What mouth-breather designs a hotel bathroom with the mirror hung across from the toilet so you can't avoid watching yourself poop? Our hotel in Toronto was nice and all—it even had heated bathroom floors—but there are just some things you shouldn't accidentally look up and see.
And while I'm venting, how much do you think I paid to park my car in the Loop for an hour and a half starting at 6:45 on Tuesday morning while I worked out with my trainer before rushing off to the airport to escape the country? If you guessed $25, you are freaking me out because that's how much it cost. If I weren't so pathologically vain and desperate to get huge for no useful reason whatsoever, I might think that $25 is a bit much to borrow a slab of concrete the size of a mattress while I worked out and took a shower for the length of time it would take to watch three reruns of any television show that ever featured Scott Baio.
Whew! Where was I? Oh, yes: How long do you think I had to fake my way through conversations about sports with my colleagues and our Canadian clients on Tuesday? If you guessed four hours, you're freaking me out again. You're good at this game!
On the bright side, our whole trip was made freakishly pleasant by a relentless parade of fabulous customer service workers: TSA agents, flight attendants, hotel employees, waiters ... and one dreamy-hawt customs agent who totally wanted me.
In fact, the only bad part of the whole trip—aside from the Poop Action™ hotel mirrors, the $25 parking, the awkward sports conversation and the customs agent who wouldn't give me his number–was the smooshed dead bird in one of our airport jetways. The poor thing had clearly been crushed to death when the jetway had been telescoped between flights and its bloody body had been smeared in an impressively straight line down the center of the carpet when it reopened. And we passengers got to stare at it for quite a bit of time as we waited for some holdup with our plane.
But at least we didn't have to watch it poop.
Showing posts with label Toronto. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Toronto. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Enjoy this post
Because you probably won't be getting another one until Thursday. So you may want to pace yourselves on this one and make it last. In any case, I leave early Tuesday morning for two days of client meetings in Toronto. And while I'll probably bring my laptop, it will function mostly as ballast as I traipse through airports and client hallways and foreign restaurants for the next two days.
And just to complicate things, I've decided I'm not missing my workout with my trainer tomorrow morning. So I'll leave the house at six, hope to goodness I find affordable hour-and-a-half parking in the Loop at that hour, get my arms or chest or legs or whatever is on the agenda for tomorrow ripped off my body and handed to me in a blender, try to shower, try to dress, and then race to O'Hare in rush hour in time to catch a 10:18 flight. Whee!
And all the while I'll have my pre- and post-workout shakes–the ones that make me pee at least six times in the first few hours after my workouts—coursing through my body. So if you see me, you are advised to help maintain a clear path between me and any nearby bathrooms.
I hate to leave you all alone for the next two days, though, so I've enlisted the help of my parents' cat, Lena. She's not much of a lap kitty and she'll scratch you if you try to hold her. But she makes a mean vodka tonic, she knows all the words to the Union Label song and she looks awfully cute in a basket:
And just to complicate things, I've decided I'm not missing my workout with my trainer tomorrow morning. So I'll leave the house at six, hope to goodness I find affordable hour-and-a-half parking in the Loop at that hour, get my arms or chest or legs or whatever is on the agenda for tomorrow ripped off my body and handed to me in a blender, try to shower, try to dress, and then race to O'Hare in rush hour in time to catch a 10:18 flight. Whee!
And all the while I'll have my pre- and post-workout shakes–the ones that make me pee at least six times in the first few hours after my workouts—coursing through my body. So if you see me, you are advised to help maintain a clear path between me and any nearby bathrooms.
I hate to leave you all alone for the next two days, though, so I've enlisted the help of my parents' cat, Lena. She's not much of a lap kitty and she'll scratch you if you try to hold her. But she makes a mean vodka tonic, she knows all the words to the Union Label song and she looks awfully cute in a basket:
Friday, December 14, 2007
Impressions from a Toronto business trip
Tim Hortons, the Dunkin’ Donuts of Canada, makes a blueberry fritter that’s so gooey and glazey and delicious you want to spank it.
Toronto Pearson International Airport is about as beautiful as any modern steel-and-girders airport has a right to be. It takes a simple visual vocabulary of soaring arches and glass walls and open spaces and exposed trusswork, washes it all in whites, and creates a clean, calming, logically organized people-moving environment.
How come customs agents will arbitrarily demand crash courses in advertising creative philosophy from you before they will let you enter their country, but security screeners won’t notice that you forgot to take out your legally mandated plastic bag of liquids and place them in a separate scanning tub twice?
We had two days of meetings sandwiching a three-hour drinks-and-appetizers client meet-n-greet. Normally I hate small talk and big crowds—especially small talk with clients, which automatically eliminates “so, what do you do for a living?” from your arsenal of conversation starters—but I really like these clients, and the restaurant we picked (Paradiso in charming Oakville) served us delicious food in a funky environment. Plus, I may have loosened up beforehand with a vodka tonic.
Canadians follow US football and watch US television. I don’t know why learning this surprised me so much. And kind of embarrassed me once I heard what their favorite US shows are.
They use the same snow in Canada that we use in the United States. Or maybe they’re just importing our snow now that the dollar is so weak.
Speaking of snow, I’m amazed we even got off the ground in yesterday’s blizzard. We had to go through a two-step de-icing before we took off, but our pilot walked us through the process so we’d get what was going on. The first step was a spray of pink soapy stuff that washed existing ice off the fuselage. The second step was a day-glo green goo they sprayed on the wings to prevent new ice from accumulating. It clung to the wings like an “ex-gay” to his delusions, and as we waited to take off I could see all the planes lined up self-consciously in front of us with their green wings glowing as conspicuously as a rainbow bra under a white sweater set.
I was so excited to land yesterday in time to listen to NPR on my drive home, which I never get to do when I take the bus home from the office. Unfortunately, NPR is obviously facing a year-end budget deficit so severe that they were staging a fund drive smack-dab in the middle of shopping season. Best of luck with that. To make matters worse, they’d changed their phone number, and the only thing the radio personalities could come up with off-script was the fact that it was so hard to remember the new number. Which kind of boggles the mind—if you’re able to say “This is 91.5 WBEZ” about a thousand times a day you really shouldn’t have trouble remembering 888-915-WBEZ. All things considered.
Toronto Pearson International Airport is about as beautiful as any modern steel-and-girders airport has a right to be. It takes a simple visual vocabulary of soaring arches and glass walls and open spaces and exposed trusswork, washes it all in whites, and creates a clean, calming, logically organized people-moving environment.
How come customs agents will arbitrarily demand crash courses in advertising creative philosophy from you before they will let you enter their country, but security screeners won’t notice that you forgot to take out your legally mandated plastic bag of liquids and place them in a separate scanning tub twice?
We had two days of meetings sandwiching a three-hour drinks-and-appetizers client meet-n-greet. Normally I hate small talk and big crowds—especially small talk with clients, which automatically eliminates “so, what do you do for a living?” from your arsenal of conversation starters—but I really like these clients, and the restaurant we picked (Paradiso in charming Oakville) served us delicious food in a funky environment. Plus, I may have loosened up beforehand with a vodka tonic.
Canadians follow US football and watch US television. I don’t know why learning this surprised me so much. And kind of embarrassed me once I heard what their favorite US shows are.
They use the same snow in Canada that we use in the United States. Or maybe they’re just importing our snow now that the dollar is so weak.
Speaking of snow, I’m amazed we even got off the ground in yesterday’s blizzard. We had to go through a two-step de-icing before we took off, but our pilot walked us through the process so we’d get what was going on. The first step was a spray of pink soapy stuff that washed existing ice off the fuselage. The second step was a day-glo green goo they sprayed on the wings to prevent new ice from accumulating. It clung to the wings like an “ex-gay” to his delusions, and as we waited to take off I could see all the planes lined up self-consciously in front of us with their green wings glowing as conspicuously as a rainbow bra under a white sweater set.
I was so excited to land yesterday in time to listen to NPR on my drive home, which I never get to do when I take the bus home from the office. Unfortunately, NPR is obviously facing a year-end budget deficit so severe that they were staging a fund drive smack-dab in the middle of shopping season. Best of luck with that. To make matters worse, they’d changed their phone number, and the only thing the radio personalities could come up with off-script was the fact that it was so hard to remember the new number. Which kind of boggles the mind—if you’re able to say “This is 91.5 WBEZ” about a thousand times a day you really shouldn’t have trouble remembering 888-915-WBEZ. All things considered.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
What if they threw an ice storm and nobody came?
We got back to the Toronto airport faster than we expected yesterday and we managed to get ourselves on an earlier flight home. Then it got delayed. Ice in Chicago, they told us. The storm could last all night, they said with furrowed brows. Which was no fun to hear, but at least their furrows assured us they hadn’t yet jumped on the Botox bandwagon. Then there was some kind of non-ice-on-the-runways-back-home window, so we boarded the plane. And we waited. Then we had to pull away because some other plane—bound no doubt for some less icy destination and feeling all snooty about it because its passengers packed coconut-scented sunscreen while ours packed tire-scented galoshes—needed the jetway. So we sat on the tarmac. For two hours. But! We were given constant updates from our handsome pilot and attentive beverage service from our crew and they were playing Ratatouille on the in-flight movie and I had a big stack of unread magazines to catch up on and we got word via the miracle of cell phones that the client was extremely pleased with our work and it all ended up being rather enjoyable.
Until we landed in Chicago and discovered that all this ice-storm business had been a big LIE. It was rainy and misty, sure, but woe to the business traveler who intended to keep his complimentary diet soda chilled by simply holding it to the heavens.
Then I walked into the office this morning and found myself caught in the crosshairs of Vendor Gift Smackdown 2007.
“Our holiday muffins are moist and delicious,” one vendor seems to tell us as it stocks our break room with baskets of cellophane-wrapped pastries, “so please turn to us for all your printing needs.”
“No!” another vendor shouts through tufts of raffia. “They did not procure for you 12 different flavors of individually wrapped chocolate candies all organized by color in a handsome holiday tin. They do not deserve your business. Plus they lubricate their printer heads with the blood of puppies.”
“We don’t know shit about printing,” trumpets a third, “but we can make custom magnets for you any time day or night! Which is why we brought you a drum of chemically flavored popcorns, cleverly partitioned by bits of waxy cardboard into pie-shaped columns. When you think MSG, think magnets!”
I’m back in Toronto tomorrow and Thursday. The envelope people had better wait to bring their day-old doughnuts until I get back.
Until we landed in Chicago and discovered that all this ice-storm business had been a big LIE. It was rainy and misty, sure, but woe to the business traveler who intended to keep his complimentary diet soda chilled by simply holding it to the heavens.
Then I walked into the office this morning and found myself caught in the crosshairs of Vendor Gift Smackdown 2007.
“Our holiday muffins are moist and delicious,” one vendor seems to tell us as it stocks our break room with baskets of cellophane-wrapped pastries, “so please turn to us for all your printing needs.”
“No!” another vendor shouts through tufts of raffia. “They did not procure for you 12 different flavors of individually wrapped chocolate candies all organized by color in a handsome holiday tin. They do not deserve your business. Plus they lubricate their printer heads with the blood of puppies.”
“We don’t know shit about printing,” trumpets a third, “but we can make custom magnets for you any time day or night! Which is why we brought you a drum of chemically flavored popcorns, cleverly partitioned by bits of waxy cardboard into pie-shaped columns. When you think MSG, think magnets!”
I’m back in Toronto tomorrow and Thursday. The envelope people had better wait to bring their day-old doughnuts until I get back.
Monday, December 10, 2007
LiveBlogging: Toronto
I'm currently sitting in a quaint little coffee shop the locals refer to as "Starbucks" in a country called "Canada." Which is just like the USA, only with a different kind of government loonies.
We booked a butt-ass early flight this morning to make sure the weather wouldn't get in the way of our appointed business rounds. The fates being what they are, we actually managed to land here half an hour ahead of schedule on top of our intentional earliness, so we're spending our morning sitting among the locals, sipping flavored beverages, listening to Benny Goodman and sneaking peeks at one of the baristi for three hours until we have our client meeting. Normally I just travel with a stack of unread magazines in case I have down time, but this morning I threw my laptop in my carry-on at the last minute. Which means I can do actual work on a business trip. Once I get a blog post up and running, of course.
Not to brag, but I'm a world-champion sleeper. I can knock myself unconscious in a matter of seconds, and I can sleep through anything from a cataclysmic thunderstorm to that one Golden Girls episode where Rose says something stupid and Blanche says something slutty. But since I had the alarm set for 3:45 this morning, I was too nervous to fall asleep last night. I was tossing and turning so much, in fact, that the fiancé finally got up and slept on the couch. So this trip has cost me a night's sleep and caused grave alienation of affection. But it got me an expense-accounted venti chai tea latte, so who am I to complain?
The chorus show came and went this weekend without incident. But now the fiancé and the vast majority of his extended family have witnessed me engaging in an act of man-on-man waltzing. Which should remove any lingering doubts they may have had. Good thing I'm in Canada for a day in case they need a cooling-off period.
We booked a butt-ass early flight this morning to make sure the weather wouldn't get in the way of our appointed business rounds. The fates being what they are, we actually managed to land here half an hour ahead of schedule on top of our intentional earliness, so we're spending our morning sitting among the locals, sipping flavored beverages, listening to Benny Goodman and sneaking peeks at one of the baristi for three hours until we have our client meeting. Normally I just travel with a stack of unread magazines in case I have down time, but this morning I threw my laptop in my carry-on at the last minute. Which means I can do actual work on a business trip. Once I get a blog post up and running, of course.
Not to brag, but I'm a world-champion sleeper. I can knock myself unconscious in a matter of seconds, and I can sleep through anything from a cataclysmic thunderstorm to that one Golden Girls episode where Rose says something stupid and Blanche says something slutty. But since I had the alarm set for 3:45 this morning, I was too nervous to fall asleep last night. I was tossing and turning so much, in fact, that the fiancé finally got up and slept on the couch. So this trip has cost me a night's sleep and caused grave alienation of affection. But it got me an expense-accounted venti chai tea latte, so who am I to complain?
The chorus show came and went this weekend without incident. But now the fiancé and the vast majority of his extended family have witnessed me engaging in an act of man-on-man waltzing. Which should remove any lingering doubts they may have had. Good thing I'm in Canada for a day in case they need a cooling-off period.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Snapshots from a Toronto business trip:
4:15 am
It’s dark. I’m a morning person in the same way Bob Allen is a heterosexual crusader for our country’s moral health. But I manage to wake up and shower and shave and put on my foo-foo expensive impress-the-client shirt and head out to the airport in plenty of time to get checked in and through security without any problems.
Flying United
The United web site tells me to check in at the Air Canada desk in Terminal 2. I go to the kiosk since I have no bags to check and it tells me to check in with a United gate agent in Terminal 1. But the United gate agent in Terminal 1 tells me the kiosk couldn’t have possibly told me to talk to a United gate agent and he directs me to use a United kiosk. When the United kiosk tells me once again to talk to a United gate agent in Terminal 1 and I show the screen to the agent I'd been talking to, he looks me right in the eye and says—and I am not making this up—“That’s not what it’s telling you. It’s telling you to check in with an Air Canada gate agent in Terminal 2.” By the time I get back to Terminal 2 and reach an actual gate agent—a mere 30 minutes before I am supposed to board—she looks at me sternly and says “You’re late.”
United/Air Canada: You are the Dubya administration. You suck and I hate you.
Getting through security
I keep a tiny little travel toothpaste in a zippered pocket in the the professional-looking carry-on I use for one-day business trips. I rarely use it, but it's nice to know that if I have a tooth- or breath-related emergency at 40,000 feet, I'll always have a dentifrice at the ready. In any case, it’s sailed unnoticed through countless security checks at airports across the country for years. But yesterday, it was suddenly a Dire Threat To World Security because it wasn’t put in its own private plastic bag and sent through the scanner in its own private gray tub. I am given a stern talking-to because I’d tried to “hide” it in my carry-on.
On the way home, I simply put it in my pants pocket and it sails through the security check unnoticed yet again. Don’t you all feel safer knowing how easy that was?
Flying with drinkers
The guy seated behind me orders a double vodka and soda. At 7:00 am. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about drinking Diet Pepsi for breakfast.
Canada
It’s just like America, but it’s a whole different country. We should probably fear it. Maybe even invade it. Different can’t possibly be good.
The Hertz NeverLost GPS device
It doesn’t have the most intuitive interface, but once you figure it out, it sure gets you where you want to go with remarkable ease and simplicity. Except when you’re searching for a restaurant located at the back of a vast strip mall with only one access road and the device dumps you off in the middle of a highway bridge about 100 feet (or meters or metres or dodecahedrons or whatever they use in Canada) past your turnoff.
Cell phones
I hadn’t bothered to check what my phone/calling plan can do in Canada. I quickly find that I can send and receive text messages and make and receive calls, but I can’t check my voice mail. And I can’t send photos. Not even this one of a sign I see on a door:
Clients
The whole trip is designed for me to meet the clients I’ve been working with over the phone for almost a year. You could say that yesterday I flew to Canada and back just to have lunch … and then go to 15 meetings. By sheer coincidence, our lunch party consists of me, my female colleague and about 20 females from the client office. As we are finishing up, a creepy old man comes up to me and swats me on the back to congratulate me for being able to “land” so many lovely ladies. Then he asks what my secret is and wonders aloud if it could be my cologne.
Dear creepy old man,
Here’s my secret: I don’t treat women as some kind of prize. I don’t belittle an entire table of them by using language comparing them to an elusive sea bass or a troubled airplane or whatever ridiculous metaphor you were going for when you used the word “land.” But if you have a hot son, I’d be more than happy to “land” him in front of you and your wife so you can share in the celebration of my ongoing conquests. P.S. I don’t wear cologne. What you were smelling was probably laundry detergent. You should look into it.
Customs
If you can possibly manage it, avoid customs agents with booshy moostaches. They tend to enjoy their jobs a little too much.
Small world
As we wait for our delayed flight home at the Toronto airport, a picture of an old college friend appears on the international news on the TV monitor hanging above the table where I scarf down a surprisingly good airport sandwich.
Amy Jacobson and I had been partners in the University of Iowa’s Old Gold Singers waaaaaay back in the late 1980s, where I often entertained the thought that I was dancing all sexy behind her in her “Le Jazz Hot” solo. If I knew which box my photo albums were packed in, I could probably find an embarrassing photo to scan and post as fluffy-haired proof. She was strikingly beautiful and a little famous for dating Jeff Moe, the pretty-boy media darling of the Iowa basketball team who many of us chorus boys secretly hoped was using Amy as a gateway to meeting us. I’d all but forgotten about Amy until 10 years after graduation when I moved to Chicago and found her reporting nightly on the local NBC affiliate. We’d run into each other a couple times since then—and she’d even spotted me in the crowd as she waved from the NBC-sponsored floats in the gay pride parades over the years.
And now she’s staring down at me from a TV monitor in a Canadian airport. It seems she’s been fired from her job for being caught on tape having a pool party with the husband of a missing woman—a story she’s been covering recently. The tape was “exclusive video” from the Chicago CBS affiliate, which is widely regarded around Chicago as the poor man’s “A Current Affair.” And now the story has been picked up internationally. Most reports make a point to mention the fact that Amy’s wearing a bikini in the video footage, though not one of them describes the pool attire the missing woman’s husband is wearing.
Swag
As the cab pulls up to my house just before midnight, I hear my trendy sunglasses clattering to the floor from somewhere in my carry-on. I pay the driver, grab my glasses and my carry-on and crawl my tired little world-traveler butt toward the house, where the boyfriend greets me with the Best Hug Ever. Once I get in the light, I discover that my trendy sunglasses are safely tucked away in my carry-on, and I am now the proud owner of someone else’s trendy sunglasses as well. I’m gonna put them in the dishwasher before I wear them, though, because they’re covered in greasy facial DNA. But hey! Free sunglasses!
It’s dark. I’m a morning person in the same way Bob Allen is a heterosexual crusader for our country’s moral health. But I manage to wake up and shower and shave and put on my foo-foo expensive impress-the-client shirt and head out to the airport in plenty of time to get checked in and through security without any problems.
Flying United
The United web site tells me to check in at the Air Canada desk in Terminal 2. I go to the kiosk since I have no bags to check and it tells me to check in with a United gate agent in Terminal 1. But the United gate agent in Terminal 1 tells me the kiosk couldn’t have possibly told me to talk to a United gate agent and he directs me to use a United kiosk. When the United kiosk tells me once again to talk to a United gate agent in Terminal 1 and I show the screen to the agent I'd been talking to, he looks me right in the eye and says—and I am not making this up—“That’s not what it’s telling you. It’s telling you to check in with an Air Canada gate agent in Terminal 2.” By the time I get back to Terminal 2 and reach an actual gate agent—a mere 30 minutes before I am supposed to board—she looks at me sternly and says “You’re late.”
United/Air Canada: You are the Dubya administration. You suck and I hate you.
Getting through security
I keep a tiny little travel toothpaste in a zippered pocket in the the professional-looking carry-on I use for one-day business trips. I rarely use it, but it's nice to know that if I have a tooth- or breath-related emergency at 40,000 feet, I'll always have a dentifrice at the ready. In any case, it’s sailed unnoticed through countless security checks at airports across the country for years. But yesterday, it was suddenly a Dire Threat To World Security because it wasn’t put in its own private plastic bag and sent through the scanner in its own private gray tub. I am given a stern talking-to because I’d tried to “hide” it in my carry-on.
On the way home, I simply put it in my pants pocket and it sails through the security check unnoticed yet again. Don’t you all feel safer knowing how easy that was?
Flying with drinkers
The guy seated behind me orders a double vodka and soda. At 7:00 am. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about drinking Diet Pepsi for breakfast.
Canada
It’s just like America, but it’s a whole different country. We should probably fear it. Maybe even invade it. Different can’t possibly be good.
The Hertz NeverLost GPS device
It doesn’t have the most intuitive interface, but once you figure it out, it sure gets you where you want to go with remarkable ease and simplicity. Except when you’re searching for a restaurant located at the back of a vast strip mall with only one access road and the device dumps you off in the middle of a highway bridge about 100 feet (or meters or metres or dodecahedrons or whatever they use in Canada) past your turnoff.
Cell phones
I hadn’t bothered to check what my phone/calling plan can do in Canada. I quickly find that I can send and receive text messages and make and receive calls, but I can’t check my voice mail. And I can’t send photos. Not even this one of a sign I see on a door:
Clients
The whole trip is designed for me to meet the clients I’ve been working with over the phone for almost a year. You could say that yesterday I flew to Canada and back just to have lunch … and then go to 15 meetings. By sheer coincidence, our lunch party consists of me, my female colleague and about 20 females from the client office. As we are finishing up, a creepy old man comes up to me and swats me on the back to congratulate me for being able to “land” so many lovely ladies. Then he asks what my secret is and wonders aloud if it could be my cologne.
Dear creepy old man,
Here’s my secret: I don’t treat women as some kind of prize. I don’t belittle an entire table of them by using language comparing them to an elusive sea bass or a troubled airplane or whatever ridiculous metaphor you were going for when you used the word “land.” But if you have a hot son, I’d be more than happy to “land” him in front of you and your wife so you can share in the celebration of my ongoing conquests. P.S. I don’t wear cologne. What you were smelling was probably laundry detergent. You should look into it.
Customs
If you can possibly manage it, avoid customs agents with booshy moostaches. They tend to enjoy their jobs a little too much.
Small world
As we wait for our delayed flight home at the Toronto airport, a picture of an old college friend appears on the international news on the TV monitor hanging above the table where I scarf down a surprisingly good airport sandwich.
Amy Jacobson and I had been partners in the University of Iowa’s Old Gold Singers waaaaaay back in the late 1980s, where I often entertained the thought that I was dancing all sexy behind her in her “Le Jazz Hot” solo. If I knew which box my photo albums were packed in, I could probably find an embarrassing photo to scan and post as fluffy-haired proof. She was strikingly beautiful and a little famous for dating Jeff Moe, the pretty-boy media darling of the Iowa basketball team who many of us chorus boys secretly hoped was using Amy as a gateway to meeting us. I’d all but forgotten about Amy until 10 years after graduation when I moved to Chicago and found her reporting nightly on the local NBC affiliate. We’d run into each other a couple times since then—and she’d even spotted me in the crowd as she waved from the NBC-sponsored floats in the gay pride parades over the years.
And now she’s staring down at me from a TV monitor in a Canadian airport. It seems she’s been fired from her job for being caught on tape having a pool party with the husband of a missing woman—a story she’s been covering recently. The tape was “exclusive video” from the Chicago CBS affiliate, which is widely regarded around Chicago as the poor man’s “A Current Affair.” And now the story has been picked up internationally. Most reports make a point to mention the fact that Amy’s wearing a bikini in the video footage, though not one of them describes the pool attire the missing woman’s husband is wearing.
Swag
As the cab pulls up to my house just before midnight, I hear my trendy sunglasses clattering to the floor from somewhere in my carry-on. I pay the driver, grab my glasses and my carry-on and crawl my tired little world-traveler butt toward the house, where the boyfriend greets me with the Best Hug Ever. Once I get in the light, I discover that my trendy sunglasses are safely tucked away in my carry-on, and I am now the proud owner of someone else’s trendy sunglasses as well. I’m gonna put them in the dishwasher before I wear them, though, because they’re covered in greasy facial DNA. But hey! Free sunglasses!
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