First, The Way by Fastball—a late-’90s hit that resurfaced in the bathroom one morning and hasn’t let go since. A road trip anthem with a haunting backstory that reframes the lyrics entirely. Then Dreams by Fleetwood Mac—rediscovered in an open-air taxi cruising the Mazatlán coast, right as the sun dropped into the Pacific.
Both songs set the tone for a spring break trip that was anything but typical.
In this episode, we share our experience traveling to Mazatlán, Mexico—a city full of history, character, color, and sunsets you can’t fake. We talk about what made it different from every other resort destination we’ve been to: the easy flights, the surprisingly smooth customs experience, and the way the city itself quietly wins you over.
We’re not influencers. We didn’t film a glossy travel vlog. But we did soak in the details:
A daughter’s first swim in the Pacific Ocean (and a jellyfish sting she shook off like a champ)
An aquarium we expected nothing from that turned out to be amazing
A lost wedding ring, found again by a treasure-hunting 9-year-old
Pulmonía rides with Fleetwood Mac as the soundtrack to golden hour
And a very public dad fail by the hot tub that had the kids praying for invisibility
This isn’t a guidebook for Mazatlán—it’s a snapshot. The kind of episode that might help you figure out if Mazatlán is your kind of city too.
Episode’s live now—watch, listen, or just scroll the gallery.
And if you’ve got a song that brings you back to somewhere unexpected? We’d love to hear it.
In this episode of The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni discuss their recent trip to the lake house in Grand Rapids and reminisce about their previous visits. They also discuss their favorite 25 years together, focusing on 2015. They discuss movies, songs, and events from that year, including the Oscars, popular songs like ‘Hello’ and ‘Uptown Funk,’ and their experiences at concerts and sporting events. Tim and Jenni discuss their trip to Europe in 2015 and the following events, including finding out they were pregnant and preparing for the arrival of their baby. They share their experiences in London and Amsterdam, favorite activities, and the places they visited. They also talk about the challenges of being pregnant and the fun they had while sober. The hosts reflect on the significance of 2015 and express gratitude for their experiences.
This is shaping up to be a flawless travel day, is my first thought as I step off of the shuttle bus into the drizzle and chilly early spring air at the rental car lot next to the Philadelphia Airport.
As a sports fan, I know better than this. You are not supposed to talk about the perfect game or no-hitter with the pitcher in the dugout, as it guarantees a hit next inning when he’s back up on the mound. When the sportscaster talks about the incredible streak of made shots at the free-throw line, the next shot is sure to clang off the iron.
To be fair, it wasn’t a typical travel day.
My son had been asking to see my sister and their kids in Maryland since we saw them when they came to Minnesota in September. When my wife, Jenni, and I looked at the calendar and discovered Spring Break rolled into Easter this year, it seemed like a fantastic opportunity to book a trip to the East Coast.
We decided it would be fun to surprise our children with the trip when we got to the airport. Lucky for us, our daughter had been asking to go on an airplane… anywhere, so the surprise would land with her just as well as it would with him.
*Advice for parents planning to surprise their children with a trip: don’t pack your suitcase the morning of your flight. Yes, you will easily convince yourself that you aren’t procrastinating. You’ll think you’re preserving the surprise by not leaving the clue of a half-packed suitcase lying around. Unfortunately, this will make you panic every time you hear a noise while packing and cause you to question your mental capacity when you look at the random assortment of clothing in your suitcase when you open it at your final destination.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a more significant reaction from my children. It’s not as though they weren’t excited, but I was hoping for utter shock. What percentage of people have had the experience of being surprised with a trip to the airport on the day of their departure?
The surprise could be the worst destination in the world, say… Madison, WI, and still, I would be in a puddle of tears if I got surprised with a vacation at the airport.
We checked our suitcase without issue despite Jenni packing a bag for her and my daughter that weighed nearly half as much as their combined body weight.
Security took about ten minutes despite the fact we forgot to take tablets out of two of our carry-ons. We found food the kids and Jenni would eat before the flight, right before the hangry river of rage started to flow out of my wife; the Prosecco helped, too.
If your significant other gets “hangry,” do not ask them, “Are you hungry?” When you notice the hanger level starting to rise. I nearly derailed our trip by making this observation about my wife as we stood in line for pizza.
Our flight was on time, and we landed ahead of schedule. When we got to baggage claim, I immediately saw our overweight suitcase making its loops around the carousel and snagged it.
This is why I had the guts to allow myself to take a breath and pat myself on the back in the rental lot.
I walked over to look at the board to find my name and where my rental card would be parked. Instead of a parking space number next to my name, I saw “see desk.”
Most days, I would have been panicked by this message. On this day, it didn’t occur to me that I could ever have an issue traveling ever again.
I entered the small yet clean rental car office. I waited in a short line to talk to one of two representatives helping other customers.
I gave my name as I approached the kiosk and started to wince in preparation for bad news. After some quick clicking on the keyboard, the woman smiled and said, “You reserved an electric car; that’s why you needed to come in here today.”
I did, in fact, reserve a Tesla. It was a secondary surprise for my son and a treat for me. Before you start calling this a humble brag, I will let you know it cost ten dollars more than renting a Toyota Corolla or “something similar” when I reserved the car.
Once everything was settled, the rental car company representative told me they would immediately pull the car up for me.
My family was waiting on the curb when I joined them.
“Daddy, what if they gave us a Tesla?” My son asked as he saw our car weaving through the parking lot.
“Yeah, I don’t think we will get a Tesla, buddy.”
“Yeah, that would be, like, so expensive.”
I smiled and winked at Jenni as we silently acknowledged how perfect that was for the surprise to land even better.
Moments like those make you forget the whining, the fights, and the worry of having kids. Like a stack of napkins that have been blown to the ground by the wind, some of the moments are carried away before you have a chance to remember they existed; others hit the ground and stay put just long enough for you to bend over and grab them, almost as if they were holding on just for you.
If you’re a parent, chase those moments and stomp them to the ground before the wind whisks them away. Pick it up and shove it into your back pocket with the snot cover tissue and fruit snack wrappers because someday you’ll pull it out. It will be the most valuable napkin you have ever held.
When the Tesla pulled up, my son had the look of shock you’d expect to see on someone who just found out they were going on a flight halfway across the country for Spring Break at the airport.
As we pulled up to the booth at the exit of the rental car lot, the attendant scanned the barcode on the dash and said, “It’s not letting me check you out; there is a problem with the car.”
“What does that mean, ‘there is a problem with the car?'” Jenni whisper-shouted at me from the passenger seat.
Twenty-four and a half years of experience with this woman had taught me that the question was not rhetorical, so I repeated it to the attendant.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, there are errors with the car, but we don’t know what they are until a technician looks at it. Let me call my manager.”
“What the fuck does that even mean? Why would they drive a car up to us that wasn’t working?” Jenni continued from the passenger seat, making sure I was seeing the injustice of the situation we were in, and making sure I didn’t fold to the pressure in an effort to make the interaction as smooth as possible.
Usually, that would be a fair concern. However, I rented this car for my son, who had, just a week earlier, counted every Tesla we saw on the road throughout a thirty-minute drive. Leaving the rental car lot in something other than a Tesla was impossible.
The attendant wrapped up the call with his manager, “Yeah, you are going to have to bring the car back in and pick a new one. Good news, you’re getting a complimentary upgrade to any sedan in that row.”
“This is a Tesla… upgrade… Tesla!” is all I can hear from the whisper-yelling from the passenger seat.
“So, you’re saying there’s a problem with the car, not with my reservation?”
“Right. I know you really want to drive the Tesla, but you’re not going to be able to today.”
I hadn’t said anything about being excited to drive the Tesla, so this comment convinced me I would need to have a conversation with someone else. He directed the line of cars behind me to back up so I could return the vehicle.
“Do you want me to go talk to them?” Jenni asked. I would typically respond with an enthusiastic “yes,” but since going with the flow would have ruined my son’s day, I let her know I would handle it.
I returned to the rental car office and approached the woman who had assisted me the first time. I told her I wasn’t allowed to leave with the Tesla. She looked as confused as I was by this news and told me she would investigate. She went to the back room to discuss the situation with her manager.
I stood in the empty office waiting and rehearsing how I would get ‘tough’ if the answer was anything other than renting us the Tesla when my phone rang. I looked at the screen to see a call from an unknown number in Philadelphia and answered.
“Hi, Mr. Severson. This is Janet with Delta Baggage Services. Did you take the wrong luggage after your flight from Minneapolis today?”
I didn’t have to think about it as I closed my eyes and tilted my face skyward, “Most likely.”
“Have you left the airport, sir?”
“No, I’m at the rental car lot right now, but I can be back as soon as I have my rental car.”
She told me where to go to return the stranger’s suitcase I had in my possession and get my actual suitcase while I apologized profusely.
My anxiety, which is typically paired with my travel, was finally served. I had to jinx it by slowing up before I crossed the finish line and was now facing my punishment.
The woman returned from the back room, and I readied myself for battle. Fortunately for me, there would be no battle as she explained that she had missed a step in renting an electronic vehicle out to me.
As Jenni and our kids had never gotten out, I returned to the car to see “On Rent” written with white car chalk on the two back windows. The attendant from the booth had come around and written this to ensure we didn’t leave the lot in the Tesla. Having that written on both the windows took some fun out of driving it, but I had a suitcase to return.
We parked near the Philadelphia airport’s arrival doors in an area with few cars, hoping no one would walk through to tell Jenni she needed to move the vehicle.
I ran down the sidewalk and through baggage claim like a former Heisman Trophy winner to return the stolen luggage, convinced I was about to get an earful from an Eagles fan.
I found the Delta Baggage office and was relieved not to see anyone obviously waiting on their luggage. I found Janet, who assured me this kind of thing happens all the time.
“You have morons flying in from Minnesota all the time?”
Janet stared at me, not getting my joke. A hand reached from behind me and rolled what I thought was my suitcase away.
I turned and stood face to face with the man whose luggage I had taken. He looked to be in his late twenties. He stared at me with a vacant look. He wasn’t mad, but he didn’t have a look of understanding either.
“I am so unbelievably sorry.”
No change in expression.
I then did something I had never done before in my entire life: I pressed my palms together in front of my chest and started doing these twenty-degree bows as I repeated, “I’m so sorry,” multiple times.
Still nothing.
I was about to turn to Janet to gauge how this interaction was going from a third party’s vantage point. Before I could do that, a younger man leaned his head through the door and, with a thick accent, said, “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, I was trying to figure out where to catch the shuttle for the rental cars and I grabb…”
“It’s. Okay,” the second man interrupted. The other man flashed me a quick grin before he turned, and they walked away.
Turning toward Janet to grab my bag, I said, “I’m just going to get out of this airport before anything else goes wrong.”
“It really happens all the time,” Janet called after me as I walked away.
“I really doubt that,” I said to myself as I began my way back to the rental car with the correct suitcase this time.
People often use hyperbole when discussing what they would do for their children. Parents make statements like, “I’d step in front of a bus for my child” or “I’d take a bullet for my kids,” and I always think: but would you?
It’s not that I am questioning their love. Instead, it’s usually because those statements are uttered after something mundane occurs. It’s easy to claim you’d do anything, but we don’t get to know what we would do until those moments present themselves.
Now, I can tell my kids, honestly, “I would have a stern conversation with a rental car agent for you.”
Because even though it didn’t happen, I was ready. I was prepared to say what needed to be said to ensure my son got to ride in a Tesla.
I had a short time to come up with what I would say, and it was good. If said with the correct tone of voice, I would have gotten the Tesla and most likely gotten a discount. It’s a short statement that is to the point and could get me out of even the stickiest of situations.
Since I didn’t use it, I figured here is as good a place as any to share it:
Tim and Jenni are back from Spring Break! They kick off this week’s episode by discussing the eclipse that captured the world’s attention. Tim shares how he didn’t really care, and Jenni explains how she didn’t know precisely where Arkansas was and the ACTs. They recap their trip out east to Maryland and their impressions of “The City of Brotherly Love,” Philadelphia. The show ends with a beautiful musical number.
This week, Tim and Jenni talk about the early spring blizzard in Minnesota. Then it’s time to get wild because it’s Spring Break 2024! Tim and Jenni talk about their plan to surprise their kids at the airport with a trip to Maryland to visit Tim’s sister. Then they talk about airports and airplanes: when to arrive to the airport for your flight, traveling with kids, Jenni getting through TSA, and Tim’s biggest airplane passenger pet peeve. They talk about their vacation plans, and Jenni reveals just how much she loves Old Bay. We appreciate you being here! Don’t forget to subscribe.
Watching business travelers is one of my favorite things about going to the airport. Those who never need to tell what their airline membership status is because they are the embodiment of Platinum.
Meanwhile, I bragged to everyone I could find when I hit Delta’s “Silver Medallion” status a year ago, hoping no one would ask the obvious next question, “What does that get you?”
“Unlimited Complimentary Upgrades.”
“So you fly First Class a lot?”
“I’ve never flown First Class,” I respond, avoiding eye contact and hoping the topic of conversation changes.
The truth is it makes me feel like I’m one of those elite people who travel for business consistently. One of those who navigate a chaotic airport effortlessly while rolling their matching carry-on and laptop bag behind in their C-Suite attire.
I find that aesthetic far superior to that of the twenty-something who has jammed all of their clothing into an enormous backpack while dressed as a Bohemian fever dream come to life. If you’ve been to the airport, you know the outfit: Birkenstocks, pajama pants, tie-dye shirt, and a blue bandana covering their ratty dreadlocks traveling back home to Omaha.
This preference applies exclusively within the confines of an airport. I’m hanging with twenty-something anywhere else in the world, mainly for the free weed.
It will come as no surprise that I was thrilled when presented with an opportunity to attend a three-day conference at the Georgia International Convention Center, located roughly two hundred yards from the Atlanta Airport. A fine venue to learn about the latest and greatest updates in the credit card processing industry.
While it wasn’t glamorous, it made me feel like a grown-up. One of those moments that remind me I am, in fact, an adult, like not asking permission to buy candy at the store or buying porn at a sex shop mid-morning on a Tuesday. You know, adult stuff.
I bought a new carry-on for the trip and planned my travel outfit to be optimized for TSA. Shoes that I could easily slip on and off, jeans that fit just right without a belt, and a sports jacket to elevate it all a little bit, all in the hope I would pass as a Platinum Medallion member on a pure travel day. A look that let everyone know I wasn’t on my way to a multi-million dollar meeting today but tomorrow possibly. I even took out my laptop on the plane so that people around me would be impressed by my work ethic. At the same time, I clicked around a fake spreadsheet rather than doing any actual work.
Now you have to wonder, who else is doing that?
The thrill of the business trip ended when I stepped off the airport tram at my hotel a mere forty-five seconds after leaving the airport.
For the next seventy-two hours, I would be forced to wear a lanyard, go to classes about the credit card processing industry, and talk to some of the biggest slime-ball salesmen the world has seen while pretending to give a shit about any of it.
On the second night of my business trip, cocktails were the solution to allow me to have a good time. I went to the hotel restaurant, sat at the bar, and watched in silent frustration as the bartender ruined the Manhattan I ordered by muddling an orange slice and two maraschino cherries in my glass. Nevertheless, I smiled when she set it on a coaster in front of me and responded with an overly enthusiastic, “Thank you, looks amazing.”
I sat at the bar alone. People on either side of me were talking shop and introducing themselves while I hoped the liquid courage would kick in and allow me to join in. I handed my credit card to the bartender to pay for my drink.
“I saw that,” the woman in her mid to late twenties sitting beside me said with a smirk.
I glance at the crowded bar to either side of me to ensure this is directed at me. “You saw what?”
“Your credit card.”
Why is this woman interested in my credit card?
“Oh, yeah, I used it to pay for my drink.”
She laughed as she spun her stool to face me, taking a drink of her gin and tonic. “It’s black.”
“What is?”
“Your credit card.”
My card was black in color only. It was not the exclusive American Express Black Card she assumed it to be. Not that my US Bank-issued Visa Flex Perks Reward Card didn’t give me a pretty solid 1% cash back on my purchases.
“Yes, it is.”
I didn’t lie. I would have probably told the truth if Ms. Credit Report had asked me if it was a Black Card specifically.
I stood up from my stool, deciding to try my luck at the bar on the other side of the hotel lobby. As I did so, the woman obsessed with my credit card introduced herself. We talked briefly about where we were from and what companies we worked for, and I retreated to the other bar.
Fortunately, I found a few familiar faces. I had a decent enough time meeting new people and reveling in cocktails.
Near the end of the night, I found myself stuck at a high-top table with a man who had spent his entire adult life in the credit card processing industry. If you’ve been to a professional conference, you know this guy. No matter the time of day or setting, he is talking shop. No attention is paid to your attempts to change the topic as he continues to talk about the most boring subjects while nursing a light beer for far too long.
I gave an exaggerated stretch, preparing to deliver my excuse for needing to head back to my hotel room, when I heard a voice over my shoulder. “You owe me a drink.”
I turned, puzzled, to see the same woman from the first bar standing behind me with an empty wine glass.
“I do?”
She stared back at me, telepathically telling me to catch the hint. After a beat, I realized she was attempting to save me.
“I do,” I said, turning to the man, “Sorry. Thanks for all the information about the upcoming rate changes to Visa Corporate Cards; it will really help me out.”
I lied. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know, and none of the information would help me.
“Thanks, that dude was never going to stop talking. What are you drinking?”
I took her order and went to the bar to get a couple of drinks. When I returned, I found her at a high top with a couple of the familiar faces I had seen earlier.
As the night wore on, the crowd slowly dissipated to ten people. We stood in the lobby talking.
I felt like an actual adult at a business conference in Atlanta, having cocktails at an airport Marriott with a lanyard around my neck. This was a scene I had witnessed as a kid when I would travel to conferences with my Dad.
The bartender was counting the minutes until closing time while cleaning glasses. “Last call.”
Hearing that, I took the last swallow of my third Manhattan. I began checking my pockets for my belongings in preparation for getting back to my room. Undoubtedly, the other adults I was gathered with were ready to call it a night.
“Anyone want another beer?”
There was a pause. The pause. This was an end-of-the-night stand-off that would be settled by the sole brave enough to answer first.
I stare at my empty glass, hoping someone will break the silence. “Why not?”
I am not good with awkward silence, but I am good at drinking cocktails.
Two guys from the group went to the bar and returned with enough beer in their arms for everyone to have two more beers.
Most people are grown adolescents pretending to be adults, including myself.
The night continued, and we carried on having a boisterous conversation in the empty lobby, our laughs echoing off the tiled floor. By the night’s end, I was almost exclusively talking to the woman from the bar. It turned out we had quite a bit in common, she was an easy laugh, and I had a beer in my hand—the only three ingredients I needed to morph from an introvert into an extrovert.
I continued to enjoy the conversation until the beer ran out. I was ecstatic that I wasn’t in my room watching a movie and eating terrible food.
When the beer ran out, we all agreed it was a good night, but it was time to end it. We walked to the elevators while continuing the conversation, squeezing every last drop of fun out of the night we could manage.
An elevator door dinged, and I entered the tiny elevator with the woman from the bar and four guys from the group. We went up one floor, and the elevator doors opened.
She bites her lip while looking at me with doe eyes. “This is my floor.”
“Oh, okay. It was great to meet you,” I said with the enthusiasm of a kid who made an unexpected friend at summer camp.
“Same. I have had so much fun talking to you tonight.”
She stepped off the elevator as one of the other passengers held the door from shutting. She turned around to face the five of us left in the elevator, her eyes trained on me expectantly.
“Have a good night,” I said as the elevator doors began to close.
I saw disappointment flash across her face just as the doors clanked shut and the elevator began its ascent to the next floor. The slight lurch when it started reminded me how many Manhattans I had consumed.
One of the guys in the elevator loudly blurted. “Dude, you’re getting off on the wrong fucking floor.”
The elevator erupted into laughter. I laughed along despite not understanding what we were laughing at.
We stopped laughing when the elevator doors opened on the next floor, my floor.
I walked off the elevator and stopped. “Wait, why did I get off on the wrong floor?”
They all chuckled, and one responded, “She wanted you to go to her room. Are you serious right now?”
The doors closed, and I heard their laughter fade as they made their way to the next floor, leaving me alone in the hushed hotel hallway.
I can count on one hand the number of times I have been hit on in my life by someone other than my wife. I’d have to take off my socks to count the number of times she’s hit on me, so I guess you can say things are going pretty well.
Since it is so infrequent for me, I am a little slow on the uptake.
I ran through the night’s events as I walked to my hotel room.
She got interested because of my credit card. She came and saved me from the boring conversation. I bought her a drink. She was next to me all night, even when I talked about college football with that guy. She laughed at almost everything I said, even things that weren’t funny. And she put her hand on my arm every time she laughed.
I stood in my hotel bathroom, having a staring contest with the drunk in the mirror, when I finally realized the guys in the elevator were right.
I went to the queen-sized bed I had arbitrarily chosen as my sleeping bed when I arrived and laid down, promising myself I’d take my clothes off when the room stopped spinning.
I wake up to a hotel maid attempting to enter my room at 10 AM. Panicked, I sat up, saying, “No, thank you. Please come back later.”
The maid apologized as the door clicked shut.
I’m lying in the same spot I closed my eyes. I’m fully clothed except for my left sock. I glanced at the alarm clock to see I had already missed the first session of the morning for the conference, but I needed a shower to shake the hangover. I exited my room before checkout time and went down to catch the last few hours of the conference.
I filled my computer bag with the complimentary snacks available at the breakfast bar for the conference attendees. Who passes up free candy bars?
I had one more class session on my agenda. As I made my way to the class, I saw her walking towards me. I lit up with a smile, excited to see my new friend. “Hey!”
She didn’t slow down or change her expression. “Good morning.”
I walked into the class about 10 minutes before it started to see the man who had made credit card processing his life sitting at a table by himself, reading through the packet we were all given with far too much interest.
I turned on my heel and went to the tram to take me to the airport. I sat at my gate, looking the woman up on social media, not because I was interested in connecting with her but because I was terrified she had heard the laughter from the elevator. When the elevator doors shut, I pictured her assuming I had made fun of her. Fortunately, I realized there was no message I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me looking like a jerk or, worse, a creep. I turned on some music and attempted to get comfortable in my chair.
They called me to board the plane. I snapped into elite traveler mode and made my way to the plane via the steamy and crowded jetway. I found my aisle seat next to a man, already asleep against the window, and a woman sitting in the middle seat, looking nervous.
I placed my carry-on under the seat in front of me and unraveled my earbuds to drown out the rest of the plane.
The woman next to me was nervously thumbing the pages of her romance novel. “What is that?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking that something about me and Atlanta must drive the women crazy.
She pointed to the airplane’s ceiling, “The smoke or the, umm, steam up there.”
I looked to the ceiling to see what she was talking about. The cold air from the airplane’s air conditioning, mixed with the hot and humid Atlanta spring air, was causing a steaming effect, which was amplified by the blue ambient lights on the plane.
“There must be turbulence on our flight path.”
“What?”
“The pilot must be expecting a rough ride. When they expect a rough ride, they release a little laughing gas, like what you get at the dentist, into the cabin to keep us calm,” I said, pretending this is common knowledge amongst elite business travelers.
Her face shifted from nervous to terrified.
Why the hell did I say that? I thought before saying, “I’m kidding. The pilots have the air conditioner running to try and keep it comfortable in here while people finish boarding.”
It’s the sort of joke I try to sneak past my wife, not one I tell to nervous strangers on a plane. She muttered a thanks as she opened her novel. I put my earbuds in and turned on some music. As I rested the back of my head on the uncomfortable headrest of my seat, I realized why I said what I said.
I really missed my wife.
When I got to my car at the Minneapolis airport, I resolved to leave the business trips to the experts.
I am a “get to the airport 2 hours early” type of guy.
I grew up traveling with my parents, who are get to the airport a week before your flight kind of people.
As an adult, having done quite a bit of travel with two children under seven, I get it now. You have to be prepared for the bathroom breaks, the frustrations, and teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown at all times. And we are in the age of iPhones, tablets, and screens on the plane with a suite of movies, shows, and games.
The travel I did as a child pre-dates those things.
This isn’t an “it was different back in my day” rant.
Getting to the airport early in the nineties as a kid meant you were in for some next-level boredom. There are only so many connect-the-dots you can do. I’d inhale the treats my Mom packed in my backpack to help with the pressure change (gum, orange Tic-Tacs, LifeSavers, etc.) before we boarded the plane. I had no interest in watching CNN on the silent airport TVs.
Things got better when I leveled up to bringing a Gameboy and Discman.
However, having a Discman meant you must bring CDs along as well.
One year, a friend gave me a hand-me-down case that could hold up to 120 CDs. I had less than half that amount, but I can’t describe how cool I felt the first time I brought that CD holder through the airport.
On the inside, the CDs were held in plastic trays, like the cases they were sold in. It made the most satisfying noise when you paged through, deciding whether to listen to Ace of Base, Alanis Morisett, or Jock Jams Vol 1. Click-clack, click-clack.
The outside of the case was a hard plastic that closed with a plastic locking mechanism rather than a zipper.
You must know that when I entered the airport with my parents, hours before the flight, it was time to move like we would miss our flight. The idea was to avoid being any sort of inconvenience to the other travelers around us. Whether we were waiting to get boarding passes, going through security, or walking to the gate, any misstep was met with one of the top punishments my Dad doled out. “The Look,” as it has been named in our family, was a sudden change in my Dad’s facial expression. He used it to let us know that he would go to extreme lengths to teach us a lesson if we weren’t in public.
Of course, I cannot remember when my Dad got even close to laying a hand on me in the name of punishment. However, that fact didn’t matter as “the look” drilled into your brain and let you imagine a profanity-laced trip behind the proverbial wood shed.
The pressure turned up when it was time to board the plane. The stress would turn up a notch. Something about a line behind my Dad spiked his anxiety. Knowing this, I did my best to go unnoticed by all around me.
When it came time to board the plane my first time with my new CD carrying case, I switched to a new CD as we got up to get in line.
Everything went smoothly until my arm snagged on my headphone cord, pulling it out of the Discman. I was walking behind my parents, so I took a moment to plug my headphones back in. After a bit of fumbling, music started playing again. I put a little hop in my step to close the gap between myself and my parents. My increased pace was more than the plastic lock on my CD case could handle. Halfway down the jetway, the case opened, and twenty CDs fell out, scattering in all different directions.
I dropped to my knees, scrambling to pick up the CDs from the course-thin carpet as quickly as I could without smudging or, God forbid, scratching the discs. I could see the feet of the line forming behind me. I felt the blood rush to my face. My heart pounded in my ears. It was time to face the music after all the CDs were back in the case. I stood and turned to see “the look.”
I deserved it.
We all have moments as adults when we catch ourselves behaving like our parents. The combination of genetics and learned behavior is sometimes impossible to overcome.
Because of this, I have spent most of my life anxiously arriving at airports too early and rushing for no reason.
My wife, Jenni, usually has enormous patience for me.
I am confident I am given this grace because she has also traveled with my parents and witnessed the controlled chaos firsthand.
In high school, she joined us on a trip to visit my sister in Maryland and spend a day in New York City. On that trip, it didn’t take more than a hundred yards for the stress level to rise to an unreasonable level.
My parents started, err, discussing correctly navigating the route from the parking ramp to the baggage check.
We followed along, quietly laughing at their back-and-forth while naively thinking we would never be like that.
Ah, to be young.
We reached the boiling point heading up an escalator. My Dad was confident he was doing the correct thing by going up. My Mom wasn’t so sure, although she only voiced this once we headed up the escalator. This led to a loud, umm, debate being volleyed from the top to the bottom of the escalator.
Stuck in the middle, Jenni and I decided to match the pace of the escalator, waiting to see who would be the victor. We did our best to stay halfway between the two so as not to show allegiance to either of the parties involved inadvertently.
I cannot recall which direction was correct, but we did make it to the flight in plenty of time.
Despite bearing witness to this early in our relationship, we are not immune to our airport debates.
As a matter of fact, on July 19, 2019, we came as close to a divorce as we ever have in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport.
We were headed to upstate New York for our summer vacation.
Sweat poured from my forehead in the Park’ N Fly parking lot as I worked to get both car seats out of the car in time to catch the shuttle. The shuttle parked directly behind my vehicle. A shuttle filled with people waiting to get to the airport, watching me. Suddenly, it was as if I had never taken a car seat out of a car. Panic started to rise.
“Take your time; we’re fine,” my wife said as I swore at the car seats under my breath.
We’re fine. We’re fiiiine. Easy to say that when you’re not taking the car seats out in an oven, I thought to myself.
Eventually, the car seats were removed from the car, and we got on the shuttle and made it to the terminal. Of course, the kiosks allowing you to print your bag tags were not working. We were forced to get in a ridiculously long bag check line with our 3-year-old and 7-month-old—somehow, it was more hot and humid inside than outside.
When traveling with two children under three, checking bags doesn’t lighten the load as much as you might think. We got through security with four carry-ons, a car seat, a stroller, and a diaper bag.
You should know that when Jenni announces she is hungry, it means she needs to eat immediately.
I knew this at the time. I knew I had mere minutes before Jenni became “hangry.”
There is a grab-and-go-style restaurant as you enter the G concourse in the MSP airport.
“Let’s get some food before we go to the gate,” Jenni said.
“Why don’t we go to the gate first? Then we can come back and get some food,” I said, thinking gathering food without two children, four carry-on bags, a car seat, a stroller, and a diaper bag would be easier.
Logic is ineffective against Jenni’s “hanger.”
If we could survive without food, Jenni and I would never fight.
We whisper-fought in the busy airport concourse. Neither of us wanted to become a spectacle to people passing while simultaneously wanting to win the fight. I’m sure we were simultaneously recalling the escalator battle of 2002 somewhere in the deep recesses of our minds.
We got the food before going to the gate, of course. We walked to the gate separately. Jenni didn’t allow us to get within thirty feet of each other. All of the seats were taken when we got to the gate, so we were forced to sit on the floor of the hot concourse. Jenni wouldn’t look at me or talk to me. When I tried to talk to her, she behaved as though I didn’t exist.
There was a brief moment I thought my marriage was over.
It wasn’t until we were flying over Michigan that she acknowledged my existence. I’m confident the sole reason was so I could take this picture of our daughter on her first flight.
Since then, weIhave become much more relaxed when entering an airport. Though, thanks to the Delta Sky Club, I will always be the guy who gets to the airport way too early.
I also have inherited “the look” from my Dad. I do it often, especially to my son in public places. It feels like I look like my Dad when I do it, but I’ll never know because the kid in me doesn’t dare to look in the mirror and see it.
It may surprise you to find out it is still possible to get lost in a major city in the United States in 2023.
It’s possible for me, anyway.
I traveled to my friend’s bachelor party in Chicago at the end of March.
Before you conjure up images of a stereotypical bachelor party that lead to us all saying, “What happens in Chicago, stays in Chicago,” this was a relatively relaxed weekend for men in their mid-to-late thirties.
Mid-to-late thirties is not how I think of myself. Mentally, I am twenty years old. This means when I am presented with a weekend away from my family, I don’t necessarily behave like a thirty-eight-year-old father of two should behave.
I refuse to say things like, “I can’t drink like I used to and function the next day,” or, “I can’t sleep on a couch. Otherwise, my week will be ruined.”
You know, things old people say.
For better or worse, I drink like I’m twenty and will sleep wherever is convenient. Let’s call it “mind over maturity.”
On top of this mindset, my excitement is maxed out when I can socialize with adults. Also, my tolerance for alcohol has seen a significant decrease over the past couple of years.
All of this, put together, occasionally leads to less than sound-decision-making. It also leads to me repeating the same stories multiple times a night, as my brother, sister, and wife discovered in mid-April when my sister visited. I re-told this same tale many times in the same evening.
Our day started around 11:30 AM at Butch McGuires. Chicago dog and cocktails. We all commented to each other around the table about the importance of keeping food in your stomach to drink all day and still feel decent the following morning. The food we ate would be the last for that Saturday.
From there, we hopped to a different bar to meet with the rest of the party. Then we headed to a golf simulator.
When we walked out of the golf simulator, night had fallen. I’m confident you could have convinced everyone at the party that it was midnight (the shots of Malört may have helped). In actuality, it was 8:00 PM.
If this were a “choose your own adventure” story, this would be the spot for a choice.
Timmy walks to the street outside the golf simulator after consuming too much alcohol and taking a quick “power nap” on the couch inside. What should Timmy do?
Call an Uber and head back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep like a responsible adult, husband, and father? – END OF STORY
Or,
Head to the next bar and keep the night going? – CONTINUE READING
I have yet to become the mature adult who picks door number one.
The four of us left standing ventured on to The Lodge Tavern; this would be the last bar of the night. We sat in that classic Chicago bar, drank beer, and talked about… well, I’m not sure what we talked about. I know I got sentimental at some point, which led to tears. It’s just who I am. I can’t help it.
Four people turned to two. The bachelor and I were the last two standing.
It’s important to note when we called it a night, it was 10:30 PM. It is not as though we were walking out onto the street at four in the morning.
The bachelor lives roughly ten blocks from The Lodge Tavern in the Old Town neighborhood of Chicago. The Courtyard hotel that I was staying in was about twenty blocks in the opposite direction in River North.
I have been informed that, when we were saying our goodbyes at the end of the night, my friend did his best to convince me to call an Uber.
Timmy is standing outside a bar in Chicago, and his friend insists he takes an Uber. Still, Timmy knows the hotel is within walking distance and would like to get a few more steps in before the night ends.
What should Timmy do?
Call an Uber and return to the hotel in less than ten minutes? – END OF STORY
Or,
Walk home to get some exercise and see the sites of the big city? – CONTINUE READING
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” I said with a smile.
My friend gave me a refresher on the directions. They were pretty straightforward. Walk half a block, turn right on State St., take a left on Hubbard, and there’s the hotel. Almost literally straightforward.
Easy peasy.
It had been about twelve hours since I last ate. So, it shouldn’t be a shock that a block and a half down State St. that I was drawn like a moth to a flame by the neon glow from the sign for Velvet Taco. I definitely didn’t go in because the name has made me laugh every time I’ve passed that restaurant. I’m thirty-eight years old, and such sophomoric humor is of little interest.
I bought and ate tacos. I don’t know what kind of tacos. I don’t know if they were good. I only knew that I needed them. They must’ve been good since I decided to take this picture mid-taco.
I finished up, ready for the rest of my journey back to the hotel. I walked out with the confidence of a lifelong Chicagoan. Little did I know that my drunken hubris was leading me in the wrong direction.
As I write this, I have been putting the pieces together, and everything has fallen into place. Thanks to this picture and a video I recorded.
As you can see, I ended up walking down Rush St. rather than State St. I know this because I took this lovely shot of the Chicago Water Tower. I recognized that I had deviated from the path shortly after as I recorded a video of myself around the corner of Wabash and Ontario.
The green route on the map is the route I should’ve taken, and the red route is the route I actually took.
Around this time, it occurred to me that the phone in my hand could be used as a navigation tool via the Maps application that comes standard on the phone.
My phone died as I spun on a corner for the third or fourth time, trying to get the arrow on the map to point the way I thought it should be pointing. I had no choice but to go the old-fashioned route of asking other human beings for directions. Which led to multiple interactions that went like this:
“Excuse me, do you know where the Courtyard is?” I asked complete strangers passing by.
“No,” the strangers said, not slowing as they walked past.
“Me neither,” I said to the back of their heads as they walked away.
It’s worth noting I was looking up at buildings to help me navigate. I did this because I had spent a significant amount of time that morning looking out my hotel window at the hotel across the street. You never know when you might see something interesting through the open curtains of a stranger’s hotel room.
I finally spotted the neighboring hotel shortly after midnight.
A few days after returning home from Chicago, I stumbled on a TikTok of a man explaining why he believes an active serial killer exists in Chicago. He had created a map similar to the one above. His map had flags where bodies were found, people had gone missing, and attempted abductions were reported. I matched the age and description of people who appeared to be victims or prospective victims. Many of those flags were in the River North neighborhood.
Some might say that I risked my life to bring you this story. I’m not saying that, but some might say that.
What good is life without a bit of adventure, right?
“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint (see: jog).
“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner.
They were too late. I was off on my own in a neighborhood in Boulder, CO.
In September 2021, I traveled with some friends to Boulder, CO, to watch the University of Minnesota Gopher football team play against the University of Colorado.
Few things match the energy of traveling to a college town to watch your team play. It opens up a sense of community in people. People you see wearing your team’s colors from the airport to the stadium are no longer strangers. They are your friends, if only for 72 hours.
From smiles and head nods to “Go Gophers,” “Row the Boat,” and “Ski-U-Mah,” said in passing, a strange city starts to feel much more inviting. If you choose the right hotel, all the other guests are fans of your team.
Come game day, the excitement in the air is palpable. You know you are in enemy territory when you leave your hotel. Usually, the opposing fans greet you with good-natured jeers; a “boo” is shouted with a good-natured smile, for example.
Unless you are in Wisconsin or Iowa, those people are savages that take out their frustration of living in the worst two states in the country on opposing fans. Some of the worst things I’ve heard from opposing fans have come from the mouths of sixty-year-old women wearing Wisconsin red.
In Colorado, we heard the same thing repeated all weekend leading up to the game from the female Colorado students, “Sko buuuhfs!”
The first time we heard it, my friends and I looked at each other in confusion and simultaneously asked, “What did she say?”
By the third time we heard it, we realized it was a shorthand for “Let’s Go Buffs.” For those of you not up on your college team names, the University of Colorado team name is the Buffaloes.
As it turns out, shouting, “Sko buuuhfs!” at an unsuspecting group of Colorado fans as they pass by is massively entertaining. Watching the excitement melt from their faces as they realized the cheer came from three men in their late thirties from Minnesota made for endless fun.
What completes a road trip to watch your team is a win. The Gophers delivered on that front blowing Colorado out 30-0. The ten thousand Gopher fans that made the trip were ecstatic.
When your team wins a road game you traveled to see, it makes money spent on travel, hotel, food, and massive amounts of beverages feel like an excellent investment.
Before I tell you about the post-game celebration, I must tell you about the day before the game.
My friends and I set out in the morning to visit the campus sites and find a bar. That bar led to a brewery, which led to a wine bar. By 4:00 PM, we were having a great time.
We connected with a couple of other friends who made the trip and made plans to meet them for a drink and some appetizers.
We went to a restaurant on Pearl St. in downtown Boulder to grab cocktails. We sat at a table on the sidewalk, sharing laughs and cheering with every Gopher fan that passed by. After a few beers and fireball shots, my friends needed to return to the hotel around 6:00 PM.
This is the responsible thing to do. However, I have spent twenty years training for marathon day-drinking days. I knew returning to my hotel room could lead to an abrupt end of the day.
No, thank you.
As we got up from the table, my friends mentioned getting an Uber.
“Our hotel is a mile away. Let’s walk,” I said.
My friends saw through my plan. They knew my strategy would lead to me convincing them to stop at another bar. They explained that the night wasn’t ending and needed to “reset.” I probably would have submitted until I heard the word “nap” uttered.
I have never started a good story with, “So I laid down to take a nap.”
“Let’s just take an Uber to the hotel and find a bar to go…”
“I bet I can beat you guys back!” I yelled, breaking into a sprint.
“Tim, wait!” my friends yelled as I ran around the corner.
I sprinted for a few blocks until my limited energy ran out. I found myself in a residential neighborhood walking down the street with the sun setting behind the mountains.
I knew if I walked a couple of blocks south, I’d be back where the action was. However, I understood a walk and a break from cocktails were necessary, so I continued down the quiet street.
I wasn’t sloppy by any means. I was in the day-drinking sweet spot. I had my wits about me and found humor in almost everything I saw. Like this gnome carved into an old tree.
After a few blocks, I stumbled upon a park with a basketball court. Eight guys were playing a game of 4-on-4. I stopped to watch because, well, I had nothing better to do.
One of the guys playing clearly had the lion’s share of talent. I watched silently as his teammates took terrible shots and turned the ball over. Eventually, their ineptitude became too much to handle.
“Kick it to short shorts in the corner,” I yelled through the fence.
The best player was wearing running shorts. You know, the shorts you see those runners wear when they fly past running faster than you sprint, but they are on the seventh mile of their daily run. Then you think, show off, because you can’t remember the last time you ran more than a mile, let alone with your shirt off.
No? That’s just me?
The guy with the ball threw a wild layup that gonged off the backboard.
I shook my head in disgust.
On their next possession, I figured they didn’t hear me and, with a little more gusto, yelled, “Feed shorts shorts!”
The team again ignored their new inebriated coach, turning the ball over. “Come on,” I said in frustration, running my hands through my hair.
The sound of movement stopped. I looked at the court, and all the players stared at me.
“Do we know you?” asked one of the players.
“No,” I said.
“Then shut the hell up,” he said.
“Sounds good,” I said, deciding to move on with my journey back to the hotel.
I walked a couple of blocks trying to get my bearings, when a familiar aroma hit my nose.
I’m in Colorado!
I scanned the area for a dispensary. I was slightly confused since I was still in a mostly residential neighborhood, but I was like a bloodhound on the scent. I spotted a blue and red neon sign that read, Open, illuminated in the window of what looked like a small house.
I entered, learned some new things about marijuana from the lovely woman behind the counter, bought a souvenir, and continued my journey.
I was confident I knew how to return to my hotel, but I checked my phone for directions. My phone died as the route pulled up on my Google Maps.
If I can direct your attention to the graphic (below), I have highlighted (in case it needed to be clarified) where I got a little lost. Fortunately, after a few minutes of standing at the intersection of Pearl and 28th St., I remembered the Apple Watch on my wrist could lead me home.
When I returned to my hotel room, I started texting my friends who took the Uber home. When they didn’t respond, I walked out the sliding glass door to the hotel courtyard and down to their room.
In the courtyard, I noticed a glass pipe filled with marijuana. I looked up at the hotel and realized someone must’ve dropped it from their balcony. I continued on to the back patio of my friend’s room. They didn’t answer, so I started texting again.
Here’s what that looked like.
Those are the texts from a man desperate for a good time.
Eventually, they got up and going and appeased me by going out for a couple more drinks.
The following morning, game day, we went to a bar near campus with a couple hundred other Gopher fans.
It is hilarious watching Colorado fans walk away from a campus bar in disappointment when they realize it has been overrun by Gopher fans chanting, “M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A!” Which we did a lot.
By the time the game ended, we had put in a full day’s worth of drinking. We opted to head back to the hotel to regroup, shower, and decide what the night would bring.
Fortunately, we had the foresight to stock our hotel room with beer and snacks for just this occasion.
We watched more college football and listened to music for a while, but I could feel the energy being sucked out of the room. I could feel the mood of the evening reverting to what I had encountered the night before. We needed to make decisions.
“Where should we head?” I asked, hopping out of my chair.
I didn’t receive the enthusiasm from my friends I was looking for. Then I got an idea.
I walked out the sliding glass door to the courtyard. Walked into the grass and found the glass pipe I had seen the night before. I walked back to the patio of my hotel room with the pipe in hand.
“There’s no way you’re going to smoke that,” one of my friends said.
I can’t remember my exact intentions when I walked out of the room, but that sounded like a challenge to my drunken brain.
“Do you have a lighter?” I asked.
I had barely finished asking the question before a lighter sailed through the open sliding glass door.
Without hesitation, I lit the remaining weed in the pipe and inhaled deeply.
Look, I’m not proud of doing this. It wasn’t my finest decision. It was a calculated risk to get a rise out of my friends. And, yes, it was run-of-the-mill marijuana.
I’ve realized I am addicted to getting attention on my own terms. Hell, it’s why I write these stories. I don’t care if people are laughing at me as long as they are laughing.
Also, it worked. I don’t know if my friends were worried I would find other drugs in the courtyard or if they decided I needed an activity to keep me busy. We went out to a bar and got some pizza.
We chatted with a guy at the bar who was nice enough, but I grew bored of his stories quickly.
“I smoked yard drugs!” I shouted in a mostly empty pizza restaurant.
That put a quick ending to our conversation.
It’s a fine line between being a gainfully employed husband and father of two and a bum smoking things you find on the ground and yelling about it to strangers. I, for one, think that is an important lesson to take away here.
Although it should go without saying, don’t do what I did. There are much wiser ways to entice your friends to hit the town on a Saturday night.
I go to extremes to avoid letting my wife know I have bowel movements.
First, I’m unsure I can explain how difficult it was to type that sentence out, knowing that I will eventually post it for tens of people to read. In my effort to conquer my self-conscious tendencies, it seems that sharing this story will be cathartic for me and entertaining for those who read it.
A classic win-win.
Here we go.
Before I tell you the story leading to my writing this, I must explain what I mean when I say that I go to extremes to avoid letting my wife know I poop.
When we are home, and I need to use the bathroom, I will go to the bathroom where I believe my wife will have no reason to enter. No matter what I choose, she will come looking for me, stand outside the door, and say, “Tim?”
The panic that rises within me is illogical. I respond with a rushed, “I’m in the bathroom,” as I contemplate what I will do if the door knob starts to move.
I prefer this situation to when she is in a silly mood and jiggles the door knob unannounced. My panic maxes out when she does this, and I say, “Someone’s in here!”
I say this to my wife in my home.
I don’t say, “I’m in here.” I say “someone” as though I could preserve some imaginary anonymity in my home with my wife.
I know couples that openly talk about what goes on in the bathroom. I know couples that use the bathroom while their partner is in the bathroom.
We will use the bathroom in front of each other for number one but for the other one?! I cannot think of many things I would rather do less.
The story I am here to tell you occurred while we were on vacation for a wedding in Tennessee in April.
Before we get to that, let me provide more context for how anxious this makes me.
If you think how I handle a normal bodily function in my home is ridiculous, let me tell you about being on vacation in a hotel room with one bathroom.
If my wife is asleep, I will lock the door, turn on the faucet, turn on the shower, and hope for the best.
If awake, she will tell me I am ridiculous for wanting to retreat to the lobby to use the public restroom and force me to use the bathroom in our hotel room. Since she is a loving wife, she will throw in headphones (I wait until I am as confident as possible that noise is coming through them), or she will leave the room and walk down the hallway.
Stop judging me.
I know this behavior is absurd, but you must understand the absurdity to appreciate the dire situation I encountered when we went to the Gone With The Wind museum in Marietta, GA.
When we traveled to Tennessee, we flew into Atlanta and drove to Chattanooga. Before traveling, we decided to stop in Marietta for lunch and check out the museum.
I had to use the bathroom when we arrived at the museum.
I was delighted to see a sign outside the museum that read, “Restroom Cottage.”
That sounds quaint and private, I thought.
I told my wife I needed to go to the bathroom and told her I would meet her inside the museum.
There was no one else around as I entered the bathroom. It appeared the restroom cottage might have just been opened for the season as the doors to both the men’s and women’s restrooms were propped open. They were not the most outstanding facilities I’ve used, but the privacy was all I really cared about. There were three stalls, and I chose the one with cleanest looking toilet seat.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized I had made a rookie mistake.
I reached for toilet paper. However, not only was there no toilet paper, there wasn’t even a toilet paper dispenser. I kept my cool. Since no one else was around, I would just do the waddle of shame (that’s what I call it when I need toilet paper that is not within arm’s reach).
Time was of the essence as I made my way to the next stall—no toilet paper.
The last stall? No toilet paper.
I looked to the sink and saw a tissue dispenser in between the two sinks. Empty.
I looked to my final option, the paper towel dispenser.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
I waddled to the paper towels with my pants and underwear down around my mid-thigh, hence the waddle. It wasn’t until I grabbed the first paper towel and heard the creak of the main door to the Restroom Cottage that I remembered the entrance to the men’s room was propped open.
I turned to see my wife standing at the door wide-eyed, asking, “What is happening?”
I am not lying when I tell you I would have rather seen the face of any other person in the world.
I stood, frozen with fear, looking like Porky Pig in front of the sinks.
“There isn’t any toilet paper,” I said.
“Do you want me to check the women’s bathroom?” she asked.
I quickly calculated that if toilet paper were in there, she would need to get closer to bring it to me—hard pass.
“I’ll just use paper towels,” I said.
She told me I was ridiculous, but luckily there wasn’t toilet paper in the women’s restroom either.
I came out to my wife laughing, and she laughed all the way to the museum entrance.
My, err, shitty situation taught me a valuable lesson that day, and for that, I am thankful.
