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The Unvarnished Truth About Vegas: Seven Reasons Why It’s Easier Than You Might Think to Lose It All

What is it about Las Vegas that prompts otherwise rational people to make rash decisions they wouldn’t dream of at home? Jay Rankin, author of Under the Neon Sky, explores the seductive culture of a city that makes people lose their minds—and their fortunes.

Los Angeles, CA (January 2010)—We all know that Las Vegas is a town where you can make—or break—a fortune in a single game. And while millions each year decide to gamble there regardless, most of us like to think that we’d stop before our losses left the triple digits. That’s why we’re scandalized, horrified, and fascinated when we hear stories like that of Terrance Watanabe.

According to the Wall Street Journal, Watanabe, who built up a fortune while running his family’s party-favor import business, has found himself in the hole to the tune of $127 million—an astronomical sum by any measure. How could this have happened? we ask ourselves. Why didn’t he stop? I certainly wouldn’t have let myself go that far, even if I did have a fortune to lose.

How, indeed, did this highly successful and presumably intelligent person manage to fall prey to one of the biggest individual losing streaks in Las Vegas history? The answer, says Jay Rankin, is much more complex than you might initially guess—and it says just as much about Vegas as it does about Watanabe.

“It’s tempting to blame Watanabe’s loss on his own bad judgment,” concedes Rankin, author of the new non-fiction book Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman’s Story (Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN: 978-0-9842109-1-6, $14.99). “And it’s true: He chose to stay in an environment that was clearly destroying him. However—and this is a big however—the truth is that Las Vegas is constructed to lure in people who are susceptible to destructive behavior, and to nurture those behaviors once they’ve started. Especially if those people are high rollers.”

Rankin knows what he’s talking about. A former probation officer, family and addiction counselor, and television host who holds an advanced degree in psychology, Rankin worked the graveyard shift as a doorman at the 5,000-room MGM Grand hotel for six years. A memoir of sorts, his book tells the true story of this turbulent period in his life.

In his position as a doorman, Rankin found himself at the intersection of two worlds: the flashy, electric exterior of the Las Vegas strip, and its gritty hidden infrastructure. Surrounded by hordes of visitors whose singular goal was often to cross lines, Rankin faced a nightly fight for his sanity and his safety. And during that time, he got an insider’s view of how the city works.

“Watanabe’s case seems sensational because of the amount of money involved,” says Rankin. “But really, this is old news. It happens all the time. If you step back and look at the marketing, it’s brilliant: the lights, the shows, the food, the entertainment, the rooms, and the views…the possibility of winning big, of getting laid, of doing drugs, and on and on. Even the rush of anticipation you get when you plan a trip to Vegas is addicting.

“The whole atmosphere has been carefully constructed to address all groups and ages and cultures,” he adds. “And you don’t have to be as rich as Mr. Watanabe to get in over your head.”

Read on as Rankin explains the strategy behind Sin City’s allure.

The sheer excitement draws you in. If you’ve ever been to Vegas, you know that it is, quite simply, intense. The colors are vivid, sounds constantly bombard you, and you’re always surrounded by a diverse mass of people. You might be sitting near a group of beautiful women having a “ladies’ night” out on the town, or you might be mingling with a celebrity at a bar. The level of excitement is always very high. It’s impossible to be bored in the midst of all of the spectacle and pageantry, and The Best is right at your fingertips: the best restaurants, the best shows, the best parties.

“Las Vegas is alive with action and anticipation, and you can’t help but want to be part of it,” Rankin acknowledges. “The atmosphere very much lends itself to making visitors want to be part of the ‘in crowd.’ They’ll do whatever they think will land them in the V.I.P. room or in the winner’s circle.”

There are no boundaries. Think about it: In your hometown, you have to act a certain way, and you have to abide by certain rules. Your place in society, whatever it might be, is accompanied by a set of obligations—to your family, your employer, your friends, etc. Not so in Las Vegas. It’s a city where the impossible…isn’t anymore.

“The primary allure of Vegas is that there are no boundaries,” Rankin says. “There is no clock, no last call, no line in the sand. You can do what you want, whenever you want, with whom you want. You’re free to stay out all night and bet it all. Your fantasies are right in front of you…and when you can indulge in them without repercussions, it’s almost impossible to say no. Vegas has been designed that way for a reason, and it’s true—what happens in Vegas really does stay there. Unfortunately, the consequences of indulging in your wildest desires stick around long after the thrill is gone, and Mr. Watanabe is a prime example.”

The city is alive, 24/7. Las Vegas doesn’t sleep the way other cities do. It is, literally, a 24/7 town, and there’s just as much to do and see at 4 a.m. as at 10 p.m. Indeed, as the night wears on, casinos and clubs raise their glitz factors. Beautiful people and high rollers continue to make spectacular appearances and place outrageous bets. And of course, the neon lights glow even more brightly at night.

“The spectacle alone is enough to make you want to stay up and take it all in,” Rankin says. “And if you’re enjoying yourself, if you’re flirting with a beautiful woman, if you’re convinced that the next hand is yours, then there’s no reason to stop. No one is going to make you leave; no bartender is going to put out a last call. You can stay out until you’ve dropped from exhaustion or blown through every last cent you have.”

Vegas builds the hype that anyone can win. It’s true; anyone can win. No one is prohibited from coming out on top at roulette, poker, slots, or any number of games. The possibility is always there. And often, that’s a problem. There’s an impetus to keep going, no matter how well or how badly the game is going. To compound the compulsion to keep playing, Vegas is also good at hyping the “almost” factor. “You almost won that time! So close! You should play just one more game.” Often, this encouragement comes from fellow guests, not from casino employees. Everyone is waiting on the next big win.

“Go to a table that’s hot and look into the eyes of the players,” Rankin suggests. “Most of them will not be coolly calculating whether they should stay or walk away. They’ll rush into the next hand, dazzled by what they could win. After all, when will they feel this way again? Study the people playing slot machines. Many will sit for hours and hours. If they win a jackpot, many will give it all back. The hotels know all about this, and they are continually improving and updating their casinos to make them more exciting, modern, and consumer-friendly—a place where you can see yourself making it big.”

The comps are spectacular. Vegas, says Rankin, invented the comp. So it’s no surprise that Harrah’s offered Terrance Watanabe V.I.P. perks, such as free stays in a three-bedroom suite at Caesars, seven-course meals while he gambled, and tickets to see the likes of the Rolling Stones.

“If a player of this caliber is not happy, he will simply walk across the street and keep playing at another casino,” Rankin points out. “So it’s well worth a hotel’s investment to make him feel like a king by offering him comps. Hotels answer to shareholders, and they actively compete for high rollers like Mr. Watanabe. It’s well worth the cost of a $1,000 bottle of champagne to keep someone who’s betting many times that in his chair.

“Some establishments even have a ‘secondary marketing’ department whose sole job it is to keep the wives, children, and friends of high rollers happy so that they don’t influence the primary target to leave. That might mean showing them around town, taking them out to dinner, or surprising them with tickets to a show.”

Everyone could be a V.I.P. To a lesser extent, everyone in Vegas is wooed by the V.I.P. treatment, or at least the possibility of receiving V.I.P. treatment. Sure, all guests are treated well, but if you bet enough or win enough, you’ll be waited on hand and foot. Think about it: You see a postman or an administrative assistant or a bank teller win the jackpot. Suddenly, that person—who is an average joe at home—is being treated like royalty. And you think to yourself, That could be me. What’s next? Well, says Rankin, your compulsion to win will grow. And you’ll keep playing.

“Again, it all goes back to putting the forbidden within the customer’s reach,” explains Rankin. “Hotels will go to great lengths to make customers call their casinos home, and they’ll do anything for you so that you will come back and bring your money with you. If that means giving you a free drink or even a personal handler, so be it. Everyone wants to feel important.

“As a hotel employee, I saw just how pervasive this please-the-guest culture is,” he adds. “When I was a doorman working the 2 a.m. cab line, I was expected to keep my mouth shut even when faced with verbal abuse and physical violence. And in Vegas, both of those things are commonplace. No matter what, though, it was always my position on the line—the guests themselves would not be thrown out for anything but the very worst behavior.” Note: See attached tipsheet for more details on how casinos attract and keep guests.

The booze is always flowing. Yes, alcohol is available just about everywhere in Vegas. No matter where you go, it seems, a cocktail waitress is at your elbow, offering you a drink, or refilling the one you already have. And it’s not just booze, either: Drugs are there for the taking as well. Obtaining them might not be legal, but in most cases, all you need to do is ask the right people.

“The effects of drugs and alcohol on your decision making are obvious,” Rankin points out. “But casinos will keep serving you as long as you’re coherent, as long as you seem to know what you’re doing. It’s up to you to know when to stop once you’ve started, and most people find it hard to tap into that sort of self-discipline in the strip’s addictive environment. The bottom line is, unless you’re clearly not in control of yourself, hotels and casinos are not responsible for unwise decisions you make while you’re under the influence.”

“Ultimately,” says Rankin, “Las Vegas is not a city that’s about being smart. It’s not a city that’s about making good decisions, or knowing when to stop. And it’s not meant to be. Most of Vegas’s attractions—gambling, sex, drinking, getting high—are very slippery slopes. One step over the line leads to another, and then another, and then another. And pretty soon, the only thing that can obscure the guilt and panic you feel is to seek out those thrills again. It happened to Mr. Watanabe, and to a lesser but no less devastating extent, it happens to hundreds of average joes every day.”

# # #

The Science Behind Sin City: Six “Lucky”

(for the House, That Is!) Tips and Tricks That Keep Las Vegas Lit Up

From Jay Rankin, author of Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman’s Story

(Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN: 978-0-9842109-1-6, $14.99)

Millions of people from around the world come to Las Vegas to experience the city’s one-of-a-kind attractions and atmosphere. And they keep coming back, time after time. It’s not just because Vegas has that special je ne sais quoi—in Sin City, attracting visitors and keeping them there has been honed to a veritable art form. Here, author Jay Rankin reveals some common strategies Vegas hotels and casinos use to maximize profit and guests’ goodwill.

That “casino cachet” is calculated—right down to the carpet color. Nothing about a casino—its layout, its color scheme, its music, the placement of its staff—is left to chance. The patterned carpets, alluring noises, and lighting are designed to keep the senses stimulated. And heaven forbid that “unlucky number 13” makes an appearance! You won’t find it anywhere—not on room numbers, and certainly not a 13th floor.

“Hotels especially are experts in the science of human behavior,” notes Rankin. “They are masterful at playing into the ego, at making each guest feel as though he or she is special and different from everyone else. While a bellman might say, ‘I know you’re new in town; let me recommend a restaurant,’ what he’s really communicating is, ‘Tip me!’”

Big Brother is watching you play blackjack. It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. In Vegas, you’re always being watched, whether you’re on camera, being tracked electronically, or being monitored by a dealer in a live game. Casinos’ surveillance cameras are very high-tech—so much so that they can count your eyelashes. So if there is sleight of hand going on in a game, it will be noticed.

Also, when you gamble, you are given a player’s club card. This enables casinos to see how long you gamble, what your games of choice are, and how much you’re betting. If you’re a high enough roller, you’ll be targeted for special treatment—after all, the last thing the casino wants is for you to walk out the door! You might also be researched by other casinos who are hoping to woo you to a new “home” on the strip. It’s a constantly evolving science of how to keep players at each hotel.
 
The more you play, the more they pay. You probably know high rollers get the royal treatment. But the truth is, more moderate gambling is rewarded. Casinos track guests through their player’s club cards, and if you play enough, you can earn a free meal, or even a free room for the night! If you’re winning, you’ll be approached with these offers. If you’re losing, though, it’s your responsibility to go to the office and ask whether or not you qualify for any perks.

“Incidentally, casinos would rather you play a $1 slot machine for four hours than a $100 slot machine for five minutes,” notes Rankin. “You have to realize that 40 to 50 percent of their revenue doesn’t come from gambling but from shopping, dining, lodging, and so forth. The name of the game is to keep you on the premises as long as possible.”

Slot machines are meant to mesmerize. In high-end casinos, you can be sure that you’re using a state-of-the-art slot machine. Casino managers work to make sure that their establishments’ machines are as enticing as possible, with moving images and unique sounds. Some slot machines even talk to you! What you might not know is that these flashiest machines probably don’t pay as well. Regardless, casinos are betting you’ll be drawn to them because you like what they do.

“People truly get addicted to the lights and the noise,” says Rankin. “They will sit there for hours feeding money into a machine. It’s kind of like watching a movie.

“Casinos also watch the traffic patterns of their guests, and relocate their most lucrative machines accordingly,” adds Rankin. “It’s just like a retail setting: It pays to move the merchandise. The highest-payout machines are placed near walkways and registration areas, closest to the highest concentrations of guests. So some machines really do pay better than others—but if you’re looking to win, you might want to avoid the strip altogether. Machines in local casinos aren’t as tight.”

As the sun goes down, the bets go up. Although most visitors never notice, the minimum bet at the same blackjack table isn’t the same during the day as it is at night. The table might start at $1 while the strip is sunny, but that amount will rise to $5 as the afternoon wears on, and then to $10 at night. Casinos know that their clientele is changing—families are going to shows and eventually to bed, while more serious gamblers are just coming out.

Once your butt’s in a seat, they’ll do anything to keep it there. Once you’re sitting down, the casino wants you to stay there, and so do individual employees! Cocktail waitresses vie for certain areas of the floor, and they’ll bring you drinks as long as you’re sitting at a machine. And not only that—they’ll give you “hints” to keep you there, drinking and tipping.

“A waitress might say, ‘This machine has hit the jackpot twice in two weeks; it’s been so long it’s gotta be due again,’” says Rankin. “Never mind the fact that—scientifically—there’s no way to predict when a machine will or won’t hit.”

# # #

About the Author:

Jay Rankin didn’t research Las Vegas; he lived it. His six years as an MGM Grand doorman gave him the insider’s view of real Vegas life, the grit behind the glitz. Jay reveals a Vegas few people know exists. Jay hosted a weekly television show, Las Vegas Business Week. That media experience and his connections won him the ambassador’s job out of 1,500 applicants.  
 
Jay holds an advanced degree in psychology. He began writing in 1993 and is currently working on his second book, about his life after escaping Vegas. He resides in Los Angeles, California.

For more information or to read Chapter 1 of Under the Neon Sky, visit www.jayslasvegas.com.

About the Book:

Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman’s Story (Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN: 978-0-9842109-1-6, $14.99) is available at bookstores nationwide and from major online booksellers.

Jay Rankin is author of Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman’s Story

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I could hardly believe it. More than a year had passed and it had once again been time for the annual company ski trip to the Pocono Mountains. Unlike last year, almost everyone had decided to go the night before and stay in the same hotel, getting a full night’s sleep and reaching the slopes early, without getting lost on the way. Or so I thought. Although Sidonie had intended to join us the previous year, her excessive amount of alter-names had proven too many to fit on the invitation and she had therefore stayed home. This year she had been asked verbally. But perhaps the greatest difference between the two years is that this time I would attempt to ski, an experience, I must admit, I greatly looked forward to–with as much enthusiasm as root canal therapy without Novocain.

Having been the first to make the almost three-hour drive, I approached Mount Pocono shortly before 7:00 p.m., seeing the sun, low on the western horizon, cast a soft, yellow glow through the ubiquitous, bare, brown trees on the snow-devoid mountains. Wait, I thought, no snow meant no ski. The thought of not having to face my ski schizophrenia provided a momentary relief, but I felt sorry for those who had really come for the experience.

Although Mike had not traveled the night before and therefore had not shared the room with me, his ability to dictate my unearthly wake up time had hardly been eradicated. In order to reach the slopes by 9:15, I had to get up by 7:30–at least physically. He would see the rest of me by noon, I had warned.

Making my way down the long hallway and into the breakfast room like a zombie the next morning, I immediately caught glimpse of equally sleep-deprived Dorit, the other company Duty Manager.

“Did you sleep?” she anticipatorily asked.

“Nope,” I answered.

“I didn’t either,” she responded with a hint of desperation. “How could I with the noise in this hotel?”

“What noise?” I inquired.

“From the group,” she answered.

“You mean our group?”

“Yes, I mean our group.”

“What time did you get here last night?” I wondered.

“I arrived at 11:45 and the rest came at 1:19.”

1:19, I thought. At least her state had not robbed her of her accuracy.

I later learned that their late arrival had been due to loss of directions and the need to stop at Burger King.

“It seems they availed themselves of the hotel’s facilities,” she continued to explain, “going from room to room, to the pool, to the Jacuzzi,” whereupon, one by one, they entered the breakfast room, pajama’ed and barefoot. This year had already begun to vie with last year for “events,” I thought.

Leaving the group to its lengthy, “morning-after” preparation, Dorit and I decided to depart on time, as scheduled, she in the lead car with David and I in the trailing car with Damian. David, requesting a momentary bathroom visit before departure, reappeared 20 minutes later, at which time we drove out of the parking lot. Boy, he must have drunk a lot, I thought. Adhering to a self-restricted five words per day, he confidently led me to believe that he would not shatter Dorit’s cherished early-morning silence during the drive.

Following her jeep down the long, winding road toward Jack Frost Mountain, I turned into the parking lot. One year later and there he stood: the Mike. I had awakened at 7:30 and could barely see through my eyes. (I had actually forgotten that Damian had been next to me the entire time.) He had awakened at 5:00 and looked so damn chipper and cheery. With a positive mood like that, there must be snow up here somewhere, I thought. All right, so much for Plan A. There must be a Plan B.

Tires crunching over gravel alerted me to an approaching red car containing the only three who had not elected to drive the previous evening: Annie, Sidonie, and Jenner. Sidonie, wearing her Viking hat, sat in the back and folded the map a final time. Annie, owner and driver of the car and a person who had little patience for lengthy, embellished conversations, sat next to Jenner in the front who, unlike David, restricted herself to five words per second. In fact, she had initiated a sentence upon entering the car in New York and had just reached its verb as it pulled into the parking lot three hours later. As Annie opened the door, I attempted to read her thoughts, which assuredly must have gravitated round a single desperation: I need a Valium!

Jenner, getting out of the car, adjusted her sunglasses and stood before me.

“How was your ride?” I inquired.

Thinking it over, she responded with her universal, one-word-fits-all-occasions response, “Lovely!”

Walking across the road, we entered the lodge. Ordinarily used as a lounge and designated “Canteen,” it had been four times larger than last year’s and had featured a bar, mulitple tables and chairs, a fireplace, a sofa, wall-hung sleighs, and a wooden, outdoor deck with picnic tables. Serving as the group’s base, it would be the location to which we would return throughout the day.

As the others settled in, Damian and I elected to inspect the public areas and have a look at the ski slopes. Opening the door and catching first glimpse, I went into mild panic. There it was: the white stuff, blanketing the mountain. Didn’t it know how late in the season it was and that it should have melted by now? The snow and I were already not getting along. Oh, God, where was Plan C?

Because the group would travel the same short distance as Dorit and I had and would not be given misdirections by Adam, who had been unable to attend this year, they should theoretically have trailed us by only a few minutes, but, in fact, pulled into the Jack Frost parking lot almost two hours late.

“Where have you been?” Dorit inquired, as they filed across the road to the lodge.

“We stopped in McDonalds,” Patrick explained.

Could this group not go anywhere without stopping at a fast-food place first? I wondered.

Back in the lodge, Mike prepared to purchase the ski tickets. Counting the number of people who intended to take lessons and those who intended to partake of full-fledged skiing (do you think I was part of the latter group?), he temporarily left and returned with the stack of ski passes, the sight of which sent fear through my body like a bolt of lightening. Those tickets may well have been gallows! I could not believe that I was going to go through with this!

Mike distributed the triangular-shaped hangars which attached to one’s clothing and on which the peeled, gummed passes were glued. Examining these two items, I could not imagine how they could possibly be united into a single, hanging identification badge, and took some 20 minutes of attempting multiple configurations before I had been able to do so. If attaching the badge were this complicated, I thought, what would it be like putting on the actual skis?

Successfully hooking the assembly to my pants, I stood up.

“You suddenly look very confident, Robert,” Mike observed.

Silently looking at him, I thought: there’s a fine line between confidence and stark terror.

Thus provisioned for my pending trauma, I left the main lodge with Sidonie, Damian, and Jenner, crossing the snow-covered ground to the ski equipment rental shack. Directed first to the ski boot room, we walked among the aisles of boots, clueless as to which size would actually fit us. No shoe store ever looked like this, I thought. “Look at these fashions,” I commented, as Damian aimlessly began to try on the closest boots to his reach.

Deciding upon a set of boots (did they have to have a pair that fit me?), I moved to the next station. As I clumped across the floor in my 100-pound foot armor, displaying as much finesse as a rhinoceros walking down an aisle of Swarovski crystal, I shared a reflection from last year’s ski trip with Jenner and Sidonie. “Now I know what Joseph was talking about last year when he put his ski boots on for the first time and said, ‘These shoes are damn tight,’ only damn’ wasn’t quite the word he had used.” Sidonie gave me that glazed look.

In order next to obtain the properly-sized skis, we had to present ourselves at two counters, where we were required to complete and sign a consensus form more detailed and complicated than that preceding open-heart surgery.

“You have to circle one of the numbers between one and three,” the representative instructed me.

“What do they mean?” I asked.

“One is the lowest amount of ski experience and three is the most,” she answered.

“Don’t you have anything lower than a one?” I desperately inquired.

Assessing my ski boot size, she then waded her way through the racks until she had found the corresponding skis, returning to the counter and, after tightening them with a screw driver, handed them over to me.

Shakingly, I cradled them in my arms and looked at her pleadingly. Puzzled, she looked back, wondering what I could still have wanted. What, I thought, no prayer? I’m a first-time skier!

Now fully outfitted with boots and skis, I walked toward the exit, following Damian, Jenner, and Sidonie, at which time one last person stopped me. Did he want to see my ski badge, too? I wondered.

“Wait,” he said, “you have to get your poles.”

You get those, too? I thought. For all I intended to do, I probably could have done without them.

As the four warriors now emerged on to the battlefield of virgin snow, led by Sidonie in her Viking hat, Jenner proudly proclaimed, “I’m not a novice! I’ve had former skiing experience.”

“Where?” I asked, already anticipating how inferior I would look in comparison to her.

“Holland,” she enthusiastically shared.

With a country entirely under sea level, you could have done better than that, I thought, and my anticipated inferiority image rapidly faded. Sensing my disbelief, she supported, “No, there are small hills there.”

I didn’t know that the country was so overrun with ants, I thought!

Damian had been the first of the four to actually ski…in other words, make the initial plunge into danger. Attaching his left boot to his ski and then the right, he stood erect, grabbed his poles, and catapulted across the snow-covered ground like an F.104 fighter launched from an aircraft carrier deck, careening into a snow bank.

I will certainly look more professional than that, I thought. Following his lead, I attached my ski to the left boot, praying that it would not fit (the moment of truth was at hand and I had run out of plans), and then the right. As if the plug on all friction had suddenly been pulled, I accelerated forward, passing Sidonie and picnic table in a helpless blur, and yelled, “Sidu..” until the facade of the lodge intervened and arrested my travel. So much for the improvement over Damian! I thought

New activities often provide new perspectives and I must admit that, during my initial ski experience, that I had had a profound revelation–namely, that everyone has a goal in life and that mine was to return to the ski rental shop and kiss my concrete-griping shoes to kingdom-come.

Mike, sensing the need for a personal ski lesson, stood next to me, issuing a submachine gun fire of instructions: “Stand up straight…poles on the side…skis directly ahead…bend the knees…lean back on the shin bones…ankles stiff…head forward…eyes ahead…center of gravity over the skis…in other words, work your way into a position like you have to go to the bathroom”

I shot him a glance and stated through chattering teeth, “It may not be like!”

“Okay,” he stated, “that’s it. You’re ready! (Ready for what, I wondered?) “I suggest you ski to the right toward the beginner’s slope.”

“Ah,” I nervously pondered, “I actually think I’ll ski to the left.”

“The left?” he puzzled. “What’s there?

“The place where I return the equipment,” I hesitatedly answered.

“Well, then,” he answered with attempted patience, “I’ll go off skiing myself.”

I almost felt sorry for him after all his work. I said almost, because the question of whether there had been a cast for every part of the body–yes, that part, too–had not yet been answered.

Jenner, upon inquiry from her Station Manager concerning her initial ski experience, stated, “I fell down” and promptly bent face forward to reveal, as evidence, the round, wet spot on the pants covering two half moons which, when put together, equaled a full butt, no buts about it.

Fear certainly has a way of distorting perception. First-time skier Ecaterina had somehow passed me and made it to the top of an 8,000-foot mountain with a vertical drop. “Robert!” she yelled. “You should see the view from here. It’s beautiful!”

“Marvelous,” I yelled, fearing a noise-induced avalanche. “Take pictures! I’ll look at them later.”

I subsequently learned that her elevation had been three feet higher than mine had!

While performing one of my cross-country ski expeditions–translated as between one picnic table and the other–a passing skier yelled, “How’re you doing? By the way, which group are you with?”

I stretched a crooked arm and pointed to the three souls clinging to the picnic table like capsized ship survivors clutching a floating life raft. Cowardly, yes, but they were my group and I loved them!

During one of my “ski walks,” which must have made me appear as graceful as a hippopotamus attempting the ballet, a blue, stocking hat image blurred by to the right, caught his ski on an ice protrusion, and plunged into an almost sequence-indistinguishable maneuver of impact: the right ski tripped on the elevated surface; the left ski rose vertically toward the sky; gravity pulled his rump toward the hump; the skier plunged into the snow, careening toward the left; the right leg flipped over; the head bored a trench into the ice; snow entered the left nostril like a plunger into a backed up toilet; and the entire discombobulated, white-sheathed ice bank came to a halt.

“Are you all right?” I yelled.

The snow pile nodded.

“I’ll try to make it there and help,” I returned, “but at the speed I move, I think spring thaw will get there first.”

Luckily, a more experienced skier passed, lifted the man up, and transformed him from snowman to human. By the time the situation had been remedied, I myself had significantly closed the gap to the scene–by at least a foot!

Meanwhile, picnic table-bound Sidonie had bravely attempted several unaided skiing positions herself, which justifiably must have made her very proud: at the end of the bench, on the middle of the bench, half a butt hanging off the bench, and a full, double-diamond switch–from the bench to the table. I could not help but wonder: why did she look more content than I?

The waning sun beckoned everyone back to the lodge, where the pear-filled schnapps glasses, sporting miniature flags, lined the picnic table on the outdoor deck, and the goulash, dumplings, and spaetzl warmed in chafing dishes on the bar, filling the room with aromas of Austria. One by one, they returned to the comfort and safety of the hut like soldiers seeking refuge in their barracks from battle, nursing their wounds: George, with a black-and-blue buttocks, Munny with a swollen leg, Ricky with torn ligaments, and Sidonie with splinters (from the picnic table). Swelling seemed to be a common denominator in Munny’s ski adventures. Last year, as I recall, he had brought some girl, disappeared, and did not resurface until the end of the day with very swollen lips, as if some cosmetic doctor had gone hog-wild on him with collagen injections.

All too soon it had again come time to leave and make the long drive back to New York.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I could see Mike recede in the rearview mirror and I somehow sensed that the recipe for next year’s trip had already begun to simmer on the back burners of his mind.

Driving through Pennsylvania on Interstate 80 and passing the Delaware Water Gap as Damian and Noemi slept, filling the car with a cacophony of snores and snorts, I reveled in the fact that I had come a long way in overcoming my ski phobia: last year snow tubing, this year ski lessons, and next year–who knows, I may actually put on both skis…

A graduate of Long Island University-C.W. Post Campus with a summa-cum-laude BA Degree in Comparative Languages and Journalism, I have subsequently earned the Continuing Community Education Teaching Certificate from the Nassau Association for Continuing Community Education (NACCE) at Molloy College, the Travel Career Development Certificate from the Institute of Certified Travel Agents (ICTA) at LIU, and the AAS Degree in Aerospace Technology at the State University of New York – College of Technology at Farmingdale. Having amassed almost three decades in the airline industry, I managed the New York-JFK and Washington-Dulles stations at Austrian Airlines, created the North American Station Training Program, served as an Aviation Advisor to Farmingdale State University of New York, and devised and taught the Airline Management Certificate Program at the Long Island Educational Opportunity Center. A freelance author, I have written some 70 books of the short story, novel, nonfiction, essay, poetry, article, log, curriculum, training manual, and textbook genre in English, German, and Spanish, having principally focused on aviation and travel, and I have been published in book, magazine, newsletter, and electronic Web site form. I am a writer for Cole Palen’s Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome in New York. I have made some 350 lifetime trips by air, sea, rail, and road.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/tips-from-a-terriefied-skier-1762390.html

Are you getting married soon? If so, you should definitely consider a destination wedding. Of course if you have been dreaming of getting married in the church that your grandparents did since you were 5 or you have the perfect back yard for the reception, that by all means take that opportunity and run with it, but if you aren’t attached to any great sites a getaway wedding is a wonderful idea.

You will probably need to keep it small and also make sure you get the details to everyone far ahead of time so that they can get off work or clear their schedule since it won’t be in town and just minutes away.

Something else you may want to seriously consider is chartering a private jet or two for the occasion. This way you won’t have to worry about checking everything for your trip and other passengers getting in the way of your celebration. If can be a romantic and stress free way of getting to and from your destination.

The best part of destination weddings is that they really are a fairy tale come true. You can go to the beach or I know someone that got married in Ireland where her ancestors were from. They brought about 75 people with them to share the weekend with and they had n amazing time. The pictures for any wedding are always memorable, but especially if you go away to an amazing place.

Look online for great deals and even check through your local travel agent to learn about how to charter a private jet. You may even want to consider a wedding planner to help you out if the place is very far away so you don’t get overwhelmed with the details. Just remember to make the planning fun and memorable because it is part of the whole process and you need to just take everything in and enjoy every step of it, after all, you only get married once!

If you are having a destination wedding you might want to consider a private jet for your guests. Private jet charter gives you more of a romantic feel to your wedding and your guests will love it.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/getting-married-1762568.html

Imagine, having your own place in Florence, Italy. That’s always been a dream for Kim and I. So, when we went to Florence last week we tried to find a place that felt like home, but, because we’re on vacation, also feel like a 5 star hotel. With just a little research, we found it. It’s called the JK Place Hotel. After our stay, it was obvious why Travel and Leisure voted it one of the best hotels in 2010.

I don’t often go nuts over hotels, because I spend a lot of time in them and frankly it takes a lot to impress me, but the JK Place Hotel, completely, above and beyond, impressed me. It impressed me so much that I asked that manager, Claudio Meli, if he’s was willing to go on camera to talk about it.

So, what’s the big deal, why is this place so unbelievable? Oh, let me count the ways. I generally make my decisions about a hotel before I arrive. I judge them based upon what my ‘pre-trip phone calls’ are like. I sometimes call a hotel, a half dozen times before I arrive, to sort through restaurants, night life and cool things to do. Crazy, I know, but remember we are creating videos and guidebooks and our info just has to be right. This pre-trip research is my first step. Needless to say, I’m kind of a pain in the ass about these things.

When I called the JK in Florence, I was greeted by a warm friendly voice (Lorenzo) who knew who I was (and it wasn’t a jet set life thing) and who was genuinely expecting me. He really was. It was kind of like having a very cool friend in Florence, who totally ‘gets’ the vibe you’re looking for and has all the connections to make it happen.

Within 24 hours I had the perfect list of restaurants, night life and cool things to do that were broken down by specific categories (like once in a lifetime, stylish, see and be seen and cozy). The list was very tight and came with website urls and the name of the people that would be expecting us if we selected it.

After I made my picks from Lorenzo’s list, I called the hotel to book everything. I spoke with Angela, a lovely soft spoken Italian woman who was totally aware of what Lorenzo sent me and was sitting ‘on ready’ for me to green light our choices. Twenty-four hours later, I had every detail of my trip handled exactly the way I wanted. No begging. No repeated phone calls like ” who are you again”. I felt like I was Bruce Springsteen coming to stay with them. Realize, I haven’t even left America yet!

Now, for the moment of truth. After the long transatlantic flight from the states, I had to know if this place was for real or did I just get lucky with some really cool people on the phone? We arrived to one of the most beautiful squares in Florence, Piazza Santa Maria Novella, to a building with no ‘obvious’ hotel sign on it (later I noticed a small nameplate on the wall to the side). In the JK Place, the only way to gain entry, is to ring a bell.

Within seconds, Lorenzo (in Gucci from head to toe) lets us in. His first words are “you must be Rob and Kim”, second words were “can I get you a glass of wine and some lunch”? I was like, this isn’t a dream and there really is a Lorenzo! He brought us in to a sitting room that was totally hip, sexy and baroque all at the same time. He didn’t ask for a credit card, or for us to sign anything. He sincerely wanted us to relax and enjoy our first few moments in our new home in Florence.

Out from nowhere comes what can only be described as an apparition. A young 20 something, in a butlers apron, with a silver platter of wine goblets and a light amazing lunch. I asked Lorenzo to join us so we could go over his itinerary. He stopped everything he was doing and explained every single restaurant, club and event that we had scheduled, with the intellect of a historian and the warmth of a best friend.

After lunch, he brought us into what can only be called the non-check in area. Imagine a private library, like Batman had, but was totally hip and historical all at the same time. He gave us a brief tour of the hotel and gave us the keys to our room. Kim and I were escorted in the hidden elevator (you would never know it’s there; it’s cleverly hidden behind glass) to room 21.

We opened the door to our room and our heart stopped. There it was, our own private palazzo in Florence! Our room had two floors, with a window that opened up to the most amazing view of the ancient piazza (square) below. Oh yeah, there was a big bowl of fresh fruit waiting for us, with a beautiful hand written note.

I suppose, I could go on and on talking about how there are only 20 rooms and each one is different, or how the ‘pink room’ is the perfect sexy place to have a cocktail or lunch. Or how the daily torts will make your eye balls pop out (not to mention your belly). Or how there are more staff members than actual guest rooms. Or how, on a beautiful day you can lounge on the upstairs private deck and listen to the church bells announce the hour. Or how from the penthouse bathtub you have a stunning view of Florence’s famed Duomo. I’ll just tell you to get on the plane, right now, and run to the JK Place (if you’re lucky enough to get in).

Robert Murgatroyd is the co-owner of Jet Set Life http://www.jetsetlife.tv/ where he reports on where the Jet Set stay, eat and play around the world. For more reviews, photos and videos check out his blog- Living Jet Set http://www.jetsetlife.tv/robsblog/Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/the-jk-place-hotel-in-florence-italy-my-personal-palazzo-1762602.html

Planning a perfect holiday or vacation in an absolutely stunning location if often the reason that people look to the Waterfront Cottages. These cottages offer a person the unique opportunity to escape the busy lifestyle that you may e caught up in and enjoy a little time to slow down and enjoy the wonderful world that surrounds the cottage.

The cottages are completely equipped. A person can pack a light bag and find themselves totally prepared for their vacation. You will find that the kitchens have everything that is needed to enjoy quiet meals on the patio or drink tea from the veranda. You will find the market is fully stocked with all of the supplies you need to test your culinary skills.

From the cottage you will have a view of the lake and countryside. The inviting towns and villages are filled with friendly and warm people that will invite you to share in their activities and market days. Finding the gathering place for old-timers in the village, a person can sit and hear endless stories about the history of the area and find out about places that must be explored while visiting.

Whether a person is participating in one of the festivals or enjoying the quiet walk around the lake, the countryside will provide a stunning backdrop against a beautiful sky. A person can spend time fishing or rent a boat to cruise around the lake. Wherever you go, you will feel like you are among friends and will find wonderful places to explore throughout the area.

Staying at the cottages is a delight. Every need has been anticipated including the bicycles that are leaning against the side of the cottage. Riding along the lanes and paths, you will be able to enjoy the freedom of this great area. Or, hike up the hill and see the towns and villages below. Wandering through the forest and meadows one feels that they are the first to venture into this magical place.

Some of the larger towns offer clubs, dancing, and dining that is a short drive from the cottage. A person will enjoy venturing to the larger town and participating in the activities. But sitting in one of the local cafes a short walk from the cottage will still be a great delight. Enjoying the local cuisine that includes fresh fish, vegetables, and seasonal fruit while drinking a cup of hot tea will be relaxing.

When taking the hiking trails that are laid throughout the reserves, you can see the wildlife and beautiful flowers and plants of the region. Spending time at the rest points will allow you to absorb the fresh air and enjoy the natural action that is taking place around you. At night, the imagination can run wild with stars so close that you can almost touch them. Without the smog and noise of the city, you will begin to discover the wonder of starry nights.

There is something for everyone to do at the Waterfront Cottages. A family will find that this is a great opportunity to spend quality time together and enjoy biking, hiking, and the local water sports. A writer will be inspired by the glorious landscape and the wonderful people that populate the region. And, a day dreamer will find that they have finally found a home that nurtures the day dreamer in everyone.

Vacationers will surely enjoy the stunning scenery and charming atmosphere of the Muskoka cottages. The equally popular Fractional cottages also make worthwhile investments if you look forward to spending quality time with family and friends.Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/having-a-great-vacation-at-waterfront-cottages-1762725.html

Crossing the New Jersey-Pennsylvania state line at the Delaware Water Gap, I paralleled the muddy-appearing Delaware River near the Appalachian Trail, the interstate narrowing to two lanes and shallowly ascending into the brown-treed, gray shale rock-covered Pocono Mountains.  The slender, finger-like white patterns representing the still-snow-covered ski trails of Camelback Mountain were now visible through the left car window. As the miles rolled by, I thought of the past two ski trips, trips which had been highlighted–perhaps “warped” is the better word–by the personalities of my group. Put them on skis and they excelled in more ways than you can imagine. Did I dare subject myself to them again? I could have turned round right now…

The descending, right-curving off-ramp led to my hotel, located four miles from Jack Frost Mountain, itself the converging point of my company’s third annual ski trip.

We had consistently attempted to overnight in a different hotel property each year. It had nothing to do with variety, mind you, but instead the inescapable fact that the group’s noise, rowdiness, and animalistic release had always banned their return. I had hoped that sufficient demand would prompt hotel construction in the area; otherwise, we would someday run out of locations–because, you see, they had not only shined on skies, but wherever we had stayed. Read on.

The setting sun released an orange bath into the dense, bare brown trees blanketing the area. It would not be long now.

At about 11:30 there began a series of uninterrupted door openings and closings down the hotel corridor which continued until almost sunrise, indicating that my “group” had arrived. I do not think the manufacturer of the door hinge itself had subjected them to such frequent testing before release to the public for sale. Oh, well, I had another look round my room, since it would be the last time I would see it. We would not be welcomed back here.

The night clerk quickly rethought his “nice” gesture of reopening the pool for the group when their excessive noise, the equivalent of a tribal, return-to-barbarism chant, had quickly forced him to oust them and re-close it.

The group had apparently collected numerous, hopelessly unmixable types of alcohol and proceeded to join their liquid forces together in a single glass under the collective name of “death”–with or without ice. It made no difference–except, perhaps, for those headed to a hot place on the way out.

Whaid, who barely returned a primordial grunt to my daily “hellos” at work, launched into an alcohol-induced, therapy-session-waiting-to-happen lament during the dark hours of the night in his hotel room, crying, “Nobody loves me” and followed it with a finger-pointing, broken-record monotone of “But I’ll be there for you…”

“I’ll be there for you…”

“I’ll be there for you…”

The following day he had slouched into a Road Runner position on skis and had wizzed by someone who had fallen and obviously needed someone to be there for him. He wasn’t.

Luckily, Munny, who devoutly lived by his “you need a hug” philosophy, had been in the room with him the previous evening to dry his tears.

Josue had apparently also “tasted” one of these liquid suicides. So intoxicated had he become, in fact, that Berqui had been forced to deposit him in the bathtub, where he had continued to sleep. It is a good thing that he had been the designated driver. I dare not look for adjectives to describe the conditions of the others.

Poor Dorit. The hotel’s front desk, apparently pegging her as Mother Hen, had called her in the wee hours of the morning as she had finally drifted off to sleep and warned, “If you don’t keep your boys quiet, I’ll be forced to call the police!” If she had ever dreamt of having children, they were not them.

We had agreed to meet for breakfast at 8:00 and bleary-eyed Dorit, Rocio, and Ronald had walked into the hotel’s breakfast room at this time. The other dozen, having only fallen asleep three hours earlier, would be lucky to make it by noon.

Completing the five-minute drive down deserted Route 940 from the hotel on that cold, clear morning after a brief pause to allow the night’s collected windshield ice to melt, I had been among the first to arrive at Jack Frost Mountain. The lodge, the same one used the previous year, had already taken on signs of our pending invasion, with food and drink lining the outside deck and the inside bar, and the fireplace having been recently stacked with logs and lit. There he stood inside it, the Mike, nucleus of the annual event.

The room had otherwise been quiet, a calm before the storm, although with the night the group had had it would most likely remain so for several hours.

Taking the opportunity to have a look round, I walked through the main lodge and out the door to the snow-covered slopes and rotating chair lifts, which echoed the events and the personalities of the previous year. Moving my head to the right, I saw it. There it stood, like a monument to a person who had discovered the most innovative use of an object connected to skiing, wind-swept and nestled in the snow. A small placard atop it had read:

PICNIC TABLE RESERVED FOR: SIDONIE

With all the time she had spent at it last year, despite her “splinter issues,” I had fully expected her to have run a line out to it and to have set up a computer–not to mention a small filing cabinet. I was sure that she had intermittently hired and brought an administrative assistant this year for her outdoor “office.”

A petite woman, releasing a low, staccato cough, skied by and the sound instantly transported me back to our first ski tip and little Moniquita. One should not be misled by a person’s small size. Lurking behind it can be a personality more powerful than an atom bomb, which, come to think of it, had been a pretty accurate analogy of her. She had, however, been like many other things:

Like a rocket on the launch pad in Florida waiting for someone to push her “take off” button.

Like the eruption in the core of Mount St. Helens in the state of Washington.

Like the hot section of a high bypass ratio turbofan engine powering a 747.

Like the poblano pepper in every hot tamale.

Like the circular wind in every tornado.

Like the chaos caused by the universe’s Big Bang, played in reverse.

Like the fire in the earth’s inner core.

Like the nightmare from which one cannot awake, but if one succeeds in doing so, he only finds her in the room with him.

Like Leona Helmsley with a Spanish accent.

One day at work, one of Monica’s employees had walked into the office and explained, “Monica sent me to get some reports.”

“Sent?” I had intoned. “Monica never sends anyone! Shoots out of a cannon, maybe!”

People express their personalities differently. Ricky, for instance, who had attended last year, seemed to assert himself with repetition. Indeed, his two-word question of “What happened? seemed to replace the need for all other words in the English language.

“What did you eat last night, Ricky?”

“What happened?”

“What time did you get up this morning, Ricky?”

“What happened?”

“Are you enjoying your ski day, Ricky?”

“What happened?”

I had once been cooped up with him in a small room when he had been a student in one of my classes and by the end of the third day they had taken me away in a straight jacket! I can only wonder what he will be like when he is 80 and his hearing begins to decline

I had regretted that some of our colleagues, whom we had known for so long that they had become virtual relatives, would be unable to attend this year, such as Uncle Omar, admittedly a slightly older, burpy type whose idea of a strenuous evening began with a strong laxative, and Auntie Omiamalie, whose frustrated desire for the nice things in life had often surfaced with the first words she had taught any maturing, aspiring young woman, that most important of all success-promoting phrases: “Daddy, I need a credit card!” In fact, if she had ever aspired to become a language teacher, she had once explained, she would make sure that these would be the first words her students would translate.

Making the short drive from the hotel to the ski lodge later that morning (I guess 11:55 can still be considered “morning”), the group arrived, carrying lipstick red-eyed Josue from the dirt parking lot to the lodge like paramedics (a stretcher is already on next year’s “Mandatory Supply” list) and depositing him on the couch in front of the fireplace.

Spreading his legs apart as if he had been about to give birth, he slumped into a virtual comma. He later confessed that the only thing he had remembered about the ride had been the wind returning his involuntary vomitary to him as he had poked his head through an open window. He had also expressed regret that Annie had been unable to join us on the ski trip this year, although she had sat across from him for two hours. (!)

By 2:00, the only ski-related accomplishment he had made had been to attach his ski pass to his coat. He had then lapsed into a second nap in order to recover from the effort. The slopes closed at 4:00.

After last year’s torture, I had decided to engage in that ski activity in which I excelled–instruct. David, who had never before attempted the frictionless dare, wondered, “Since you skied last year, I wonder if you could give me some pointers to promote safety?”

I paused for a moment and looked down, wondering if the other “ski” event he referred to could have been last year’s crippled careen between picnic tables, remembering the feeling of having stood on two flat, elongated, highly-polished pieces of wood which had offered less friction than a baby’s thoroughly-oiled bottom on a surface of frozen, white, nightmarish snow, my feet held hostage by two crushing, hard-sided, impenetrable boots which had severed all connection with the outside oxygen and my circulation. I had seriously needed to re-examine my life’s direction. He had actually wanted to volunteer for an activity like this, I had wondered? He would have had better odds with the drink called “death.”

“Well,” I had hesitated. “I do have some safety-related ski tips for you based on my experience.”

“What?” he had eagerly wanted to know, craning his neck toward me.

“If you want to ski in total safety,” I had slowly shared with him, “whatever you do, don’t leave the building!” Which is exactly what Sidonie did.

In fact, Sidonie had worked up more of a sweat walking between her seat and the ladies’ room in the lodge this year than she had on her skis outside of it last year. I love a kindred, although cowardly spirit, and I followed right behind her to the men’s room. This was a true “cross country.” It is a shame that the others will never know what they had missed!

I hope that Jenner had enjoyed herself. She had sat across from Sidonie, partaking of the “lunch” she had brought for everyone (the equivalent of a full aisle at the Stop-and-Shop and one which had induced me to dig for discount coupons), and did not utter a single “lovely” the entire day–the equivalent of a pulse for everyone else and therefore fully categorizable as one of her “vital signs.”

Damian, wearing his usual aloof, inter-planetary expression, frequently made shopping trips down this food aisle, constantly carrying piled-high plates. He had spent considerable time outside skiing, and had vastly improved over last year (for which I had hated him).

“My, you have quite an appetite, Damian,” I had observed.

“Well, skiing makes you hungry, Robert,” he had returned. “Besides, you know what they say: you should get your eight.”

“Those are hours of sleep, Damian,” I had corrected, “not meals per day!”

As Sidonie and Jenner ate, I could only think that they had clung to the picnic table on skis last year and would not leave the lodge this year. I wondered if they would actually get out of the car next year.

Ecaterinata, arriving in the early afternoon and remembering my undying love for the sport, caught me walking across the snow with a short set of skis in my arms for seven-year-old Julia.

“You finally found a small enough pair you’re comfortable with?” she had inquired. Even these I would not put on, I thought, but quickly grew angry that I had not thought of this option last year.

Adam, the singular source of the elongated drive because of his hopelessly inadequate ability to follow directions two years ago, had left the company, but had returned for this year’s ski event. He had intermittently trained for a position as a pilot specializing in navigation.

During the day on the advanced slope, he had sprained his groin and walked bow-legged for the remainder of it, as if he had carried some invisible basketball between his legs. (!)

Munny, only 20, had since turned into manager, father (of this staff), and workaholic, careening, like Adam, down the advanced slope, but with a pole in one hand, conducting business with his cell phone in the other, and projecting a smoke-puffing cigarette from his mouth in between. I can only wonder what he will be like when he is 50.

Andy (that is his last name–his first name is “Handy”) equally made his first foray into skiing, but had consistently experienced difficulty in stopping, and therefore often did so by means of the building in front of him. In fact, at times, he had appeared like a human pinball, bouncing from one wall to another. I had told him that skis were not equipped with brakes. If they had been, I may have put one on myself this year. (I said “one,” not “one pair!”)

Andy had not been the only one to use existing obstructions to his advantage, although I still cannot, at this writing, understand the reversed sequence of events. Most people hit a tree while skiing and fall. Little Lauralitta had apparently fallen into the snow and collided with a tree branch upon getting up, her ponytail bobbing behind her head like a spring-loaded doll. For the remainder of the day she walked round with a dazed look and the permanent imprint of an oak on her forehead.

As I had passed Ronald, I had found him virtually upside-down in a ravine, skis and poles dangling from him like the outstretched tentacles of an octopus, and yelled, somewhat in panic, “Ronald, are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” he had yelled back. “I think I’m getting the hang of it!”

I wonder if it had been an inflated ego or sheer delusion.

How, you may ask, could I have witnessed all of these events when I had, in fact, never donned a single pair of skis? Let’s put it this way: the love of short, stubby, concrete-gripping shoes. I had total freedom, running after everyone like Father Goose, instructing, warning, extracting from the snow.

As the sun had begun to inch toward the west on that crisp, blue mid-March day, the Jack Frost staff had equally begun to close the resort for the night, forcing the remaining skiers to return to the lodge, who had passed Josue walking in the opposite direction toward the ski rental shack.

Steam rose from the chafing dishes lining the bar, and the obligatory group photograph back-dropped by the company logo signaled the end to another ski adventure.

As the Pocono Mountains receded behind me during the drive from Pennsylvania to New York that evening, I had concluded that travel usually brought out the best in people. That concept did not seem to apply to my group–unless this had been their best! Ah, but I had breathed a sigh and thought positively, hoping that they would someday develop into fine, “normal” people.

Someday, I would also become a full-fledged, Olympic Gold Medal skier. I wonder which of the two should be given the better odds…?

A graduate of Long Island University-C.W. Post Campus with a summa-cum-laude BA Degree in Comparative Languages and Journalism, I have subsequently earned the Continuing Community Education Teaching Certificate from the Nassau Association for Continuing Community Education (NACCE) at Molloy College, the Travel Career Development Certificate from the Institute of Certified Travel Agents (ICTA) at LIU, and the AAS Degree in Aerospace Technology at the State University of New York – College of Technology at Farmingdale. Having amassed almost three decades in the airline industry, I managed the New York-JFK and Washington-Dulles stations at Austrian Airlines, created the North American Station Training Program, served as an Aviation Advisor to Farmingdale State University of New York, and devised and taught the Airline Management Certificate Program at the Long Island Educational Opportunity Center. A freelance author, I have written some 70 books of the short story, novel, nonfiction, essay, poetry, article, log, curriculum, training manual, and textbook genre in English, German, and Spanish, having principally focused on aviation and travel, and I have been published in book, magazine, newsletter, and electronic Web site form. I am a writer for Cole Palen’s Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome in New York. I have made some 350 lifetime trips by air, sea, rail, and road.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/personalities-in-progress-a-ski-story-1762738.html

Traveling to a foreign destination can make for a true adventure. International travel can be a very rewarding and exciting experience, but when traveling to an unknown destination it is extremely important to plan every last detail well in advance.

It is not advisable to wait until you arrive at your destination to establish a vehicle rental or to find a hotel room. Doing this could really leave you in a lurch. A better choice is to shop around in advance for a good deal on a vehicle rental and on a hotel, with the option to cancel.

This way, when you arrive at your destination, if you find a better deal then you can jump on it and just cancel your reservation without penalty. Arriving in an unknown location with little knowledge of the area, you need to know that you have secured reservations in advance. Changing them when you arrive may be a good idea, however, this will make sure that when you arrive at your destination, if there is some big event in town or some other happening that you have something to fall back on.

You just may find also that the reservations that you have made online in advance are actually the best deal for the money anyway, and then there will be no need to cancel them. Shopping around in advance can actually be a more economical way to find the best deals, and these days most companies have websites and maps that give you a good idea of where they are located and what you are paying for. Getting this type of sneak peak is a good idea, especially when looking for a hotel.

Also, when choosing to rent a car or reserve a hotel in an international location it is best to use a name brand that you are familiar with in that location. For instance Budget Car Rental has offices in international locations as well as in the U.S. and using a company that you are already comfortable with can be a good choice when other companies are unfamiliar to you. Of course, this is not to say that there is anything wrong with these other companies, but it is much simpler to make international reservations and secure them when you are familiar with the company you are shopping with. The same holds true with hotel chains as well.

Coolangatta car hire is easy to find and you can get great deals. Coolangatta car rental will not let you down.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/renting-a-vehicle-for-international-travel-1762774.html