Because I travel a lot...

If you know me (on a personal level) then you know that for the past couple of years I've traveled a lot for work. In fact, I think I spent over 70 nights in hotels in 2009. That is nearly 1/3 of my regular business days when you factor in vacation time and holidays.

Seriously.

So, when I travel for work, I generally try to abide by a few rules to make things more fun for myself.

1. Pack light. And by light, I mean try to fit a weeks worth of clothes (to include a few casual changes and workout wear) in one bag.
2. Take the train. There's only one place to book a train too - Amtrak. This makes things simultaneously easy and frustrating. However, the train is cheaper 90% of the time, it goes to most places I need to travel, it is (by far) cleaner than driving, there is always a bathroom and it is faster than driving 95% of the time. Yes, both percentages are fairly arbitrary guesses.
3. I wear out googlemaps. There is little better in trying to find a place to eat than searching, "Restaurant near X," when X equals my location. I use this even though I bring along my GPS.
4. Eat local. I break this rule from time to time, but I generally stay away from hotel food and chains. Generally. It keeps locals in business and lets me try something that I may have never had before. I can always eat at a Chili's, TGIF, Cheescake Factory, etc (and be summarily disappointed that I didn't try something different) at home - I can't eat at City Steam Brewery unless I'm in Hartford.
5. If I don't know what's best, use UrbanSpoon. I like this site better than most other review sites because you have two choices (stars are so subjective and reviews are all over the board) and only two choices... you either like it or you don't.
6. Bring a good book (you can check out some of the books I've read and reviewed on Amazon by clicking here). This is one of the things that keeps me a little sane when I'm eating alone. I don't like to sit at a bar and I (generally) don't like to talk to my waiter / waitress - unless they have something good to tell me about the menu.
7. Cash. You wouldn't believe how many places don't take credit cards. Just a thought - but I often wonder if these same places claim my cash meals on their taxes...
8. Extra Underwear. I'm just sayin'.
9. Your own [drinking] cups. If you don't know why, then you're one of the few people I know who haven't watched this. There's usually a simple trick to find out if your glasses are being replaced (and they should be replaced - a maid shouldn't be washing out glasses in the bathroom or with glass cleaner). Many times, there is a sticker on the bottom of the glass - write your initials on the glass and fill it with tea or something else - leave it at least half full. When you come back the next day, check the glasses to see if any of them bear your initial. On a strange side note... I've also marked glasses with a permanent marker because it was all I had. By the way, if this (see the video) happens to you - tell the front desk.

There are other things to take into consideration depending on my mode of transport. These are the foundations of what I do when traveling for business though.

We are human

Today I partook in a rare pleasure that I haven’t been able to enjoy as of late: taking public transportation to work.

Broad Line North to City Hall, connect to the Market Line West towards 69^th St Station, off at 30^th St and onto AMTRAK for the 25 minute ride to Paoli.

But the joy of public transportation has never borne its treasures from the mere riding of a train. The pleasure comes from what I do with the time. During the warmer months, there were times where I would ride my bike to the train and spend the time reading. Sometimes I would pray. Sometimes I would sleep. Every now and again, I would talk to fellow passengers.

This morning, I stared at people.

I wondered at how time, and stress…the brokenness of life…the anger, despair, sadness and loss of remembering humanity worked toward the deterioration of the human body.

There was an old man to my right; he looked, upon first glance, as many of those who might ride the train for warmth or companionship.

I started at his shoes, brown leather – a little worn, but not worn out. Above the shoes, tan pressed dress pants. There was a soft messenger bag type case leaning against his leg. His hands were a little blue due in large part to his somewhat translucent skin giving us all a glimpse at the toil of his life and the reality of his age. There were imperfections on his skin: perhaps they were warts, maybe they were cancer…maybe they were nothing but proof of a life lived over the course of many decades…maybe they were proof of a man who has loved, and hurt, who dreams…or lost hope. His hair was more salt than pepper and his mustache was the same. For the entire ride – 15 blocks – between city hall and 30^th St, he sniffed. It was cold.

Before I actually boarded the west bound Market Line, I stood with the masses of others who were going to work, to school, those who were wandering aimlessly and those who were wandering with the promise of home as their impetus.

A man stood beside me. He was an African American man with thick rimmed glasses. He wore blue jeans and a blue coat. And… I feared that he was staring at me.

I don’t, as a general rule, look at people who are looking at me.

I like to give them the enjoyment of observation.

It was my turn once we boarded the train, however.

This was a man who seemed to be riding for companionship. He looked longingly around – in front of himself and to his sides. As the train slowed towards our stop, he congregated near the door with those people who were finishing out their ritual service of morning train hopping. He interjected himself into the solace of individual riding and pressed for a kinship between his fellow man – something that might be recognized as a common point of contact. As with many who operate within an alien culture, his handling of the time of communion was rough if not incoherent.

But the reality was that this was a soul within the broken shell of a man who was reaching out to be loved and understood by those souls who also traveled in broken containers. In the vacuum of existence where intimacy is a hard currency to accumulate and even seemingly harder to hold, this man tried to create a common plane upon which to walk by pressing others upon which team they rooted for.

As I stared I saw how time stole.
As I stared I saw time’s toll.
As I stared I wondered of those who are alone.
Whose family are those who inhabit the train.

Cold morning’s no match for the sting of death
Nor rhymes or reasons away from the city
Where lives entwined pulse with radiance
Warm smile, strange questions, strange people, cold streets.

No family for those whose lives are lost,
Whereas I stared and saw time steal.
As I stared I saw time demand.
As I stared, I hoped for those who are alone.

Whose family are those who inhabit the train.

City Sense...

You'd like to think that it's something you get when you live in the city - a transformation caused by some of the pollution around you that gives you an innate and super ability to live, work and play in a city.

But really, it's just an understanding you come to.

Sure, after living in an urban environment, you develop some "abilities." For example, you should learn to parallel park a car - when I use the word, should here I don't use it in a suggestive sense, but in the sense that it's something that will happen as you park your car over and again on a curb in any populated neighborhood.

You learn how to feed a meter. Regularly.

You learn that bicycling is a more environ-friendly mode of transit and that it's generally faster than driving.

You learn (and this is something that I've hit on before) that amidst the beauty of a thing created (like a cityscape) comes the reality of a world that exists in brokenness caused by sin.

It's a funny place where everything can be simultaneously right and wrong. It is right for you to be where you are because you know, in one way or another, that you're called to be here. It's wrong because there are others calling you to move away.

It is right because in the confluence of ideas, art, culture, science, education, government and technology there is understanding that image bearers are able to imitate and reflect the God they may or may not know and recognize. It is wrong because in the confluence of crime, destruction, racism, discrimination, murder, greed and indifference there is an understanding that image breakers are willing and desirous of rebelling against the same God.

There's not really any one thing that got me thinking about this on this time out writing. If you've stopped here before, you know that it's something that comes up from time to time when I write; meaning that I'm thinking about this a lot. A few good examples would suffice to describe the sense that my city (Philadelphia) exudes.

When you're walking the streets here, you can experience two (or more) entirely different "cities," in the course of a mile or two. It's not uncommon to walk down a street and see a home valued at $600k+ next door to one that's dilapidated, condemned or (even worse) the base of a drug dealer. Center City is what you'd be familiar with if you came to visit, however. Center City is where all the large buildings are. It's where all the fun stuff is - the kind of things you do when you visit a city. While there, you'd probably also visit the Art Museum area and Old City. You'd notice that the streets in Center City are relatively clean, that there are friendly people to help you when you're lost and that there's a healthy police presence.

The sense of Philadelphia changes, however, if you go a mile north or a mile south of Center City. As you travel down Broad, away from the big buildings, it wouldn't be uncommon to see a neighboring car's window roll down and watch trash free float from there to the ground. Towards the fall, there are sometimes whirlwinds of trash as the weather gets a little more windy. The trash thing spans all colors of skin and economic status, apparently...

If you ride a train in, you might be awed by the striking beauty of the city (if coming in from the North or East, this view is to your left). Looking off to your right, it's easy to be sickened by the amount of garbage piled beside the train tracks - the amount of bad graffiti tagged on train tunnels and abandoned buildings.

The sense of a city, mine at least and I imagine most, is conflicted. The sense you develop in interacting with it is the same. It's easy to question trust in other people. You wonder when and how you should trust them. While in a town watch course, La learned that when you're walking the streets in any part of the city, you should always be aware of what's around you by turning your head every few seconds.

We've found too that there can be a cultural mistrust at large. It doesn't always seem like a good thing to some that younger people of a different color of skin or background would be moving to their neighborhood. Gentrification has detrimental ramifications and years of discrimination won't be left buried under the guise of hope and promise. In my mind and heart, I don't believe that anything apart from Christ can really work to heal this sense of deep sadness and betrayal that some (not all, trust me, not all) of our African American neighbors hold - it's complicated and ingrained in a few generations who have learned that you can't trust and that you'll never get anywhere for it.

City sense is not necessarily something you get, but something you become a part of. The sense of a city will exist with you in it, or with you away. It isn't a super power or ability, but it is something to interact with - something that can affect you and something you can affect.

Home sweet home...

Unfortunately... at least for those of you who have, in the past, taken great pleasure in my traveling woes, our Thanksgiving travels went off pretty cleanly.

Of course, it wouldn't be a Twilley Travel Time without some kind of hitch.

Though really, when it comes down to it, this isn't typically of Twilley Travel. I think I've mentioned this before, but prior to my marriage I rarely had travel woes. In fact, I was once even bumped up to first class on a flight for nothing. I've talked to my bride's father and he concurred that these traveling times are more typical of something that would happen to them.

So here is a recent Twilley Travel update.

We left Amanda and Renee with our home last Sunday [they both ran the Philadelphia half marathon, congratulations!] in hopes of making it to the airport early... by regional rail [which is kind of like a subway, except it's mostly above ground and goes throughout the region...on rails...] We made it to Suburban Station [basically the regional rail's hub in Center City Philly - all the trains out to the burbs end up here at some point] about ten minuted before the RR [regional rail] was supposed to show.

I looked up, and our RR had a number "29" beside it and the word, "Late."
Laura and I debated a little about what the "29" meant. That is, we debated until the LED for our RR disappeared altogether. Why show up 29 minutes late if another train is going to be there @ 8:30 anyways?

We decided to run out and catch a cab [the RR would have couse us circa $14, Philly cab? $26.50].

Did I mention that there was a marathon, half marathon, and 8k being run on the day of our departure? Did I mention that there were somewhere around 15,000 runners out that morning? We walked south and smack into a wall of runners [actually, when it comes down to it, our path was perpendicular - ancillary point].

We walked two blocks east and then a block north to city hall [this is where the major N, S, E, and W roads that dissect Philly converge] in search for a taxi. We found one and he brought us to PHL post haste.

No real hangups in the security lines [and actually, you can read a new installment re: travel on Twilleynomics - because I'm going to try to run with the idea of Twilley based economics there].

The plane was [surprisingly] on time.
Our actual departure, not so much.

We sat on the runway a while. You know, because it takes a while for 17 planes to take off before your's does. Yes...seventeen planes.

So, we made it to ATL after some time in the air, grabbed some lunch, and headed to our gate for a flight to BHM.

A few situations here.
First, our preferred mode of travel is with limited luggage - meaning we've usually got our lap tops and a carry-on with our clothes with nothing else.

Apparently, the gate domimistress decided that Laura's bag was, in fact, too large for the plane. Checking the baggage at the gat was completely against our plans, yet we obliged.

Then, as we are literally on the runway [of couse, after we had already boarded the plane and left the gate], the captain informed us that one of the doors appeared to be open on the plane. Not only that, we'd also have to head back and wait for an open gate before any of the doors could be checked and rotated through their sequence. He knew that it was open because a light on his dash told him so.

The question begs, why didn't someone check this light before we left the gate?

After an hour of waiting, a gate opened up and we were checked out and back out on the tarmac in little to no time. But, you see, we were taking off close to when we should have been landing in BHM. I was actually composing my letter of complaint to Delta in my mind during the flight. However, my dreams of compensation were short lived - we actually made it to Birmingham in little less than a half hour than we were supposed to.

All to say, pilots must be regularly flying much more slowly - which I am sure helps with fuel economy.

In BHM, we thought Laura's carry-on was lost - for some reason, they had taken it straight to the luggage office instead of tossing it on the conveyor belt with everyone else's.

In a nut shell, that's it. We actually made it home early through one of the world's worst [read - most congested] airports [PHL]. I guess, you could say the only thing we regretted about the trip home was that we didn't get bumped [last year, we gave up our seats for $400 worth of flight vouchers, two free meals, and extra skymiles - see Twilleynomics for more info].

Gene loves the city...

Last night, I thought a lot about movement and windows.
I thought a lot about the lives people were leading – how they were doing, where they were going.

I’ve started taking the train to work – I’ve talked about this before, but as every day passes, this seems to be more and more of a viable option for us. To be honest, I feel so much more rested and composed when I do not have to drive for 1 ½ hours on one of the busiest roads I’ve ever driven. More than that, riding while someone else is “driving,” gives me the time and opportunity to sort and process all of my thoughts from a given day, or a given week, or a given relationship.

Last night, I was reminded why I love to live in a city like Philadelphia.

When you’re riding in from the suburbs in the evening, there is darkness. Even from the tracks of public transit, you can see the homes, lawns, and privacy fences of those who were tired of the City and ready to literally “get away.” There’s less graffiti, more trees, and the tracks become slightly more removed from its surroundings.

Riding back into the city, there are monolithically constructed buildings of mortar and reflective glass. There, all the tracks seem to coalesce at 30th Street Station in University City. The remnants of older trains stand guard as you enter into a grand old station.

There is graffiti.

There are few trees.

There is chain link, but no privacy.

There are city lights. There, on the left, is the art museum. There are people bustling to get out of the city and people hustling to get their next meal (or, their next drink, or, their next fix). The buildings of mortar and reflective glass are lit like Christmas trees covered with votives and garland – beautiful in a way that an urbanite would appreciate.

In a city like Philadelphia, the tower of Babel has fallen and there really seems to be mass confusion. Despite the fact, people have decided to stay for one reason or another; they have decided to love the city. Perhaps it’s a mere tacit approval; perhaps they’re here because they couldn’t have afforded the quiet life in the suburbs – but the fact remains that all 1.4 million of them are here.

Last night I thought about movement and windows.
I thought about how the past has been left behind and how that same past has shaped my loves and desires today.
I thought about all the people who had come and gone through my own life – where they were going, what they were doing.
Sometimes, I wonder if they ever think of me.

A city in all of its grandeur is a stark reminder of the reminder of a world broken by sin. Someone once asked me what I like about the city, and that (in a nut shell) is it. It’s easy for my skin to become thick when I am removed from a situation, a people, or a reality. The city allows me to be surrounded by the beauty that is man created in the image of the Divine. The city allows me to be surrounded by the death that is man breaking the covenant made with the Divine.

[The picture used in this blog was found on Wikipedia and taken by "surplusparts." Picture used under the guidelines of Creative Commons Attribution 2.0]