The General Situation

Is "Pick a Lock" a Euphemism?

I just received the most wonderful email from a (female) friend: "Guess what I have, honey? I have a lover! I do! (Single is fun again.) Sexy Croat carpenter who whispers foreign words into my ear, sends flowers, brings cat toys, and is going to teach me how to pick a lock. And I found him in the MOST inappropriate manner."

Vocab Lesson: High-Touch

High-touch (noun): A bit of marketing jargon that Aaron Magness, director for business development of Zappos.com, explained in the New York Times better than I can: "We're an online retailer, but we want to maintain a high-touch relationship with customers, constantly trying to find different ways to interact with them in whatever means they're comfortable with."

I Think I Grew Up a Little

One of the first places that Adam and I went in Rome was the Keats Shelley House, because our friend Rebecca had recommended it and we were already at the Spanish Steps. I didn't know much about John Keats, and I suppose I still don't, but what I found most interesting was not his relationship with Fanny Brawne (subject of the new Jane Campion movie Bright Star), but his relationship with his companion, Joseph Severn. In 1820, Severn traveled to Rome with Keats when Keats's doctor thought the city would be good for the poet's tuberculosis, and the two men lived in extremely cramped quarters (in the building that now houses the museum). As Keats's condition worsened, Severn became Keats's nurse. They clearly grew very close. Touched, I bought a postcard of a sketch that Severn made while Keats was on his deathbed. It struck me as so modern, and the text was moving: "28 Janry 3 o'clock mng. Drawn to keep me awake—a deadly sweat was on him all this night." (Keats died less than a month later.) I bought the postcard for myself, as a memento, and as the trip went on, it gave me pleasure whenever I came across it.

A couple of days ago, I remembered that it was my friend Kristen's birthday. I went to my stash of birthday cards—whenever I see one I like, I buy it—but the few that I had were uninspired. Then I remembered the Keats postcard, and I remembered how, on the way to the Spanish Steps, Adam and I had walked behind a woman and her teenage daughter who had reminded me of Kristen when we were that age: She was a bit gawky (if you're reading this, Kiki, I'm sorry! But we were all gawky then!) and she struck me as studious, and she had gorgeous long brown hair. The postcard was perfect for Kristen—she and I used to send each other postcards all the time, and this one commemorates a friendship—even if she has never been to Rome or doesn't give a crap about John Keats, and even if the postcard is also about death. Then I felt a pang of remorse; I had bought the postcard for myself, and I didn't want to lose it.

And that made me realize I had to send it to her, that that was what made the postcard so right. If a gift doesn't mean anything to the giver, why bother?

You Know What I'm Saying

Sure, You Can Borrow My Lip Balm

This Week's Floral Obsession

Postcard from Rome

Adam: There's another one of those cars with "City of Rome" on the side and a driver in front and a passenger in back. What's the deal?

Me: [Pause.] They're taxis.

Adam: [Sigh.] You're going to blog this, aren't you?

On Our Flight to Rome...

...one Continental flight attendant handed me a dinner tray, and I was removing the various plastic wraps when another flight attendant sidled up with the drinks cart. I was going to tell him I didn't want anything, but before I could, he deposited a napkin right on my salad.

Gratuitous Picture of My Pug

I'm testing a new blogging interface, and I don't have anything else to say.

Why People Hate Airlines

I don't normally feel the urge to share unpleasant airline experiences because they're like moles: Most of us have more than we'd like. But I think maybe this one has a moral. Adam and I have purchased tickets to fly to Tennessee in October. Today, I learned that I'll be going to Mexico immediately beforehand, flying to Nashville straight from Cancún. I can still make the flight back to New York.

As a "travel expert," I know that many airlines won't let you cancel the initial leg of a trip (you're not supposed to cancel the last leg, either, but they can hardly stop you). I called Delta anyway, hoping that perhaps the airline would only charge a change fee. But the customer-service agent, Jermaine, told me that my current ticket "did not have enough value." The entire reservation would have to be canceled; a new one-way ticket would have to be issued.

"How much would such a ticket cost?" I asked.

"$153.10," he said. "Would you like to book that now?"

No, I said, I was so upset with Delta's prehistoric ticket policies that I needed to spend some time investigating whether there was any way that I could get home without flying the airline. Jermaine was not very bright—at one point I honestly thought I might be talking to a semi-malfunctioning computer—but that was no excuse to rip him a new one. I said that I was sorry to rant at him, but perhaps he could see why I was perturbed.

"Yes, I understand," he said. "Would you be interested in any discount hotel rooms or car rentals?"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" I screamed and hung up, wishing it were still possible to slam down a phone without breaking it.

Online, the Delta flight in question was $122—that's $31.10 cheaper (and Jermaine would presumably have tacked on a "telephone reservationist fee"). The moral: Never book on the phone, because airlines will assume you're helpless and take advantage of you.

P.S. Hours later, I realized that it was possible that Jermaine thought I wanted to cancel the initial reservation, so I called Delta again. A nice woman reassured me that the reservation still existed. "That's good," I said. "That's very good. Thank you!" To which she replied: "Would you be interested in any discount hotel rooms or car rentals?"