1 Shore Excursion (2 page)

He
and I
both
totally realize that
travel agents
may be
going the way of the dinosaur
because p
recious few
of us managed to survive
the airlines’
decision
to
stop
pay
ing
us for selling their tickets.
When that happened, travel agencies took a
big
hit.
Those big boys did a job on us and on the traveling public as well.

Before then
, agents were paid on commission by vendors
…
airlines, cru
ise lines, hotels, etc.
The
ir work was free to the customer. No charge. No fees. And your agent worked
super
hard to find you the best deal for your money, the best possible trip for
you
.

Then some evil person at the airlines decided to make more money by cutting out the travel agent. No more big commission checks to pay!
Bigger profits for them!
The
y sold the public on the idea that getting great deals was easy, that no one needed an agent
at all
when they could
easily
book a trip for themselves on their home computer. Really?
Do you think your little desktop is seeing all that is out there?
Do you really think that a do-it-yourself E-ticket is better than a full service, experienced, free travel advisor?

But enough of that.
I hear enough bitterness from my former compadres
—
now selling insurance or bras or
whatever
—
to waste time wallowing in the inequities of life.
I’m just glad I still have a job.

“Mrs. Weiss is on line four, again,” Roz’s intercom voice interrupted. “She wants to know what she should wear for the Roman Toga Party.
You want I should tell her?”

I love travel.
Period.
And, fortunately, I get to travel
to places I could never afford
, because I don’t mind shepherding
senior citizens
around the world. It’s my job
, and
I
love
it.
I like old folks
,
t
hey like me, a
nd I make just enough to afford my rent.
Barely, but that’s New York.

The agency that I work for, Itchy Feet Travel, is in Nolita.
When I first
moved
to Manhattan I
had
to learn
all
about stuff like
Soho, Noho, Tribeca and Nolita
just to find my way around.
Soho means SOuth of HOuston Street.
For all you Texans in the Big Apple, that’s HOW
—
rhymes with COW
—
ston.
Nolita is short for NOrth of Little ITAly. You get the idea.
My personal favorite is in Brooklyn; Dumbo, meaning Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.

Itchy Feet handles mostly leisure travel, a lot of groups, and still has a fair amount of corporate business.
Most of the people who work here are good
—
very
good
—and
very experienced.
I am, too.
I can fare
a Buddhist monk
to Sri Lanka and back with three stopovers before you can say veg meal, and without
once
calling the help desk.
What I’m saying is, this is not some mall deal staffed with bubbleheads.
We are
good
,
sugar
.

That
Friday afternoon
I was final
izing the
details of the High Steppers Scandinavian cruise
. W
ith all the phone calls and interruptions, it took me almost until closing to get their travel bags assembled.
My guys love their travel bags.
Bright pink, with High Steppers and the Itchy Feet Travel logo printed on the plastic, the bags hold all their travel documents and
pills and gel
pads, with room left over for all that other stuff they claim they have to have with them.
I love those loud bags, too, because it makes it easier to spot strays.

“I’m outta here, Roz.
See you on the
fifteenth
.”

“Good luck with them High Steppers, hon.
I gotta tell ya, I wouldn’t trade jobs with you for nothing!”

After work
I took the downtown R train to Canal Street to deliver travel docs to Charlie and Amy Wu, loyal members of the High Steppers, and two of the agency’s best clients.

Personal delivery of documents is not usually my job, but these people are special.
Besides being really good customers of our agency, they own a terrific Cantonese restaurant on Mott Street called Lotus, and also a Chinese import business that sells silk and other high-end fabrics a
long with
teak and mahogany furniture, all at great prices.
I bought the coolest stuff in my apartment at Wu’s.

I pushed my way through the crowded street, heading east on Canal toward Mott, checking out the latest designer knockoffs hanging from hooks in the stalls lining the street as I went.

Skinny little women minding pushcarts filled with counterfeit DVDs and CDs jockeyed for space on the sidewalk with muscular vendors of fake Rolex and Cartier
watches.

Lookouts on the street watched carefully for the trademark infringement cops, chattering steadily into cell phones, their heads swive
ling back and forth like
meerkats.

The word goes out a
t the first sign of the police
,
a
nd you can hear corrugated metal
stall doors slamming down all over Chinatown.
Some merchants even tape up “For Rent” signs as if the stall is vacant.

It
’
s rumored that secret passages through the backs of the little stores and all underground in Chinatown connect the whole maze, providing quick escape for merchants of illegal goods, drugs, money and people.
They say that some of those tunnels go back to the days of Tammany Hall.
Some things don’t change, do they?

I stopped to price a handsome black leather bag with brass hardware and a distinctive designer logo.
It looked so close to the real thing that I wondered if it was real, maybe stolen.

“
How much?”
I
asked
a small nervous man who was constantly watching the street.

“Fifty dollar, last price.”

“Fifty dollars!” I repeated, “Fifty dollars? Too much.
What about twenty?”

“Fifty dollar. Last price,” he insisted.
“Very nice.
Very good bag, you look.”

He opened the bag for inspection, and I knew that my guess was probably correct.
The inside really did look real, with logo lining and intricate stitching. Besides, they will always bargain for the fakes, but never for the hot ones.

“You not like this one
?
C
ome, come in here, come quick.
I have others you like, very beautiful, but not cheap.
Good bag not cheap. You look.
You see.
Look quick.
I make you best price.”

He pushed open a section of the pegboard wall, revealing a dim passageway stuffed with purses, and motioned for me to enter.

“Come quick, come quick.
Very nice, you like.”

Now, I love to shop.
All Southern women love to shop.
It’s in our blood, inherited and instinctive, then honed by our mothers,
just as
kittens learn to catch mice. But
I couldn’t stop.
Too late.
Too much to do.

“No, thanks,” I said smiling, backing out.
“Not today.
I’m sorry.
Maybe some other time.”

Charlie Wu was in the kitchen of Lotus when I arrived, and I was ushered through the swinging doors by the smiling hostess
—
Charlie’s niece, Mei Mei.

There are lots of different smells in Chinatown, some of them not so pleasant, but the aromas wafting from the pots and pans in Charlie’s kitchen smelled terrific.

Charlie’s wife Amy
—
a slim, tiny woman with a great sense of style
—
manages their import business. Charlie
—
also slim, tiny, and impeccably dressed
—
runs Lotus.
It’s hard to know how they can stay so trim working around all that wonderful food
.

I have a cousin
who
eats
everything
in sight,
and
when I was a teenager,
if I really pigged out, my mother
would
ma
k
e
dire predictions about
my eating and
her girth
.
I wear a 6, ok
ay
? But if
I worked at Lotus,
I’m
pretty
sure
I
’
d be
bigger than
Ethelline
.

Charlie thanked me for the delivery, and he must have seen the hunger on my face, because he offered me a meal. I hated to pass his offer up, but I really needed to get home.
It was getting late, I had calls to make, and I had barely started packing.

Waving goodbye, I pushed my way back up to Canal, ducked into the subway, swiped my Metrocard, and headed back uptown on the R.

At about 8 p.m.
I stopped in at Kim’s bodega
near my apartment
for a few fantastically priced toiletries and a
hot
pastrami on rye with brown mustard
and a Kosher pickle
.

Why a Vietnamese man can make the best pastrami sandwich in all Manhattan is beyond me.
I only knew that, having worked through
lunch
,
and
after turning
down Charlie Wu
’s offer
,
I was
totally
ready for the pastrami
. A
nd for the cold, creamy cheesecake that I bought to top it off.

“You eat all this, you get s
o
ooo fat!
” he jeered, staring at my rear.
“Hahahaha!
”

Kim thinks he is a real funny guy
.
He loves to make remarks about my appetite and my shape. But f
or
the sake of
his food, I’ll put up with his mouth.

In
reward
for
his humor, I paid with plastic.
Kim hates that, because not only does he have to pay the card people a fee, he also has to report
the transaction
to his newly-adopted Uncle Sam instead of slipping the cash in the box he keeps under the counter.
T
hat would t
each th
e
old pirate to call me fat again anytime soon!

Back out on my street,
th
e
jumpy feeling returned, and
I thought I
caught a glimpse of th
at
homeless guy
again
on the steps of a brownstone at the end of the block.
Then I realized it was only a porter, cleaning the steps.

“Time to get out of town, kid
do,” I thought. “You’re overdue.
”

“Hey, babe!
I got a sure thing for ya in the fifth at Belmont tomorrow!”

Eddie the Sunbather was yelling at me from his park bench on the island in the middle of the street.

Most of the time, Eddie hangs out at the OTB in the next block.
Sometimes he sells a sheet at the track.
On sunny days he sits on his bench, with his shirt open, improving his tan.
That would be
okay
, I guess, if he was also a body builder, but Eddie is overweight, pushing
ninety, and has long, stringy, dyed
hair.
Not a pretty sight.
Tonight, with a brisk wind blowing off the river
,
Eddie wore his ancient trench coat, a scarf, and a Yankees cap.