Virginia Beach - The Sand & Surf
Photo by terren in Virginia
This post will deal with the beach itself. I’ll save the boardwalk for another post.
The Sand
The main attraction about Virginia Beach the town is the beach itself. It’s kept in immaculate shape. Early each morning, tractors sift the debris from the sand, and garbage cans are emptied of the previous day’s trash. It’s probably the cleanest beach I’ve ever seen in the U.S.
The Surf
Each August, the beach is the site of the East Coast Surfing Championships, so you know the waves are awesome. An added bonus if you’re in town for the tournament is the crowning of a new Miss REEF. Here’s a link: East Cost Surfing Championships
Catching Some Rays
But, if you’d rather take it easy and soak in the sunshine, the beach is the perfect spot for that also. Unless you want to haul your own chairs and umbrella to the beach each day, be prepared to fork over some cash. A one-day rental of two lounge chairs and a beach umbrella will cost you $39. Yikes! That will take a serious bite out of my cocktail budget. If you plan on tanning for more than a day, a cheaper alternative would be to bring your own from home, or buy a set up across the street at the local beach shop. Some people had more elaborate setups, including canopies and gazebos:
Something tells me they've done this before
You could really go ghetto and just plop yourself down on a towel from the hotel. Don’t forget the sunscreen, as the rays are strong. I spotted many sunburned backs who didn’t heed the warning. Don’t forget to build a sandcastle:
Photo by Sister72
Catch A Wave
What trip to the beach would be complete without a body board?
Scare the bejeezus out of the little ones
Again, the local beach shops stock a variety of sizes. The alternative would be to just body surf. Be wary of the strong waves; I was knocked off my feet more than once. But fear not: The beach is patrolled by many lifeguards, who tend to be overzealous in their whistle-blowing. One year, in the rough surf, I was repeatedly hassled for going out past my knees. Yes, you red that right. They treated everyone like a non-swimming five-year-old. I guess they don’t want anyone to drown on their watch.
The Pier
Just down the beach from our hotel is the Virginia Beach Fishing Pier, seen in the distance on the right in this photo:
It’s located at the end of 14th Street, and features a gift shop as well as a seafood restaurant. Everything has its price; It will cost you $2 to take a walk down the pier, and $8 to fish off of it. We opted for the $2 walk.
The Dolphins
Each day, we were treated to the sight of a pod of dolphins swimming near the breakers. Now, dolphins may only be gay sharks, but they were a rare sight to us Northerners. It seemed like everyone on the beach stopped what they were doing when the dolphins appeared. To get a closer view, there are dolphin-watching cruises available at the Rudee Inlet marina to the south of the beach area.
The Hornets
Photo by Rob Shenk
As in jet fighters. The Oceana Naval Air Station is home to several squadrons of F/A-18 Hornets, the Navy’s carrier-based strike fighter. I’m well acquainted with the Hornet, as my company builds some of the avionics. While I’m sure that most people will tire of hearing their roaring sorties, I still get excited when I see them overhead.
Eat At Joe’s
Besides the fighter jets, the beach is buzzed by small planes pulling advertising banners for restaurants, water parks, clubs, etc. My father-in-law tells a story about one of these planes stalling and crash landing in the shallow water near the beach. It started innocuously, as the plane’s engine started to sputter. As it finally quit, the pilot started aiming for the sand. People started to scatter wildly, until the plane landed in the shallow water near the beach. Which is why I always keep an eye out for falling planes.
On your way back from the beach, you’ll find the boardwalk, the subject of my next post. In the meantime, don’t forget the sunscreen.
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Virginia Beach - Holiday Inn Oceanfront
Posted by enrique s in Book & Product Reviews, Rants on August 24th, 2010
That's our hotel, but that's not me
I’m not going to turn this post into an advertisement for Holiday Inn. At least, not until they pay me for it. But that ain’t happening anytime soon, so what follows is my unbiased opinion of our accommodations during our Virginia Beach trip.
The Location
The Holiday Inn Oceanfront is located on Atlantic Avenue, just across from 21st Street. In fact, the entrance to the parking lot shares a traffic light with 21st Street. It’s right on the boardwalk, in the center of all the action. Within walking distance are many bars, restaurants, ice cream stands, and even an arcade.
The Parking Lots
Parking is tight all over Virginia Beach, and the hotel parking was no exception. If you venture out for dinner, good luck getting a spot when you arrive back at the hotel. You’ll probably have to settle for the hotel’s auxiliary parking lot, located just down 21st Street. Since 21st is a one-way street, you’ll have to circle around to Pacific Avenue via 22nd Street in order to make the left into the auxiliary parking lot on 21st Street.
The Lobby
The lobby of the Holiday Inn Oceanfront is clean and airy. There are two elevators, but no separate service elevator, so don’t be surprised if you’re riding up to your room next to a cart full of towels. The longest wait that I experienced was about five minutes, so this really wasn’t an issue for me. Located just off the lobby is the smallish indoor pool, and Latitudes Restaurant, which serves up excellent food. Free coffee is available throughout the day next to the bar in Latitudes. There are soda and ice machines located next to the elevator on each floor.
The Room
Our room contained two double beds, which can accommodate 4 adults if you so wish, provided you don’t fight over the bathroom. The bathroom is decently appointed, and the amenities included a blow dryer, iron & ironing board, refrigerator, and coffee maker. While it won’t knock your socks off, the place was clean, the air conditioning cranked, and the view from the balcony was pleasant. The balcony provided a nice view point of the boardwalk while I watched the sunrise.
10th floor view of sunrise over the empty boardwalk
While the A/C kept the room cool, the west-facing hallway outside the room is a wall of windows that bakes in the afternoon sun. The room set us back about $220 a night.
The Restaurant
Like I said before, Latitudes served up excellent meals, be it breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The menu includes burgers and wraps, and the beer was cold. Also, there’s a recreation above the bar of Ernest Hemingway fishing for marlin from the back of his boat, the Pilar. Here’s a picture:
Hemingway reeling 'em in
It’s the same boat that he purportedly hunted U-Boats with during World War II. The bar is a clean, well-lighted place to stop for a nightcap after an evening of roaming the streets. My wife enjoyed the mudslides, while I hoisted a Jack on the rocks to Papa Hemingway’s effigy. Then, it was off to bed, to get ready for a new day at the beach.
Which will be the subject of the next post.
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Driving to Virginia Beach
Photo by MPD01605
Not satisfied with our day trip plan, we decided to take a “real” vacation, which consisted of a road trip to Virginia Beach. We’ve made this trip several times over the past eight summers, and knew what to expect along the way. What follows is a summary, with some do’s and don’t’s thrown in.
Getting Started
The best way to avid traffic in the Greater New York area is to get your ass out of town early. Real early. We were packed up and on the road by 4:30 am, where our only company were farmers and fishermen. We sped through Brooklyn on the Belt Parkway, which was in its perpetual state of construction, and paid the $11 toll after crossing the Verrazano Bridge into Staten Island. A quick trip across the island brought us to the Goethals Bridge, as we avoided the malodorous West Shore Expressway. Just past the Goethals Bridge is the town of Elizabeth, former home of Hi-Cue Billiards. Then, it was on to the New Jersey Turnpike.
Jersey Turnpike
We rocketed along the Jersey Turnpike, stopping only once at the Molly Pitcher Service Area for Cinnabon. There was no traffic, and I had to fight myself to keep it under 80 mph. New Jersey gets a bad rap as a toxic wasteland. There are vast expanses of pine barrens and farmland, and I found the drive along the southern part of the turnpike to be pleasant, and not just because I was hauling ass. As the turnpike came to an end, we paid the $5.95 toll, and crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge into Delaware. Two and a half hours, and no traffic. Things looked good.
Delaware
Much to my dismay, Delaware does not have a true limited-access highway for its entire length. You’re forced to follow Route 13, which turns into a local road with traffic lights once you pass south of Dover. I thought the Midwest was the corn capital of the U.S., but Delaware looks like it can give it a run for the money. Acres and acres of corn, as far as the eye can see. Who the hell eats all of this corn? No wonder we’re a nation of obese diabetics. The final insult was waiting 15 minutes for a coal train to cross the road. Delaware took us about two hours to cross.
Maryland
The eastern part of Maryland looked much like Delaware, but thankfully it took us less time to cross, about 45 minutes. We were ready for the next stretch through Virginia.
Virginia’s Eastern Shore
When you cross the state line into Virginia, there’s a sign that welcomes you. It consists of a Confederate flag with “Dixieland” emblazoned across it. Below that it says “The South Starts Here”. Thanks for the reminder. I wonder how welcome that sign makes my African-American friends feel (Two come to mind that wouldn’t tolerate that shit). I guess that my beard allows me blend in with the locals, though when they see the New York plates on my car, the jig is up. I was very careful to keep an eye out for the ubiquitous state troopers. We were treated to the sight of many roadside establishments, such as Stuckey’s, selling Virginia hams and fireworks. The drive was pleasant, though, as the road was lined with blooming crepe myrtle trees. We arrived at the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel after an hour and fifteen minute drive.
Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel
Or should I say, tunnels. There are two of them that break up the expanse of this seventeen mile-long stretch that connects the Delmarva peninsula with the “mainland” of Virginia near Norfolk. As you pass the toll booths and fork over $12 for a one-way trip, you’re treated to a view of the wildlife refuge on Fishermans Island. I spied several large nests that most likely were made by ospreys. I was then reminded to keep my eyes on the road. One of the tunnel entrances features a restaurant and gift shop, which we avoided in order to make time. The tunnel sections allow large ships to pass through the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. During a past visit, we saw a large submarine that must have come from the Norfolk shipyards. We hauled ass on the bridge-tunnel roadway, crossing in less than twenty minutes.
Hampton Roads
This mainland section of Virginia is known locally as Hampton Roads. Apparently, a “road” in the nautical sense is a place, other than a harbor, where ships can anchor. I’ll take their word for it. I grew up on an island and never heard the term used before. After crossing the bridge, we exited Route 13 to head east on Route 60. This may not be the most direct route, but it takes you through a park-like area before morphing into Atlantic Avenue. We arrived at the Holiday Inn Oceanfront after seven hours of driving. More on the hotel in an upcoming post.
To wrap it up, we took my gas-guzzling SUV from Long Island, through five states, to Virginia Beach, without incurring any incidences of mechanical breakdown, traffic violations, or road sickness. A small miracle. A larger miracle was making it in seven hours, as my cranky back was thankful.
Check back for my review of the hotel.
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Virginia Beach - The Sand & Surf Photo by terren in Virginia This post will deal with the beach itself. I'll save the boardwalk for another post. The Sand The main attraction about Virginia Beach the town is the beach itself. It's kept in immaculate shape. Early each morning, tractors sift the debris from the sand,...... -
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Back from Vacation
“…because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all.” - from The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway
Well, after slacking off for a couple of weeks, I’m finally posting something. This hiatus was due in part to a change in our day trip plans - they just weren’t cutting it as far as R & R goes. We needed to get away from the daily routine, and thought that a road trip was in order. Between planning for this last-minute voyage, to catching up at my day job after our return, and my first trip to the new Yankee Stadium, I found my quiet time that I use to write this blog to be almost nonexistent. That, and the fact that like Hemingway’s character, I grew comfortable not using my gray matter, and settled into my vacation-mode leisure.
But like I wrote in this post, I’m seeking discomfort yet again. So you can look forward to tales from our road trip to Virginia Beach, as well as my take on the new House that Ruth Built. It’s good to flex those muscles again.
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Behind the Mask
Photo by Ben Fredericson (xjrlokix)
We all have many roles to play in life. You may not only be a parent, but a child. A subordinate, and also a supervisor. A charitable person, but maybe a cheap bastard from time to time. A loyal, hard-working employee, or a misanthropic blogger. ;-) Each of these roles require us to don a mask, to help differentiate between the parts we play.
Most of the time, I’m an agreeable sort. If I can help someone out, I will help them. Most of the time. But there are times when I have to “dumb it down”, and that requires another mask. It’s my “regular guy” mask, the one that I wrote about in this post: Incognito. Nobody likes a know-it-all. So, I put on my regular guy mask and clam up. People tend to get uneasy if there’s someone smarter among them.
Then there are the masks that I put on when I have to ream someone out. One is irritated but civil, and the other is similar to Dave Schultz dropping his gloves without actually hitting anybody (I’m a Rangers fan and hate the Flyers, but Schultz was the ultimate badass). I use the first when there’s a discrepancy on my electric bill. The second one was used on my son the other day. Kids need to fear something, especially sometimes-snotty teenagers. They need, on occasion, to straighten up and fly right. So if he thinks the old man is a little crazy, so much the better. I repeat: I go nuts without hitting anyone!
Think of all of the different roles that you have to play in the course of a day. At work, maybe you’re the person who every comes to for personal advice. Or, you’re a sounding board for the disgruntled in your office. Maybe you’re the authority in some particular field, who gets called into the middle of a meeting to help clarify an issue. There are masks for each of these roles.
And then there are the masks that we hide behind. These are our disguises. Like my “regular guy” mask, they help keep people at arm’s length. I don’t like to disclose everything about myself (which is why I don’t do Facebook), so part of me remains a mystery. Just like Alfred (albeit a younger, sexier, female Alfred) is to Bruce Wayne/Batman, only my wife knows that I write this blog (and she’ll kill me for comparing her to an elderly butler). I don’t think my friends would get the whole idea, so that’s another mask that I hide behind: The Luddite. When they ask a computer question, I feign ignorance.
So, what masks do you hide behind? Let me know in the comments, as I’ll look forward to reading about them. Until then, I remain:
Mysteriously yours,
The Corporate Barbarian
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The Oil Spill
Photo by Deepwater Horizon Response
Well, now that BP finally installed a cap on that leaking oil well, I guess we won’t see those undersea views of oil gushing out of the broken pipe. It seemed that every time I turned on CNN, there was the cloud of oil, billowing towards the surface. It was almost like watching that aquarium screensaver that came with my PC: tranquil and monotonous. It kind of takes the edge off of what the short- and long-term effects caused by the leak.
I know that they’ve shown images of oil-covered birds, and I feel for these poor creatures. But they should do something that shows the real tragedy of this spill. Put the cameras on schools of dead fish. Or the poor bastards that are trying to burn up the surface oil - let’s get an x-ray of their lungs after they have to breathe in that shit. How about a time-lapse view of the Gulf fisherman and their families? We can watch as they shrink from weight loss, waiting for BP to make reparations. The possibilities are endless, I tell ya!
If you think I’m a ghoul, you’re only partly right. I think of the long-term effects, not only on the environment and the economy, but on the health of those poor residents. What strange diseases and conditions can their children look forward to over the next few years? Just look at the health problems that the Ground Zero volunteers suffer from.
Gratefully, the one camera angle that we’ve been spared is of the BP big shots. We haven’t seen them blowing their bonus money on toga parties, or cavorting on their yachts. No, the biggest tragedy is that they aren’t suffering nearly enough.
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George Steinbrenner, Rest in Peace
I’ve been a Yankees fan for my whole life. Last week, The Boss died. From what people close to him hinted at, he hadn’t really been himself for the last few years. There were no loud diatribes about the handling of Joba Chamberlain; no pitching coaches twisting in the wind after a bad road trip;
no lower-level parking attendants getting fired for not paying enough deference to His Highness. Things had gotten very quiet in Yankeeland. It was something I was not used to in the thirty-plus years that Steinbrenner owned the team.
Before The Boss purchased the Yankees in 1973, the team’s roster was filled with the likes of Celerino Sanchez and Jerry Kenney, a third baseman who, in three years as a starter, slugged a whopping six home runs. Steinbrenner exploited the free agent era, and with the help of Gabe Paul, built the Yankees into a powerhouse, by trading for the likes of Graig Nettles. If Paul did nothing else in his career, getting Nettles to play third was accomplishment enough. That guy could pick it. He was also quick with an insightful quip. Who can forget his observation of Sparky Lyle going from “Cy Young to sayonara”?
Nettles making it look easy
Steinbrenner was a tyrant and a bully, and I hated many of the moves that he made, and the shit that he stirred up just for the sake of stirring the pot. He meddled too frequently, undermining his managers, and his hasty decisions led to lopsided trades, like Jay Buhner for Ken Phelps. He created an atmosphere of fear, and changed pitching coaches on a whim. I was furious when he let Buck Showalter go, just as there finally was a feeling of stability after an era of terrible baseball in the Bronx. But you can’t argue with his overall record, and I’m sure that history will be kind to the man. Winning will do that.
His good deeds seem to have been overshadowed by his bombastic persona. Each year, he hosted a Grambling football game at the old Stadium. He was a philanthropist, and gave many outcasts a second or third chance (Darryl Strawberry, Doc Gooden, Steve Howe…). Rest in peace, George. I’m sure if he gets in a position of power in Heaven, he’ll be banishing angels to the far reaches of the universe if they fall short of his expectations.
I would expect nothing less from The Boss.
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The Softball Commitment
Photo by geishaboy500
I think I’m pretty good at making, and keeping, commitments. I try to be a man of my word, and people know that they can count on me, whether they’re family, friends, or coworkers. Once I commit to something, I’m in for good, thick and thin. Which has me scratching my head over a silly issue: softball.
I played on slow-pitch softball teams from my first year in high school through my mid-20’s. These included regular teams in men’s leagues that played twice a week, various tournaments with other teams that needed an extra guy, and company teams that played after work. They had many things in common, including the increased absence of players as the season wore on.
Everyone is gung ho in the springtime. Rosters are bulging with willing participants, and some guys are told to stay home, that they won’t be playing in certain games. By the midpoint of the season, though, we’re usually scrambling to field nine players so that we don’t forfeit. Forfeiting a game sucks for both teams; to me, there’s nothing worse than having your plans scuttled because the other team couldn’t get enough guys to show up.
Even if you do get enough players to field a full team, it’s the postgame comraderie that suffers. At its formation, my men’s league team was self-sponsored by its players. We chipped in for the league entrance fee, which covered the umpires, official scorer, and softballs, and also paid for our own uniforms. After a few years of bar-hopping after games, we asked one of the bar owners to sponsor us. After all, we brought in good business; each guy usually had a girlfriend in tow, so the bar filled up quickly. It was nice for the bar owner to get a big crowd on an otherwise quiet midweek night.
Then something strange happened. After we settled down to one bar, we had trouble filling it after games. I guess the girlfriends grew tired of the quaint little gin mill, and the more henpecked of our group began skipping the postgame round at the watering hole. It came down to five of us picking up the slack at the pub. This not only became expensive, since we had to make it look good to our sponsor, but we felt compelled to stay later to make up for the no-shows. Getting up for work the morning after a softball game became a real challenge. We practically had to beg guys to stop down for one drink, just to fill the room with our jerseys for a brief time.
The same thing happened on my company’s team. At the time, I worked for a large company that had its own intramural league. Teams were formed by the various departments, and we even played on diamonds that were on company property. How convenient was that? No league entrance fee, either, as the company picked up the tab for field maintenance and umpires. A sweet deal. But come midseason, no matter how well we were doing in the standings, we’d face a critical shortage of players. By the end of the season, the league resembled the wartime major leagues, with old guys playing out of position, and bases on balls running rampant. Thank God for the Mercy Rule.
I guess the difference between the expectation of playing on a team and the reality sours people on the idea. Then, once the first guy skips out on his commitment, it’s easier for the second and third guys to follow suit. You’re left with the core group of committed guys, who probably should be committed for putting themselves in this position year after year.
Which is why I don’t play softball anymore.
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Dandelion Wine
Photo by Vince Alongi
Feeling nostalgic, I gave in to the urge to read Ray Bradbury’s summer classic Dandelion Wine again. For those unfamiliar with this work, it’s a novel based on Bradbury’s remembrances of his summer as a twelve year-old. Although our childhoods were separated by over half a century, I could relate to his longing for the good old days.
Days that were filled with baseball tripleheaders. We’d choose up sides, and if we didn’t have enough guys for a full team, we’d make right field serve as foul territory. There always seemed to be plenty of kids around, as none of us ever went to summer camp. After spending ourselves on the dusty baseball diamond, we’d swim in my friend’s pool until dinnertime. We didn’t make dandelion wine; the Scotts Turf Builder killed all the weeds in my lawn.
The summer nights of my youth were mostly spent outside. We played baseball until we couldn’t see the ball due to the creeping darkness. After that, it was tag, or hide-and-seek, where we tried to dress in our darkest color clothes (the better to hide with). I remember our mothers calling across the neighborhood to summon us home. My father would usually be sitting out in the sweltering humidity, smoking a White Owl by the light of a citronella candle. He didn’t worry about mosquito bites; for some reason, they didn’t like the taste of his blood. Or maybe it was the cheap cigars.
I remember catching lightning bugs, or fireflies, and putting them in a jar. After a few minutes, when the novelty wore off, we’d release them. I saw a bunch of kids the other night squishing them on the sidewalk, the better to see their day-glo guts. Maybe my youth was a gentler time. I also remember watching a summer TV show called Almost Anything Goes hosted by Regis Philbin. That program has seemingly risen from the ashes, born again as Wipeout. The more things change…
I wonder if my kids will look back fondly at their own childhood summers. I just hope that their memories consist of better things than texting or playing PlayStation. One tradition we’ve started is making ’smores. I don’t think any kid can pass up chocolate and marshmallows melted on a graham cracker.
So, if you want to take a trip back to a simpler time, give Dandelion Wine a try.
Time to make some ’smores!
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Us and Them
Posted by enrique s in Career, Motivation on July 14th, 2010
The division where I work was formed from the merger of two separate companies. Each company had a distinct product line, and there wasn’t much interaction between the two sides. This did not change when the people were co-located in the same building. In fact, I think the close proximity led to a polarization of the two groups. While the people all worked in the same area, there seemed to be an invisible wall between the groups. The cliques were out in full force.
With any consolidation comes the expectation of a cost take-out. For instance, you don’t need two managers for one department. Who stays in control is often determined by who wins the power struggle between the big shots to lead the new combined division. Directors like to surround themselves with their own “guys”; their own people provide a comfort zone in which to operate. My division was no exception; the losers either left on their own or were told not to let the door hit them on the ass on the way out.
As you can imagine, watching your old management team being unceremoniously shown the door can cause morale problems for the losing side. The have-nots start to watch their backs. With no champion in the director’s seat, they have to prove themselves all over again, like new hires. More resentment follows, and the chasm grows. But time heals many wounds, and new alliances are formed as needed. What follows is a period of peaceful apprehension. It’s like that scene in Independence Day, where you see the Israeli and Arab forces working side, fighting the aliens, all the while keeping an eye on each other.
But what can help a group of people to congeal? Is there a magic formula? I think there is, and I’ve seen it firsthand. It’s called a takeover. See, my division was reassigned to a new, larger superdivision. With that came changes to all of our familiar systems, and a shitload of new procedures. Months of mind-numbing training preceded the changeover. The patronizing attitude of the new management towards us made us seethe. It was us against them.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” - Sun-tzu
So, united against a common enemy, the once-disfunctional division became one. We saw our differences as few, and the things we had in common more important. Like the former enemies in Independence Day, a greater “evil” forced us to work together. We were all “us” now; there wasn’t any “them” anymore.
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