Even though I did a lot of THIS:

And a little of THIS:

It wasn’t enough to keep up with THIS:

I shared a stateroom with my mom and uncle.

I shared the ship with thousands of strangers and maybe a dozen other relatives and their friends.

I’m still…digesting the entire experience.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Granted there is nothing like being able to take photos of Womens’ Restrooms at airports ’round the world but I’m not exactly living the lush life. Lush as in lavish, opulent, luxurious.

To give you some idea of what it’s like to be a frequent business traveler, I’ll work my way backwards.

Last Friday I made it back to Vino Volo where I had last spoken with a stranger.

This time around I sampled wines, read a book and enjoyed my own company.

The traveling life looks good, huh? OK, there may be some lushness here.

Since I tasted all this wine I had to avail myself of the facilities, which provided me with yet another Restroom Seeking Opportunity. This being my last week in Seattle and who knew when I’d be back at Sea-Tac, I explored another terminal.

This is what I found:

Dark floor tiles, dingier wall tiles, again with the shelf OVER the toilet, I think I had found the older part of toilet town.

Feel free to compare it to the what is provided at the N gates. Still very clean, if nothing to write home about.

So that was the end of my week. Let’s rewind to Monday.

I flew in Monday, which meant I had to unpack and iron. This hotel provided suites. Suites mean kitchens and living rooms. Yep, quite the glamorous jet-setting lifestyle.

Here is where I performed all manner of maintenance rituals, too many to recount. Good thing I don’t do much with my hair and barely use makeup. It’s my oral hygiene fixation that slows me down.

I think I’ve seen these stickers in hotels across America.

I would think that using a sprinkler head as a clothes hook would be very inconvenient but then again, most people are taller than four-foot-ten-and-three-quarter-inches.

Since this hotel catered to business travelers, they provided wireless Internet and a desk. Yes, those are the infamous postcards on the lower-left corner. All the comforts of home and of course, unlike home, there was Housekeeping.

The hotel provided complementary: breakfast and dinner, 24/7 Starbucks coffee, and who wudda thunk it, free local beer and boxed wine during dinner.

Interesting things happened in that dining room.

I thought this was a bullet hole but I am no ballistics expert. I was told this was a rock strike.

But that wasn’t what was so interesting. The dining room looks very innocuous doesn’t it? I certainly thought so. If you recall, I am pretty clueless.

Last week I was sitting alone at one of those tables, sipping wine and writing my postcards to a few of you.

Until a stranger spoke to me.

Some things to ponder…

Free food, Starbucks and booze??
Ms. Q knows how to iron?
How big were those wine glasses and how many more of them weren’t in the photo?
That looks like a bullet hole to me.
What’s up with married men who don’t wear their wedding rings???

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

• Four trips to Seattle.
• Four different taxi rides into town.
• Four different accents.
• All men.

One driver didn’t speak much.

One driver hung a pair of fuzzy dice from the meter.

One driver had a blue glass dolphin suspended from the rearview mirror.

One driver wore a turban. The turban was yellow and neatly wrapped around a stoic head.

The turban was folded and tucked so perfectly I wondered if there were such a thing as pre-wrapped turbans as in the manner of pre-knotted neckties.

I didn’t ask the driver, figuring it might be a personal question, right along the lines of “Boxers…or…briefs?”

I got in the cab.

The driver asked, “What is your destination?”

I told him the name of the hotel and asked, “Do you need the address?”

He pulled into traffic. He was facing forward but his eyes slid to the right. I was within peripheral range.

He said, “I am a taxi driver.”

I sat back into the seat and enjoyed looking at the weather, which we didn’t talk about.

………………………………………….

Or not. You decide.

How would you like to receive a postcard from Ms. Q??

Yep, a postcard, handwritten by The Inimitable Ms. Q and addressed to YOU.

Over the years I have sent hundreds of postcards to friends and family. Prior to email I was big on the handwritten letter. I still believe in the power of the handwritten letter, card, and note.

Think about how much time it takes to pick out a card, write a message, address an envelope, and put a stamp on it! If you lick the envelope and the stamp, you’re even parting with some DNA.

My friends and family have gotten postcards from Omaha, Atlanta, Detroit, New York City, Cape Town, Seattle, Dallas, Houston, Austin …

Wherever I go, I always try to send a few postcards.

I’m returning to Seattle on Monday and thought that maybe one of you readers would like a postcard from me. How often do bloggers actually exchange anything tangible, much less personal?

RULES:

1. Must live in the United States.
2. Must be 18 years or older. *

* OK, not really but you must be able to read. Not that you could read my handwriting.

Deadline: Wednesday November 28th, 2007. I have to have time to write the thing!

Note: You are ineligible to enter this contest if you have received a postcard from me in the past.

To request the postcard, leave your email address in the comment form and I’ll email you for your mailing address. Your email address will not be displayed.

In the event that more than one of you wants a postcard from me, The Inimitable Ms.Q will assign numbers to your names, seed a random number generator and let it decide.

OK, not really. I will write down your names on scraps of a paper, throw it a bowl and pick one.

If there are only 2 of you, I will flip a coin.

If there are none of you, well, I guess I’m not as Inimitable as I thought.

I might send out more. It depends. Depends on how many glasses of wine I’ve had…

The Lucky Winner will be posted as well as a link to their blog if they have one.

Update: I respect private information and your mailing addresses will not be shared or used for nefarious purposes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Middle-Eastern jazz is playing.

I’m sipping my first small glass in my wine “flight.” Eh.

I’ve already read it several times this week but I open up Louise Hay’s book, “You Can Heal Your Life.” The book has heavy, glossy pages and is rich with artwork. Each chapter starts with a wonderful series of affirmations and the one I’ve been working on is “I deserve…”

“I deserve the best, and I accept it now.”

Still working on it…

The guy returns.

“Thanks for watching my stuff.” he tells me.

He’s a boyish looking guy – clean cut, dark hair, and dark eyes, maybe a little younger than I. He’s medium.

“Not a problem, ” I say again. He’s scooting back behind his table, his back to the wall.

“Why’d you offer to help me?” he asks. I’m surprised at his question.

I’m leaning back in my chair.

“You looked harmless, you looked like a nice guy. I could see that the waiter couldn’t really help and hey, if you didn’t return in half an hour, I’d have called security and they’d take all of your stuff and put it in a big metal box.”

He snorts at the idea that his stuff might contain explosives.

I ask, “Why did you ask that question?”

Now he looks surprised. “Oh. I always do when someone helps.”

Guess he’s not used to help. I lean forward and tell him my name. He does the same but reaches across our tables and extends his right hand. I shake it. It’s soft and warm and white.

We go through the “what do you do” skimming of the surface. He’s a Senior National Account Executive (I only recall this because we exchanged business cards). He may a Senior National Account Executive but I figure that’s his job. He seems to like his job but my guess is that like most people, his job is not his passion. I ask him what he likes to do.

“I like making furniture. A friend shows me something in a catalog and I’ll try to reproduce it. It’s fun! I made my daughter’s entire bedroom suite.”

He goes on to tell me that he loves sports fishing. He lives in Florida, which I heard is great for sports fishing.

I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking: sports fishing and woodworking do not for soft hands make. He must be doing more senior-executing these days. I learn that his daughter is 6-years old. He’s not wearing any rings.

I figured he was married. In fact, I figured he was married when I first saw him. I figure you were wondering where all this was leading. This blog is rated G. It’s not going very far! You might be thinking he’s divorced. Nah. I confirmed my intuition when I asked him what his wife did. He told me.

Factoid: I see many married men on the road. A surprising amount of them do not wear rings. In my case, doesn’t matter. Married men seem to give off a vibe. I don’t need to see the ring.

I tell him a bit about myself – that my life is at a crossroad. I tell him that I am making changes in my life so that I could follow my passion.

I believe that people should discover their passion and if they aren’t living it, they should work towards it.

Mr. Senior National Account Executive leans back in his chair. Two low cocktail tables separate us. His eyes look away. I watch him. I watch as he casts his lure towards the sea unsure of what he really hopes to catch. I sense the sigh. He looks back at me.

He says, “Funny you should say that. I’m at a crossroads.” I am not surprised.

We talk about fear. He tells me of fears he has overcome. I tell mine.

We tell each other of how overcoming our fears have enlarged our world.

As he shares his thoughts about what he should do next, I ask, “If you didn’t have any money worries, what would you do?”

He looks at me. “You mean if I had like, oh a million dollars?”

I say, “Enough money that you all your expenses were covered. You had no money worries. None.”

He sinks back and I can see he has an answer. Not many people do. Most people are too busy working to dream. Or they are too afraid to dream.

“I would buy a boat. I’d buy a boat and charter it for sports fishing.”

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He’s on that boat. Right now.

I lean forward. I hold his gaze.

“If that is truly your dream, what you really want, you’d make it happen. If that were important to you, you’d make it happen. If you gave yourself a goal to have that in 5 years, you’d make it happen. If that is what you really wanted.”

He looks at me. I wonder if I’m a bit too serious. Maybe all he wanted was to be left alone with his laptop, his Treo, his glass of white wine.

Finally he says, “Would you join me at my table? You’re so far away and there’s all this noise and really, would you join me at my table?”

I do join him and we both order another glass of wine. He puts away his laptop. My 3 mini-glasses are long gone. As we order our wine, I take the waitress’ recommendation of a Washington Syrah. As Mr. Crossroads places his order, he tells her, “Put her glass on my bill.”

I’m surprised. I tell him, “Thanks! But I can expense it.”

He smiles, “Me, too.”

I learn more about him and his family. He wants to “take his career to the next level” and become a CEO and he’s wondering if he should get a second MBA. He’s been wrestling with this decision for a while. I ask if he has a mentor. Perhaps an executive or CEO who he could learn from. I ask if he really needs to get another MBA.

He becomes quieter and more thoughtful. He seems uncomfortable.

He starts gathering his things. It’s time for him to go. He stands up and we shake hands.

I tell him, “Thanks again for the wine.”

He says, “Thanks for the company.”

I’m still in my chair; his hand is still in mine.

“Whatever decision you make, it’ll be the right one.”

He says, “I know.”

I lean back in my chair, open my book and sip my wine.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .