I’m proud to announce that the Continental Breakfast blog has moved. To check it out in its brand new home, click here now. Please adjust your bookmarks (all two of you)… See you there!

(To read the rest, click here now.)

I’m proud to announce that the Continental Breakfast blog has moved. To check it out in its brand new home, click here now. Please adjust your bookmarks (all two of you)… See you there!

by Josey Miller

“Yoo hoo!” Grant, the owner of Jackson Hole Outfitters, shouted to Elizabeth, who wanted to use the “last modern comfort” (as Grant put it) of a ladies room before we headed out. Once we’d all applied our SPF 30+ and bug spray—and once Rita and I had adjusted… and readjusted… our cowgirl braids (Rita’s looked legit; mine looked more like Pippi Longstocking)—we climbed into the steel blue pick-up truck. As our very own personal cowboy, Dale, drove us deep into the Bridger-Teton National Forest for a full-day horseback-riding expedition, he hummed along with rodeo-star-turned-country-singer Chris LeDoux.  Like LeDoux, Dale wasn’t born or raised in Wyoming, but he still calls it home. Can you blame him?

(To be continued.)

Read the first part here.

Grub! The first stop on our Jackson Hole, Wyoming girls’ getaway was the outdoor seating area at Shades Café for some delicious veggie burritos and dish about Elizabeth’s latest architecture adventures and Rita’s house hunt.

Next, we were off to Alberton’s supermarket. I, for one, was ecstatic to have a barbecue for the weekend: what a luxury to a Manhattanite like myself. We zipped through the aisles at tourist speed to buy the ingredients for the recipes we’d chosen to cook on two of our three nights: grilled zucchini with olives and fresh mint, Big Daddy’s California turkey burgers, honey-ginger salmon (we used chicken instead of fish) and some seasonal favorites like watermelon and sweet corn. Rita and I chose some freshly ground coffee to share—”Cowboygirl Blend,” naturally—and headed to the liquor store next door for a bottle of my favorite white, Silverado Sauvignon Blanc. (Living in San Francisco, she’d come armed with a bottle of Rosé.) Finally we were ready to hit the road to Star Valley Ranch, about an hour south of the city, where we’d rented a shockingly spacious house.

We were greeted with a note on the door. It started, “Hi, I’m Evan and I’m the house care taker. The keys are in the Weber Grill.” (Uh, you might as well just put them in the doorknob, Evan.)

Read the third part here.

by Josey Miller

I joined one cowgirl—the San Francisco cowgirl, Rita—at the Denver airport.  Ironically, our Denver cowgirl’s plane had left hours earlier; she was already buying time (and a very cute fleece jacket) in our final destination.  But, after coffee and catching up and a brief delay for me and Rita and said shopping for Elizabeth, the three of us were finally reunited for our girls’ getaway weekend in Jackson Hole, Wyoming .

I met both Rita and Elizabeth in New York City a half a decade ago.  Elizabeth was sitting on the couch during a holiday party at our mutual friend’s Hell Kitchen apartment.  She laughs with her whole soul and, as soon as I heard the sound, I knew I needed it in my life.  Plus, she was wearing a pair of plaid pants that could only be worn by someone with a relaxed, retro style and complete comfort in her own skin.  I loved that.  And then there was Rita.  My friend, her neighbor, was throwing a luau party and, when I walked in, I saw a tall blonde girl with a huge smile drinking a can of Kirin out of a brown paper bag… with a straw.  Simply put, how could I not be her friend?  Over time, brunches and bars and rockbands and boyfriends, we—along with several other transplants from across the U.S.—found each other and formed a bond.

But then all of them with only a few exceptions—including me—moved away.  Becca, from Massachusetts, moved to New Jersey.  Kaitie, from Florida, moved to Pennsylvania then DC.  Rita, from Pennsylvania, moved to California.  Elizabeth, from North Carolina, moved to Massachusetts then Colorado.  I’m from Illinois and moved to New York by way of California. 

And here we were—Rita, Elizabeth and I—reunited in Wyoming… greeted by this aerial view:

(To be continued.)

Read the second part here.
Read the third part here.

Our first night at dinner, we met the Cozumel Palace sommelier, or, as I called him, El Rey del Vino. (I think he had a real name. I think it was Luis.) Every night he purposefully made his rounds from table to table, jovially guiding each couple and family on their beverage selections.

I’m proud to announce that the Continental Breakfast blog has moved. To check it out in its brand new home, click here now. Please adjust your bookmarks (all two of you)… See you there!

by Josey Miller

The puddle jumper? On time. 45 minutes. Three hours until our next flight at 10pm. New husband Jeff and I dragged two-week’s worth of luggage around the non-air-conditioned airport in the South Pacific heat until the airline opened up the line to check in at 8:30pm.

9:00pm.

9:10pm.

Why is nobody else nervous that our international flight is in 50 minutes and this line is not moving??
9:30pm. We reach the passport checker man. He looks at our tickets, looks at us and makes a sad face that says, You’re not going to like this. “Em, bon soir. Em, this flight is — how you say? — cancelled. Your hotel did not tell you?” (Would we be standing here if our hotel had told us?)

10:30pm. Chaos. We’d been moved to the other line — the one where the sticky, frustrated passengers were waiting. Funny how I literally cried like a three-year-old when we were leaving our hotel: “I don’t want to go home! I want to stay HERE!” But by the time I reached the airport and was thisclose to hugging my cat and sleeping in my own cool bed… I just wanted to be home already.

11pm. Jeff and I have made friends with the airline supervisor to the point where we’re sitting with him in his air-conditioned office checking our Yahoo! accounts after two weeks sans Internet access. It’s kinda fun actually. I could get used to this… until the supervisor hangs up the phone and says there are two spots left for the 11:30 flight and we can catch it if we run. (The next one wasn’t until 6am.) We run.

11:30pm. Me to flight attendant: “Excuse me, sir? You know the wine we’re supposed to get with dinner? May I please have mine now?”

11am Los Angeles time. Me to Jeff: “If we run to customs and then run from the international terminal to the domestic terminal, I still think we can catch our connection!” Again, we run.

11:45am. American Airline representative to (very out-of-breath) me: “Ohhh nooo, you missed that flight. But it’s your lucky day! An earlier flight was delayed until 3pm, so you can be on that one — in Business Class!” (Celebratory dance.) “Oh, wait. The only problem is, I have two window seats, one in front of the other. You’ll have to ask one of the aisle people if they’ll switch or you can’t sit together.” But, but… It’s the last five hours of our honeymoon! And I’m sad enough as it is that the trip is over! (Whine, whine, whine.) Me: “We’re on our honeymoon. Who would be heartless enough to say no, right? Don’t you think?” She agrees.

2:35pm. I sit in 7J. Jeff sits in 8J. The big jerk woman in 8H sits next to “F.” I approach and in my sweetest voice ask, “Excuse me, ma’am. We were seated apart and it’s our honeymoon. Is there any way you might take my window seat please?”

She says no. I gasp, then slunk down in my seat.

2:37pm. A gentleman starts putting his carry-on bag above 7H.

Hey, he looks familiar… Wait a second…

It’s “Mr. Big.”

I check to make sure my hair looks okay.

It doesn’t.

I whisper to the seat behind me, “This is how much I love you!“

“Excuse me, sir?” He glares at me and sits down. (In his defense, he’d been delayed for several hours, but I didn’t delay the flight!) “Um, we’re on our honeymoon? Him, the guy behind me, and I. And we would love to sit together. But we were seated apart? Um. And so would you please switch with him?”

He looks confused. And irritated. “No.” He grunts and grumbles that I had the nerve to even ask.

I’m stunned. Who are these people?!?! And a public figure at that!

“It’s a short flight, Kid.” He smirks.

THAT’S IT.

“Well, you know what? You know WHAT? I’m glad I’m meeting you, MR. BIG. So I can tell you that Carrie made a huge mistake. Yeah. That’s right. HUGE. I mean, obviously she wasn’t going to end up with the artist guy, but you?!? You were horrible to her! Many times! Horrible! I mean, clearly she messed up royally when she cheated on Aidan at all, let alone with YOU. But then to take you back?!? After all you’d been through!? Why did she have to choose between the artist and YOU? Why couldn’t she choose neither?! See what’s behind Door Number Three and go back home to NYC where she belonged?!! Alone, I mean! Yeah.”

Okay, fine.

I didn’t say that. (I thought it, though!)

I just looked at him shocked and slunked back down in my seat.
But then Jeff said (through the space between my seat and Big’s seat), “Wow, everyone’s so nice on this plane! I can’t wait to go home and tell my friends how NICE everyone is on this plane!”

Mr. Big put down his newspaper and stared ahead of him, stewing. He threw a small temper tantrum of grunts and grumbles. “Oh for crying out loud, can’t you ask somebody else to switch? Why me? Why do I have to switch?” (Grunt, grumble, grunt.) “FINE. YOU KNOW WHAT? I’LL SWITCH. I REALLY WANTED THE AISLE SEAT. BUT I’LL SWITCH.”
And Jeff and I did another celebratory dance. And Mr. Hollywood behind us got in trouble for talking on his cell phone. (He’s very important and very important people have very important calls to make, naturally.) He stumbled around the cabin looking for the lavatory after napping and waking up in a questionable fog. He complained about the dessert. (“In Coach you don’t even get dessert! You should be grateful you’re even getting it,” I thought, but again did not say.)

And Jeff and I spent the next five hours in ridiculously overtired, slap-happy bliss:

“What other sit-coms are the best of all time? Besides Seinfeld?”

“Love you, too.”

Would someone please explain the rationale behind the standby fee to me?

It’s nothing new. Several airlines implemented this policy as far back as 2002, in fact. But it baffles me.

Not familiar? It’s a charge airline passengers incur for trying to standby on an earlier (or later) flight, hence the name—generally between $25 and $100.

But here’s why I’m confused: Doesn’t it help airlines for passengers to fly earlier, if they have those available seats? If I fly an earlier flight with an empty seat, aren’t I freeing up a seat on my original later flight which they can then sell to another passenger (probably for an exorbitant amount of money, given the last-minute timing)?

Hey, they should pay me to fly standby! I’m doing them a favor.

See you there…

by Josey Miller

From Memphis to Montana, I have several U.S. destinations on my travel to-do list.  At the top of that list lies Seattle. 

But until we take that long flight, I’m living vicariously through my friend Kristin.  During her recent trip, she hit the standard tourist attractions: Pike’s Place Market, the space needle, the very first Starbucks (oooh, ahhh). 

But she also traveled north of the city… to San Juan Island for a relaxed day of bike riding – or so she thought.  Her tip?  Rent a scooter instead of a bike and your visit will feel much more like a vacation.

 
Photo courtesy of my friend Kristin (very professional, I know)