Category Archives: Travel

Travel the world, broaden your horizons, but above all respect other countries customs.

Touch Down.

We deboarded blearily upon our belated arrival at LAX,
We wearily complied with Customs and Security checks,
I regret to say I might not have been at my diplomatic best
By asking the flunky why he treated me as an unwelcome guest?

He took much umbrage with my query, but that’s not all he took,
I lost my dignity when he gave me more than a searching look,
It’s been an uncomfortable welcome to the land of the free;
All that poking and probing don’t sit too easily with me.

Advertisements

Air New Zealand, venerated around the world, look at their own back yard. After years of sky-high pricing, NOW they’re slashing prices! Too many aircraft, too few bums on seats and suddenly Mike Tod the Munificent discovers they have the capacity to be caring?

Fickle And Flighty.

To our quiet, little visited and far flung town
Air New Zealand are back, bringing fares down.

What could have caused this touching turnaround?

As financial clouds darken Air New Zealand’s sky
The word comes down from Almighty Tod on high-

Tod’s pitch takes on that familiar whining sound-

‘Cute little destinations we’d dropped when it suited
Will be reviewed, revisited and profitably rerouted,

It’s past time to retread long forgotten fallow ground

And high time we gave Heartland New Zealand a fair fare.’
Odd, Tod, till profits went down you wouldn’t go there.

Who knew in his corporate chest a heart could be found?

Another time, another place. Music and photos bring you right back, don’t they?

Frank, David, Gabrielle And Rose, Et Al.

In a forgotten corner, discarded in dusty disarray
Lies a vast array of CDs I treasured back in the day,
Stacks of musty relics that don’t spin me any more
Since I transferred my allegiance to the iTunes store.

The living room expanded by two more precious feet
As I boxed up and labelled the old, odd and obsolete,
There were a few whimsical purchases to our collection
And so Shaggy went the same sad way as One Direction.

As I put Kylie and Right Said Fred in their rightful place
An old photo slipped out from ‘tween a plastic case,
And there I saw the face of my father, gone so long,
And in a trice ‘Too Sexy’ became a trite sad little song.

And I recall our holiday to Yosemite and that stop at Sonora,
Dad, me ‘n’ the kids packed in the back of the black Explorer,
Pouring from the air-conditioning out into the discomfiting heat,
The pool at the Gold Lodge offered a cool welcoming retreat.

Oh, I saw Dad in the shadows, sheltering from the sun and spray
As silly-ass sons numbers two and three and kids splashed away,
I only wonder now, as I look back on the best of Dads vacations
If I saw a twinkle in the eye of the oldest of three generations?

Ah yes, the joys of travel. Off to strange lands, to see culture at its best. (Inspired by a blog on Bonnywood Manor/WordPress- Present Tense-#9 (and our trip to Old Scotland that had a few similarities.)

A Breath Of Fresh Air.

It was wonderful to depart the plane in Spain
After a flight at the height of the tourist season,
Yes, it seems I’ve picked up the travel bug again-
Ten hours of recirculated air would be the reason.

I thought all would be well once at the hotel
But upon arrival, well, sadly I was not,
So I laid my heavy head on the pillow a spell
Awaking to find no piffling sniffle, this was snot.

No, no not for me a sick bed holiday,
I was dying to see the Medieval sites,
Down the cobbled streets I made my sway,
To climb to the castles rarefied heights.

Thus we began the now-historic climb;
Those first steps were hewn by a craftsman;
Higher up steps were taken to cut the time,
Carved by ‘prentice or cut-price artisan.

No miss-step was quite the same,
Some a stretch, some one leapt up;
Any stonemason worthy of the name
Surely should’ve looked, then stepped up?

At every switchback, at every frikkin’ fork
I’d clutch my ribs and cough and blow,
Down every declivity I’d hack and hawk.
My apologies and sympathies to those below.

But I’d climb my Everest of a mountain
Though snot ran in an unending stream,
At a thousand steps and still countin’
It became more nightmare than tourists dream.

Ah, but when one steps upon the crest-
Oh, the view is quite breath-taking,
I clasped my hands to my breast-
It’s a heart attack in the making.

The crown weighs heavy on the Head at times. These are right royal troubling times. So show a little sympathy, please.

Pardon The Subject.

After a fresh new dawn, clear and bright
Dark times have come for the kingdoms Lord,
Another wrong to right, another obituary to write
When he who wields the pen yields to the sword.

(I try to leaven these posts with a bit of humor. I can’t see much to smile about on some of the days these day though.)

Off on holiday, off on vacation, doing the Route 66 thing. Ah, the romance of finding a hidden gem somewhere off the beaten track. True story.

Burn Out On Route 66.

After a hundred desert miles in a hot Mustang rag-top
Near Kingman we turned into a quiet deserted rest-stop,
At 100 decibels AC/DCs intro to ‘Thunderstruck’ was roaring
Unhappily rousing an indignnt down-and-out from his snoring.

He sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking,
Looking much the worse for drinking.

He stumbled out from his refuge of dark concrete
Then his steps syncopated with the pounding beat,
In his long-lost eyes a spark of recognition had flared
As from the rumbling Mustang ‘Thunderstruck’ blared.

He felt a trembling in his shoes-
And not from the DTs from the booze.

The hands he’d balled into fists uncurled,
His bright eyes looked into another world
As far from earthly care as the farthest star
As he began to sway and play his air guitar.

Hungover and down on his luck
But he was all over ‘Thunderstruck.’

Satriani, Slash, Stevie Ray, Page nor Hendrix
Could never hope to replicate those licks,
Whatever had washed through that sodden mind
A flash, a trace of rare talent had been left behind.

He’d had to have led an ass-kicking band-
Before the elbow raising got out of hand.

As the thunder begun to come to a close
On that animated face puzzlement rose,
After a few pyrotechnic moments in the light
Those bright eyes fade and darken, dead as night.

We left behind a man lost, unsung and unstrung,
A sobering warning to any wannabe Angus Young.