thank the gods of the internet for providing me with the perfect solution to my hodophobia. (Although technically, I have a hatred, not a fear, of traveling.) All I need to do is turn on the TV, click the YouTube app, and search for any number of the live webcams from around the world.

Think of it! Every ten seconds or so, you can see a different part of the world -- live! -- from the comfort of your couch without having to do anything more strenuous than mixing a margarita to pretend you really are lying on a tropical beach. 

Frankly, Japan doesn't look all that interesting.

The tropics not you're thing during this heatwave? Hang tight, my friend! In a few seconds, you'll be swept to a cool drizzly ski lodge in Finland. Or a foggy view of Chile. 

Prefer some excitement? Well, there's plenty of action in downtown Seoul. Pretty much any major (or minor) city in the world will show up if you wait long enough. Too, these sites provide the perfect out for the 37% of Americans who don't (and likely never will) own a passport. 

Now, these sites are all well and good, but I'd like to see webcams pointed at the places that will give you an idea of what the world is really like:

• Nancy Pelosi's house when her husband is trading on inside information.
• The gym where Sen. Josh Hawley practices his running skills.
• Bruce Springsteen's den as he writes another song about the working man as his concert tickets are going for $5,000 each.
• The Senate lounge as Mitch McConnell toasts himself with a glass of Old Crow for convincing his voters that cutting taxes for the rich is good as his state remains #47 in poverty.
• A dinner hosted by Bill de Blasio while his friends assure him that he has a future in politics while they help themselves to his best liquor.
• Kanye West's house as his assistants gently wrap him in his straitjacket for the night.
• Boris Johnson's bathroom he spends three hours trying to get his hair to look like he just got out of bed.
• The DNC headquarters as their officials pray that their voters don't realize Democrats did nothing about guns or abortion when they had the chance.
• The RNC headquarters as their officials pray their voters don't find out most married Republican Congressmen have paid for their sidepiece's abortions.

                                                                 ************

EN GUARDIAN!

Forever? That's what you think.

As with vaccinations, sexual orientation, and brand of mustard, the reactions to the name change from Cleveland Indians to Cleveland Guardians appears to be based on your political affiliation. 

Some people consider the name rather dull, which makes sense when you realize they're named after the Guardians of Traffic, two statues on Cleveland's Hope Memorial Bridge. Why not sell the naming rights and call the team the EZ Passes?

 

Sorry, guys, only one of you is
worthy of remembrance. But thanks
for your service!

No one's pointed out that from 1932 to 1983, the Hope Memorial was named the Loraine-Carnegie Bridge, and I don't recall anyone making a stink over that change. Hope Memorial, if you're wondering, is named for William Henry Hope, one of the original stonemasons who helped build the Traffic Guardians. 

If you're wondering why he, rather than the dozens of other hard-working men, was singled out, it's because his son was a hometown boy named Bob. 

Yes, that Bob Hope, who should have been the inspiration of the new team name. The choices are nearly endless. The Ski-Noses. The Reactionaries. The Adulterers. Or, as the 1970s Soviet press coined him, the Pentagon Clowns. 

 

 

How about the Cleveland Stooges?

While I was initially cool toward the name Guardians, it grew on me, as it evoked those of the 19th-century pro baseball teams. The Boston Red-Stockings. The Brooklyn Bridegrooms. The Worcester Ruby Legs. Hey, Cleveland's first team had the coolest name of all with the Spiders, which you must admit is better than the Cockroaches.

Unlike those other defunct teams, the Spiders retain their place in baseball history, with their 1899 season unrivaled as the worst ever in the Major League  (20 wins, 134 losses). Finally, a sports team I could have played for!

About 10 years ago, when my daughter was going through a very brief interest in the New York Yankees, we were watching them play the Cleveland Indians. Out of nowhere she said, "I'd like to visit Cleveland", a sentence spoken by no one else ever. 

Look, if you need a lighthouse, it's a goddamn ocean!

But it seemed like a nice reason for a little father-daughter bonding, particularly because my wife had zero interest in going. We arrived in Cleveland late on a Friday afternoon, having flown over Lake Erie. By the way, now I know why they're called the Great Lakes, since this one looked the size of the Pacific Ocean.

We went to the Saturday evening game, where they were honoring one the Indians' former players with a ride around the field in a 1960s convertible and free bobble-head dolls for all. Our seats were in the third row at shortstop, which forced us to duck every time a foul ball was hit our way. 

That occasional physical danger was outweighed by the total seating price of somewhere around $100. Similar seats at Yankees Stadium, as I recall, were $400 at the time. And the hot dogs were cheaper, too. Which teams cares more about their fans?

I'll see you in my dreams...

With my daughter the proud owner of the bobble-head doll, I needed my own personal souvenir, too. Being a history buff, I went for a Cleveland Indians t-shirt featuring the original Chief Wahoo logo, which was even more offensive than the later one. 

I look back in wonder at the ease of walking around the Upper East Side with this thing affixed on my chestal area. Those were the waning days of getting away with displaying obnoxious (OK, racist) caricatures on t-shirts, even official team logos. I'm pretty sure I still have  it safely tucked away, never to be worn again, mainly because I fear for my own safety otherwise.

The wings of change fly to Cleveland.

 

 

The Guardians logo has kind of a pleasant retro vibe to it, though, and will be offensive to no one outside of those with grammaphobia (look it up). 

Since those folks are likely very small in number, Cleveland fans will forget how ticked off they were when their team lost their culturally-archaic name, and go back to focusing on not having won the World Series since 1948. You can't tell me Boston fans at Fenway Park yearn to cheer for the Red-Stockings once more. At least not before three Miller Lites by the fourth inning.

                                                      *****************

THE REYKING CREW

Mars or Iceland? I let you decide.

The biggest difference between the trip my wife and I made to Iceland last June and the one we returned from last week was that we brought our daughter along this time. Also, the sun rose (a little) at 10:45 a.m. and set five hours later. Quite a difference from the summer, when the sun sticks around like a guest who'll just have one more for the road for 22 hours.

Another difference was that it was absolutely the coldest weather I'd ever experienced, with snowfall upon arrival in Reykjavik, accompanied by a howling wind that would have drowned out an entire Air Force squadron. I managed to stay in the Blue Lagoon, an outdoor geothermal pool, for all of seven minutes before returning inside and wondering why I ever agreed to this madness. Especially when it was 8:30 in the morning and still pitch black. 

It all came back to me as I thawed out under a hot shower: we had come to see Aurora Borealis, aka the Northern Lights -- which is the only reason anyone would visit Iceland at this time of year. Well, that and the Arctic char. And you can get that anytime.

Our daughter asks what the secret is to luxurious
hair like that.

Iceland, in case you haven't visited, is pretty much bereft of greenery, as the settlers had to chop down all the trees for houses and warmth. The country itself is essentially the remnants of volcano activity over the past millennia or two. (I'm not sure how long a millennia is, but I imagine it's very long). 

If it wasn't for the waterfalls, sheep, and long-haired horses, you'd think you were on another planet. In fact, Elon Musk should forget about this flying-to-Mars nonsense and just go to Iceland. If nothing else, the food's much better. 

After a day in Reykjavik, we started our driving trip to Hotel Ranga. But first, we would visit three waterfalls along the way: Seljalandfoss, Skogafoss, and Gullfoss. Judging by their names, it probably wouldn't surprise you to learn that the language is exactly the same as it was when Iceland was settled by the Vikings in 874 A.D. Everybody speaks English as well -- otherwise we'd have swallowed our tongues trying to communicate with them.

Somewhere under the rainbow, Skogafoss falls.

We went to the top of the mountain to have a bird's eye view of Skogafoss -- and all it required was climbing roughly a million or so stairsteps. I strongly recommend the activity for a year's worth of cardiovascular workout. 


We had also made a pit stop at Geysir, one of the few Icelandic words that didn't require a translation. The last two tourist spots reminded me of Highlights magazine's Goofus and Gallant. Gullfoss sprays visitors incessantly with freezing water. Geysir sprouts straight up, keeping them dry. I'd have posted a photo of Geysir in action, but there was no countdown clock to cue me. All I can tell you is that looked and sounded like a whale belching after a hearty Hungarian dinner. 
                                                                                                                                       

Hotel Ranga is also the
place to go to recreate the

tricycle scene from 

The Shining.

Just before they hoisted us
outside by crane.

My wife and I had last stayed at the Hotel Ranga during our last visit. It's located in the village of Hella -- and believe me it's hella good. Ranga staff provides not only a phone call to your room alerting you when the Northern Lights appear, but also the finest in Arcticwear to keep you from freezing to death outside. Because how else are you going to pay the bill at checkout time?

But as with Geysir, there was no way I could a decent photo of the Northern Lights, so you'll have to visit Hotel Ranga's website. What do you think I am, a professional photographer or something? Android photos are the best you're going to get from me.

Reynisfjara Beach was also featured in Game of Thrones, where it
made even better with gratuitous sex and violence. 

Iceland is famous for its black sand beaches, particularly Reynisfjara Beach with its  "sneaker waves", named for their notorious ability to sneak up on unsuspecting visitors and dragging them out to sea -- the ultimate Icelandic tourist experience.

See those huge formations in the water? We're told that those were trolls who, while trying to dock their ship, turned to stone when the sun rose one morning. That'll teach 'em! 


For all its beauty and history, the most exciting part of our Icelandic adventure came at the very end at Keflavik Airport. After going through Customs, a woman told us we were chosen to be "randomly" pulled aside -- as if it were some kind of "thank you" for flying Icelandair -- and taken to separate rooms, where our bags and pockets were searched, and our hands and socks tested for any residue from explosives. 

Word to the wise: get rid of these
before returning from  Iceland.

I was asked to remove my footwear. "New sneakers," one of the security guys noted almost threateningly, as if they were a hallmark of terrorism. He then pointed out that I had something suspicious stuck to the bottom of my socks. 

These were my Yaktrax toe warmers -- which, like hand warmers for gloves are necessary in Iceland at this time of year. I hastily removed them and dumped them in the trash can. 

It could have been worse. You know, like turning to stone in the sunlight.

********************************

A video of Skogafoss in action. Look carefully and you can see the staircase on the right side going up to the top.

CASINO NOT SO ROYALE

Believe it or not, this doesn't get old.

We arrived home on Tuesday from a brief family sojourn in Nassau, Bahamas, celebrating our daughter's acceptance into the college of her choice. This was our first time in the Bahamas, although we've visited  Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, and the Islands of Cayman and Virgin. There's much to recommend when vacationing to these countries -- weather, food, drinking before noon -- but I always try to get around to smoking a Cuban cigar, and, if possible, hitting the nearest casino. Nassau would provide my first chance to combine the two activities.

That's right, granny, keep putting
your Social Security checks to
good use.

You've seen the commercials for Foxwoods or similar gambling joints, right? Hip, well-dressed 30-somethings, stepping out of limousines, winning with every pull of the slot machine or roll of the dice. The guys pumping their fists in the air, their girlfriends giggling when getting a payout, followed by a dinner of quail under glass, the evening topped with a five-star stage show. Maybe that's how it is when there's a commercial shoot going on, but the reality, as I've always experienced it, consists of dull, bleary-eyed, overweight tourists in Spandex and souvenir t-shirts, robotically dropping quarters in the latest movie-themed slot machines, traveling not by limos but Hoverounds. Nassau, I hoped, would be different.

Go ahead -- you tell him earrings are effeminate.

I strode confidently into the casino, feeling luckier than Bugs Bunny let loose in a ladies-only warren. We apparently arrived in Nassau before the official start of gambling season, for the card, craps, and roulette tables weren't in operation until April 30th. That left the hundred or so slot machines, along with electronic poker games "dealt" by buxom women on large video screens. There were maybe two dozen gamblers, tops, scattered around the room, none of whom seemed to be having nearly as much fun as those couples on the commercials. Even worse, I had forgotten to bring a toothpick to make a hole in the tip of the cigar, forcing me to chew off an inch before spitting it out in the nearest garbage can like a latter-day Edward G. Robinson. Classy.

There's something almost refreshing about taking your first hit on a good Cuban cigar -- a smoothness and flavor lacking in their American counterparts. Unfortunately, I must have bought one of the lesser-brands, for this was some mighty harsh smoking, leaving an aftertaste akin to a three-alarm fire at a tobacco farm. Nevertheless, I was a regular Puffin' Billy as I made the rounds of the casino, leaving a trail of smoke behind me as if I had just elected a new pope. The $10 slots were too rich for my blood, the penny slots too cheap. Like a corrupt Goldilocks, I decided that the $1 Wheel of Fortune slot was just right. Taking my place on the stool, I pulled an ashtray closer, slid a $20 into the machine, and started making those plans of building a bungalow on a Nassau beach.

That was my problem: instead of the
"Hollywood Edition," I played the
"Losers Edition."

The slots today give you the option of pushing a button to play, but, old-schooler that I am, I pulled the lever. That would give me an edge, right? Apparently so, for I was soon I was up by a few bucks -- bucks that I kept playing, for those, too, would put me over the hump, into a higher tax bracket (if only for a year). In about five minutes of pulling the lever -- the only real exercise I got during my stay -- I shot my wad without so much as a "B'bye" from Vanna White. I had been puffing the Habana almost non-stop the whole time, leaving me dizzy with a low-level headache and a high-level stink.

A double-sawbuck used to be my limit when collecting movie posters, and would remain when gambling. I got unsteadily to my feet and made my way toward the exit, pausing only to watch a cigarette smoke-engulfed group play the electronic poker game. My eyes (now teary from the smoke) and my cigar-addled brain started playing tricks, as I swore that the aforementioned buxom video card dealer was flirting with me. I stubbed out the barely half-smoked cigar in the nearest ashtray and stumbled out the doorway.

"Almost there, honey!"

Never was a journey down a hall, up an escalator, and across a lobby so arduous. I was hot and chilled at once, achy and dizzy as if coming down with the flu. Cigars and gambling atop the heavy meal and two rounds of beers -- it all climaxed for a Caligariesque experience when I got to the eighth floor of our hotel, the walls wavering like crepe paper in a wind storm. The air conditioning in the lobby had made me shiver; the lack of air conditioning in the endless hall leading to my room made me sweat like a pig. Maybe I was a pig.

After almost sliding the electronic card key in the wrong room, I lumbered into the right one where my wife and daughter looked at me with a combination of concern -- I apparently had the color of the Creature from the Black Lagoon -- and a little disgust. "You reek of cigar smoke," my wife informed me unnecessarily. Having momentarily collapsed on the bed, I dragged myself into the bathroom, where my reflection in the mirror confirmed that I looked like something that the cat dragged in, ate, vomited up, ate again, and ejected via the other end. I brushed my teeth and, rinsing out my mouth, spit out pieces of the cigar I had chewed off. Yes, classy alright.

                                            ***************

YO, THAT AIN'T TRASH, IT'S ART!

Continuing its reputation as America’s favorite punching bag, New York has just been voted the ugliest city by the oh-so refined readers of Travel + Leisure. (So refined that their magazine uses a sleek plus-sign rather than the unsightly ampersand in its name.) Now, New Yorkers can take a punch – whether it be from Sandy or Osama -- so what the readers of any magazine, whether it be Travel + Leisure or Al-Qaeda’s Inspire say about us is inconsequential at best. By the way, the editors of Inspire recently suggested that its subscribers start firebombing forests in Montana, which seems a bigger vote of non-confidence than whatever any mundane travel magazine can come up with.

Thanks, Tropicana, for making my
ride even more of a headache.

Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of things in New York that use a bit of rethinking. Televisions in the backseats of taxis, for example – do I really need to keep with the comings and goings of Honey Boo Boo on my way to the emergency room? Or Times Square shuttle trains made over as 30-mph billboards because, gosh, there aren't enough advertisements as it is.  And don’t get me started on $300 tickets to the Radio City Christmas show. (For 300 bucks, I’m going home with a Rockette and a reindeer.)

When the best thing at MOMA is a
helicopter, it's time to rethink the
definition of the word "art."

But let’s put things in perspective. Piles of trash on the streets, for instance. People, you’re looking at it all wrong -- it’s the word’s biggest art installation. Adding empty coffee cups, candy wrappers and empty bottles of Colt .45 is a way for the common people to feel that they, too, are part of a rarefied world usually found only in museums, galleries and the sitting rooms of people with way too much money to spend. And if you've ever dropped $25 to enter the Museum of Modern Art, you'll appreciate free trash that much more.

Those leisurely travelers aren’t fond of our noise, either. Well, let me buy you a clue, folks. I’ve experienced country life first hand, and it’s a non-stop sound effects record. Tractors rumbling past your bed-and-breakfast at all hours. Cicadas twenty decibels louder than your typical chainsaw. And just as you’re trying to catch a little snooze-time, you’re jolted out of bed by birds cackling, squawking and screeching as if getting paid by the note. This is my fourth decade as a New Yorker and I assure you, the concrete jungle has nothing on the cacophony cooked up by Mother Nature.

Question: Which took longer to carve?

But here’s where it gets really kooky. Rated number one by Travel + Leisure for visitor experience? Minneapolis. Yes, the city whose number one contribution to culture is a statue of a tam-tossing Mary Tyler Moore outranks the place that gave the world Broadway, Birdland and the Metropolitan Opera. The city with the friendliest people? New Orleans. Well, of course. You’d be friendly, too, if you were allowed – nay, encouraged -- to drink in public and bring your glass from bar to bar for a refill as you waited outside with the other revelers. New Orleans also gets voted the best shopping experience. Sure, if you want to stock up on beignets, hurricane lamps and voodoo dolls. 

"Reveler" is New Orleans-speak for "boozehound."

So go ahead, Travel + Leisure, keep on publishing those silly rankings. The morning news shows need something to fill up those ticker-tape headlines at the bottom of the screen. We’ll still welcome your readers with a hearty handshake and a warm, Big Apple smile. Just forgive Lady Liberty for not joyfully tossing her crown into the air when she sees you.
                                                               
                                               *******************

If Travel + Leisure readers feel this way now, they should watch this 1941 Encyclopedia Britannica short about New York's transportation arteries. It's almost mechanical cholesterol!