Almost everyone knows that Southwest Air and American are my preferred brands. Between my stint a decade ago with AirTran providing me a seat under a broken vent (it’s not supposed to be raining on a plane) with a 10 hour delay in Atlanta and then losing my luggage, Delta / Northwest making me feel unwanted as a flyer, and Braniff… well, we can’t say much about the dear departed, can we? Still, these were preventable, and I try not to criticize about uncontrollable circumstances, but it does Put Me In A Mood when those circumstances interfere with my travel plans.

I arrived at Madison’s Truax Field yesterday with the hope, based on the rave reviews of my girlfriend, that my flight on Midwest (now Frontier) would be everything she said it would be. It didn’t help that when I got in line to check in, that I got in the regular line, and ended up waiting for 25 minutes almost because people kept walking in to the ‘express check-in’ lane and getting checked in before me, despite the gate agents having to ask multiple times for information, there being large groups of people checking in at once (A family of five, a group of three college students, two people with their disabled mother(?)) and then the desk agents finally realizing that maybe they should get to the people in the other line: myself and another single girl, who probably were the fastest check-ins while we were there!

Checking in was mostly hassle-free, I had no luggage checked or carry-on, and simply needed my boarding passes for Madison and my connection in Milwaukee. Of course, I was then informed of the weather delay. That was fine, it looked like I would still make it to Milwaukee on time for my connection and everything would be on the way to righting itself.

The plane ended up not being too late, and with a couple of pints at the Great Dane Brewing Co.’s airport location, the ~55 minute delay went fairly quickly. We boarded and lo and behold, my seat is broken. I didn’t notice at first that it was in a reclined position, but I did notice that the cushioning was broken and I’d have no spinal support for the 15 minute flight to Milwaukee. Then the flight attendant fussed at me to put my seat in its full upright position, and I tried, but it was broken too, and so I mentioned it to her before she moved on; she nodded and kept going through her cross-check. When she returned forward, I got an irritated “Sir, I asked you to put your seat up,” to which I replied, “Well, it’s still broken,” and she sighed loudly and moved forward, not saying anything else.

The 15 minute flight turned in to a 25 minute one, and my lower back was killing me as we circled around Mitchell Airport in Milwaukee. When we finally landed, I was just thrilled to stand up. After using the facilities I went to search for food. Concourse D at Mitchell, which I’m unaccustomed to, has a Pizzeria Uno – which was out of pizza, and a Chilli’s Too, which had a 45 minute wait. Given that my connection was now 35 minutes away, obviously that was a no go. The coffee shop was out of everything except 5 boxed salads and some muffins, and so I ended up getting a wrap and a bottle of water off of a little food cart.

I sat down at the Midwest/Frontier gate and immediately noticed four gate agents buzzing around. Given that I fly – a lot – seeing four gate agents that active, with two of them on the phone and the two others looking agitated is enough to make a wary traveler take notice. What to my overactive ears did arrive, but the sound of a voice saying “There’s no crew for the plane.”

Yeah. Well. Not too bad. We boarded about 10 minutes late, and given that I had no baggage at all, I did okay for boarding. All passengers who had no overhead storage items were invited to board first, and thus I did. I started back in on the book I brought, and was fine, until I noticed that in front of me sat two children, and two nearly empty bottles of mountain dew. Oh yes, some of you know what that means, and are probably a little terrified of what was to happen. Worry not, my friends, I am here to write this and was not detained by airport police or the TSA for felonious assault of a minor and his or her inept parent.

The obnoxious yelling began shortly before take-off, and the body slamming the seats soon thereafter. I tried putting my headphones in – fairly good ones, mind you, that keep out about 90% of noise. A little Miles Davis and my book and I could ignore the situation – except that I still had my wrap to eat and my water to drink. After take-off I waited a bit hoping the children would calm down, but there was no chance of that. The mother of these two children, when the beverage service came by, allowed them to order MORE caffeinated soda.

The flopping and yelling got worse. My wrap was almost knocked off my tray table and my water bottle was, twice. The flight attendant was catering to these kids, and barely noticed me. I finally asked if they had any scotch on board, and they only had Chivas Regal (or as the she flight attendant said, “shee-vaz”) so I ended up with a G&T. Can you guess what was next? Yes! The can of tonic, after it had been opened, had nearly bounced off the tray table due to the screaming, slamming children.

I finally got so fed up that after I was able to dispose of my trash, I racked the tray up and locked it in place hard enough to rock the row in front of me and get the kids to stop for a minute and look at me, and earn a glare from their mother, whom had not been doing anything to handle her children. It also earned me a word from the flight attendant saying that the trays did not need to be used in such a manner. I do think daggers came out of my eyes at the woman at that very moment, which the mother must have also seen because within five minutes, she had swiched places with one of the children and things settled down. Too bad it was 30 minutes before the flight was over.

I know flight attendants are primarily trained for cabin safety; it’s what they drill for, and their primary role – they’re safety officers first, servers/cocktail waitstaff second. I’ve seen them intervene when children are exceptionally obnoxious and unruly before, because it is not safe! So why did I get chided after 2 hours of slowly losing my patience? I have no idea. I guess it worked though.

Oh, and the final insult? I don’t know about those cookies that everyone raves about, but mine tasted like cardboard. Warm cardboard, mind you, but still cardboard.

With all this being said, I won’t choose to fly Frontier/Midwest again; I’m not at fault for the broken equipment on the aircraft, and I refused to be penalized for being trapped in a closed environment with children run amok to the point where things are being spilled on me, and then treated like it’s my fault. I’d sooner fly Delta, and that’s saying something for me.

Yesterday I finally made an attempt to return from Ottawa, in the great white north known as Canada, upon my airline of choice for most international travel: American. American hasn’t really done me wrong lately, and so I feel loathe to criticize them directly, however I will say that when you use the lowest bidder, you get what you pay for.

That, you see, is the problem with American’s ticketing and gate operations in Ottawa. Up until this year, Air Canada handled those services; check-in, boarding, stuff like that. The things that have the most direct exposure to American’s clients. This is good; Air Canada simply processes people with the same expected courtesy and efficiency that they process their own passengers, they have good working knowledge of the airport, and could interchange “their” personnel with the “American” personnel with likely a minimum of cross-training.

However (and this is where I’m unclear) whether Air Canada did not offer to renew their service contract or American decided it was too expensive, which I’m guessing is the case, they’ve ended up with a level of incompetence in their operations that even the flight and cabin crew was amazed and unhappy with.

My day started at 4:45. I’ve attempted to keep myself on central time, so in reality, it started at 3:45. A.M. That’s ante meridiem, and for you slower people, that’s about two and a half hours before the sun peaks over the horizon at that latitude, this time of year. Also, for my friend, who so kindly was chauffeuring me from my temporary residence in Ottawa to the airport, this meant getting up early as well.

I was in line, waiting for my ticket, at 5:20am, my flight was at 6:55am – more than enough time to get checked in, through customs, stop by the Tim Hortons booth in the U.S. departures area, get a coffee (large, double/double if you must know) and a bagel, and wait for my flight. My ire, however, began at 5:35, when the first person in line still wasn’t checked in. It grew, and grew, and grew as the gate agent (wearing nothing to identify he was working for American, mind you, the only clue being that he sat under the American sign) who was on the phone still hadn’t checked anyone in at 5:45, then 6:05, then finally at 7:08 (as noted on my phone) I got checked in.

So what was the problem? Well at first, since the ticketing agents were volunteering no information, someone found out that “the computers were down” – which wasn’t exactly true. It’s what the gate agents said. What turned out to be the problem – after a bit of prying and finagling the ticketing agent and getting confirmation from our flight attendant, was that the ticketing agent had accidentally selected the wrong printer on the computer, and didn’t know how to switch it back.

So how was it fixed, you might ask? Well, one of the lovely ticketing agents at the U.S. Air ticketing desk came over and picked the right printer.

Now all this would be okay; I had a two hour layover for a reason. So when they boarded us at 7:25, I was fine with it. But then we sat, and sat, and sat. Why this time you might ask? Well first after boarding was complete, we waited nearly 25 minutes for the first version of the manifest to show up. When it did finally show up, it was wrong, showing that more people had boarded than were on board. The flight attendant counted, then counted again, then sent the manifest back (I’m not sure if there’s more to the flight paperwork than that, but it is what seemed to be the hold-up). The paperwork came back with the same problem. The flight attendant recounted again, and then so did the co-pilot. They figured out which seat was supposed to be filled and was not, asked for the person to indicate if he was there, and waited. No indication. But the gate crew (the same two fellas who could not select the printer at the ticketing counter) could not seem to figure out how they had boarded the invisible man.

Our flight finally pushed back at 8:35am eastern, with nearly half our flight missing their connections in Chicago, and several more having to run for it.

In a way, I feel bad for American; their choice of an inept vendor to handle their customer-facing operations has lost them a fair number of Canadian customers. I heard the following statements “I knew I should have flown Air Canada,” “My sister warned me about flying American,” “I’m never flying American again,” and “They can’t fix this.”

The damage is probably done; the entire plane was frustrated with the operation at Ottawa, and while knowing that the contractors are the ones to blame allows some amount insight in to where the problem is, American really needed to take ownership of the situation. When I called the AAdvantage desk and they had absolutely no clue as to what was going on – because the contractors had not informed them that there was a problem. I would almost bet that if there’s an after-action report, that this is covered up as a computer malfunction – or at least described as such by the vendor to American, when I know for a fact that it was just simple incompetence.

So as I sat typing this at Chicago’s O’Hare airport, with my luggage on its way to Phoenix as I wait for my flight to Dallas (I was rebooked you see, but my luggage was not, and I’m thoroughly reminded of Southwest’s “Why do they hate your bags?” commercial) I feel a sense of pity for American for once again having alienated potential future customers.

Public restrooms – especially those in airports – cater to the mysophobic, or those who have an unnatural fear of contamination or infection. It is as if every traveler has the potential to be patient zero in a worldwide pandemic, and the only potential to avoid this has to do with the fact that you should never need to touch anything in a bathroom ever again.

I mention this because in said Admiral’s Club (The one in Terminal 3, Concourse G) there is a brilliant piece of hygienic tech in place: an automatic seat-cover changer. That’s right, automatic. No more pulling those butcher paper seat-covers out of the rack above the loo and placing them ever so carefully over the actual seat; it’s all done for you! Simply wave your hand at the machine, wait about 40 seconds, and with a clunk, a whirr, and a zip, the sheaf protecting your bottom from the germs of your fellow potential disease-carriers is right in place!

In a way, the technology is very cool. With so many people in one place, I have no doubt that airports are centers for disease. However in another way, it seems to represent the self-imposed isolation that we endure in the name of cleanliness and germaphobia. Look, but don’t touch anything, ever, period – and hope that the spirit in the sky will save you should you actually touch someone or something!

Now that I’m wrapping things up, I have one more thing to admit: I’m amazed I actually made it through the entire article without a joke about excrement. All of your, dear readers, should be proud, as that was my full intention when I started writing.

Happy Travels, and maybe I’ll see (or at least hear – clunk, whirr, zip) you in Chicago some time!

That is to say that when I drink wine I look for something that I can enjoy that compliments food or an event or both and that I can thoroughly enjoy with others.

For some reason, some people seem to think this is wrong. That when tasting wine, it should be done on one’s own, swished, spat out, and while sticking one’s nose high in the air, be able to remark on the sweetness, acidity, tannin, balance, and body – all while being able to identify the different subtle flavors.

It’s great being able to do that; I think it is an important step if you have consumed enough of a varietal to know what to expect when you buy one, to know if it is good or bad, and to be able to know if a person likes one varietal, if they are more or less likely to enjoy something different.

Characteristics of wine, however, are not what make wine great; wine should be (and is!) an experience to be shared with family and friends. It should be talked about and talked over, sipped and quaffed, spilled, laughed at, and forgiven the fact that there are those out there who have no friends or family and all they know how to do is to talk down to others about an experience that they only understand half of.

So you can see why I’d think I drink wine the wrong way – and so does almost everyone else. The truth is that I drink wine the right way; I drink it like the rustic Italians and French – as a shared experience before, during, after, around, through, over, and under a meal. Why else would there be wine for every occasion?

Even the Parisians, in their tiny little better-than-thou hearts know this. In fact, from the Parisians I’ve encountered, the only way to get many of them to admit that they can relate to people, they just choose not to, is to hide the spit bucket.

I get odd looks at tasting rooms; I’m always with a group, the group is always vocal, not always refined, but almost always cheerful. We’re inquisitive and make connections with other wines we have had, sometimes on the same trip, sometimes not. We will talk about why we like a wine (or do not like a wine) with each other and our host.

So wine may be evaluated on a five point scale, if one must. I would put money down (with the odds in my favor) that I enjoy wine way more than most people who think of wine like that, though.

I’m glad that it was purchased by Delta, but even then I’m excessively concerned with the 30 year old, dilapidated DC-9s still bussing people around the airways. It’s even worse because every experience I’ve had with them in, oh four flights in the past five years (I’m sorry, American and Southwest… I was a little drunk and crazy, I didn’t mean to cheat on you guys!) has been a rather poor experience.

I’ve long forgiven the world for going so PC that we no longer have flight attendants in hotpants, and despite my long-standing hot but rocky relationship with American Airlines, they have got nothing on Northwest.

Northwest has the allure of that girl, across the hotel bar at 12:30 in the morning, when you’re single, there on business, and have been drinking on the company’s dime for four hours. Oh sure, there’s a bit of flirting after you walk over, and she seems interesting, but you’re too lit up to know otherwise. When they close the place down and kick everyone out, there may be a poor decision or eight involved. You have no idea until the next day what a rotten idea it was, and by then your sole concern is to do damage control and try and keep yourself from making that mistake again.

Sitting at the Northwest gate at DFW terminal E is like the doubts you have while following the girl back to her room and having a slightly sober moment going “oh no, what the hell am I doing?” I only mention this because when you can smell the booze on the small bolder of a man across from you, and the trailer trash woman with two front teeth missing has just told her child “Baby, can you please get mama’s hair pick out of her bag?” that you truly understand something may be wrong. The true kicker, though, is the cold disdain with which the flight crew treats you.

I have had some bad flight crews. I had one on a flight to and from London some years back that made break up with American Airlines for nearly six months before we got back together (but boy, did Southwest and I have some crazy times in there! Remember that time in Denver, Southwest? You so crazy!) The level of uncaring with which I have dealt with on Northwest is exceptional, though. From refusal to check for more water when they ran out on a beverage cart, to a passenger being told to “do the math” when asked how much longer the flight was, to being told “whatever” when I thanked the pilots for delivering me to my destination, Northwest has some of the worst service I’ve had to deal with on a flight – ever.

It wouldn’t be so bad, really, if it were a one-off experience, like my trip to London on American, but honestly, when every Northwest flight is the same, it makes me very glad that Delta bought them out and will phase them out of existence. Hopefully Delta will be able to eliminate the sheer apathy of the flight crews as well.

So as much as I stray from my aeronautical relationships from time to time, even with my frequent flyer dalliances, every time I do, I am reminded why I come back. And every now and then, I remember that I loathe flying Northwest.

First, let me tell you about my home set-up. As an avid (and somewhat crazed) coffee drinker, I have multiple options available to me. I buy only whole-bean coffee, and while I have yet to go the route of roasting my own I do tend to buy high-quality pre-roasted beans. Of course, my vendor of choice is Central Market, and for the past month or so, I’ve been buying Nicaraguan Organic Medium Roast. It’s really good, a bit with a tart undertone and a bit of a mineral tang. With cream and sweetener it has a very warm, drinkable flavor profile.

So I start with the whole beans, and dump them in to my cuisinart burr grinder (though I think the next step is a Zassenhaus crank-driven conical burr grinder, I have yet to get to that level of obsession – though I will) and grind enough for a few days worth of coffee if it is for the week, or enough for a couple of cups of coffee if it is the weekend.

For weekdays, I use my standard Mr. Coffee drip coffee maker, on a timer, and prep it the night before. For the weekend, I either use my espresso machine or my french press, depending on my mood.

On the weekdays, my coffee is good. It is certainly better than anything I can buy on my way to work. On the weekend, my coffee is amazing. It is the type of coffee that makes me sit down, watch the news, and actually enjoy consuming this hot beverage that I created.

As of today, I’ve been thinking about Turkish coffee. I’m often drawn to things that work better because one is forced to take one’s time in doing them, thus the attraction of rituals. I shave with a classic safety razor, which requires a bit more care and attention than the latest 8 bladed monstrosity from Schick, or whomever.

Turkish coffee requires more effort, and perhaps a bit more precision, than even getting ready for press-style coffee or espresso does. According to what I’ve read, it has to be exceptionally finely ground. It’s added to a pot of water with the appropriate amount of sugar to taste, is boiled, slightly cooled, then brought to a second boil, slightly cooled, brought to a third boil, slightly cooled, and then served.

I must admit that I am curious, but as both former Lebanese and Turkish co-workers attest, and wikipedia states as well, the coffee culture of the near-east is amazingly well developed, and culture tells me a lot about a product.

So that’s how much I love coffee; at home I can grind it myself, and looking at better ways of grinding it, then I can prepare it at least three different ways, with a fourth to come soon, I hope. I wonder, when I grow up, if I don’t end up as a brewer, vintner, restaurant owner, or travel writer, I could become a coffee taster and buyer…

This morning somewhere between the fading grey of pre-dawn and the
first impact of the morning’s sun upon my eyes, I had sat down to
write a few paragraphs for my novel. After having done so, I was
thinking about various settings and places in the real world that
really could provide some breathtaking view.

I don’t know how many of the people that follow the goings on of this
community have ever been up into the Appalachian Mountain Chain,
specifically the Blue Ridge Mountains, that spring up with foothills
somewhere along the border of Alabama and Georgia, but it used to be
one of my favorite places to visit, especially right around this time
of year.

If you road-trip like I used to (solo, cross-country, and all in one
day), somewhere between Little Rock, Arkansas and Nashville, Tennessee
your mind starts to wander something fierce. The drive on I-40 across
eastern Arkansas and Western Tennessee is about as exciting as
painting a wall and watching it dry. The land is flat, desolate, and
right around Memphis, truly smells like the brimstone lined ground of
the sixth ring of hell might. It is dull, and a dry mental exercise
such that without the assistance of massive amounts of Mountain Dew or
No-doz, one simply feels like one’s brain will crash and burn.

Road hypnosis has one trapped inside one’s own head, and if it were
not for the wonderful tan and brown state troopers of Tennessee with
their eye-opening blue Vector light bars punctuating the road, the
possibility exists that one could end up driving forever, simply
shocked by the massive expanse of nothing.

After passing through Nashville, however, the landscape changes. There
are more trees, the ground is not simply flat anymore. The car seems
to rock as if cresting waves and riding them back down from the peaks.
The air turns a bit cooler as the general elevation of the land rises,
and for me, this is when the smile crosses my face.

Five or so hours later, my face usually breaks into a big grin as I
can finally get one of my favorite soft drinks, Cheerwine, in a
convenience store in Johnson City, right along the eastern edge of
Tennessee, and my last stop before heading in to the Appalachians
proper.

Of course, the directions to get to Boone are deceptively simple:
First go east to 321, then take 321 north. Boone is about 40 miles
northeast on 321. Simple. Deceptive. If one makes it to 321 anywhere
before five in the afternoon, that forty minute drive is likely to
take two hours.

321 is a mountain road, true to the idea that most movies inspire. It
is one lane, each way, almost all the way up the mountains. Like I
said before, if the rubber soles of the vehicle hit that road before
five in the evening, just plan on two hours. Usually, this is because
at one lane, each way, one ends up stuck behind an eighteen wheeler at
some point. The first time I travelled up this road, it happened five
minutes into my drive, and I spent three hours on the mountain road,
with no cellular service, and nothing to do except stare at the 8′x5′
ass-end of a big rig.

The road itself is the issue, the big rigs are stuck near third or
fourth gear (out of fifteen), because the grade is 15-20% in most
places. Going up that mountain is pure hell for one of those guys, but
it sure gives a guy a lot of time to think. The leaves on the trees
are turning red-orange-gold, with the wind whisking a few of them here
and there, swirling around the disruptions in the air.

A person has time to sit back, relax, and wonder about all of the
little mountain towns that he or she may pass through. The smattering
of brown leaves is just staring to appear, and if the windows get
rolled down for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, the chill that
arrived on the journey through eastern Tennessee turns into a
remarkable bite.

Of course, this place makes me happy. I have never known why. Perhaps
it is the freshness of the air, perhaps it is the unique chill that
always invites me to keep travelling, but for whatever reason, even
being stuck for two hours behind a tractor-trailor as the light
dwindles can not bring me down.

Whenever I arrive in Boone, the city always deceives me. I never quite
remember why I come. The light from its natural source is hidden
behind that of the artificial and inhuman streetlamps. That and Boone
itself is home to Appalachian State University, and it is as much of a
college town as any that panders solely to students, and has sprung up
in the middle of a virtual nowhere. For Texans, think College Station
in the mountains.

For me, there was always a bit farther to go. I never really enjoy
staying in college towns, so I truck myself to a view overlooking most
of Boone, to the Broyhill Inn. I discovered it my first time visiting
Boone because it was the only place that allowed me to make
reservations on-line. Checking in around 9pm, or later (because I
added an hour in there somewhere), after a day of driving that started
somewhere around 5am, I never really had much time to think. Simply
order a quick bite from room service and collapse into blissful,
non-driving slumber.

The first day in Boone is always the best, walking out and around the
Broyhill gives you such a perspective and such a glorious view of the
surrounding area and the town below, that the smile that had probably
been on my face through the previous night’s slumber probably, if
impossibly, grows even more.

The splash of color and the impact of the cold morning air is amazing,
and that, my friends is what really does it for me. Breathing cold
mountain air on a brisk fall day, while the sky is a blazing, electric
blue and the trees are every shade of red, orange, and yellow that any
painter could ever imagine mixing.

Breakfast on the first day, for me, is always quick – I never want to
be in town long, and I am usually awake before the College students
are. It means, for me, to stop at the world’s only two story
“Wendy’s”, and then off to explore the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is pretty much my life when I’m visiting Boone,
it gives me access to all of the sites of interest I care about, and
one could spend a day just driving it, and looking out across the
mountains. I usually make a stop and spend a day hiking along the
Appalachian Trail, one of the shorter loops, just outside Boone,
taking pictures and mostly just admiring the world around me.

I visit Blowing Rock, at least once, which I have no real description
for. One must simply visit and experience it. Blowing rock is not a
whole-day trip for me, though, so I usually do that in the morning and
head to Grandfather Mountain in the afternoon. Grandfather Mountain is
the highest peak in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and in my opinion, the
best thing about it is the bridge hung between the two peaks. The wind
is always blowing, and the bridge is always rocking back and forth -
which could be why it is called “The Swinging Bridge.”

Heading back to Boone about four or five in the afternoon, after a
long visit out and around the area, I am usually once again exhausted,
but enjoy the experience of seeing the sun set, and the long shadows
of the mountains make the drive dark, but the sky bright. The shadows
echo through the sky and you can always trace them back to their
beginnings.

I usually don’t make any effort to find food on the days I hike or
take long scenic drives, but simply stop at whatever restaurant is
convenient. Toward the end of my visit, though, I do make one special
effort – Visiting the Dan’l Boone Inn. The food is limited in choice,
but superior in quality, and anyone who loves a good country dinner is
well-fed and happy by the time they leave. They don’t take
reservations, but beware arriving too late, because the wait can be
atrocious.

Leaving Boone, when I do, never makes me sad. I know I will return,
and feel the same way I do once again. The people in and around the
town remind me of what Texas lost when the big northern companies
moved here, and Dallas became urbane and much more cosmopolitan.

I never miss Boone. I can always see it in my heart when I’m searching
for a breathtaking view.

Now it’s pretty obvious that if you live in Dallas and you fly with any regularity, you will end up flying American at some point. It’s the same reason as if you live in Houston, you end up flying Continental, or in Atlanta, you end up flying Delta, or United in Chicago. They’re big, they’re price competitive from their biggest hubs, and they saturate local markets with advertising (in my case, reminding me that they know why I fly, with is both creepy and very big brother is. Note to American Airlines: Please never cross-advertise with Burger King, as I may lose my marbles). I’m a little blurry on the strategy though, I’ll be honest.

If you want to drive fares to and from a an area with exceptionally high competition, wouldn’t you offer double miles on routes booked through that area, say JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark? What makes New Yorkers so special? I feel I’m special, and I’m travelling to New York, so I lose out on miles because I live in Texas?

Oh, I suppose there’s some key there, a survey that said New Yorkers fly American Airlines less than the competition, and so there’s a bit more drive to give all New Yorkers a, well, an AAdvantage, right? Doubling miles for someone living in Syracuse or Buffalo because they happen to fly on American seems a bit ridiculous, though.

So how about this: really score one with the home team, American. Double those miles for New Yorkers and Texans – or run promotions so that what you give to someone else, you’re always sharing here at home. If you’re increasing market cap, what can it hurt to reward the people that are right in your pocket already?

To be fair, it’s probably not their fault. Addison carries with it the same pretention that uptown now does, but the city does it with broad strokes and deft swoops, like those of a master painter. It attracts the “thirty thousand dollar millionaires” like no other five square mile city in the area – never mind that it’s the only five square mile city in the area. So we have our base ingredient and then we begin adding bars to the mix. Finally, we add a wine focus to one of the bars and we are set.

The problem that I have is that the bartenders there are bartenders… and while their web page references their “Wine Guy” – Vincent, I have yet to meet him, nor have I any evidence he actually exists. Several times I’ve asked bartenders for recommendations and gotten mediocre expensive wines, or ones that didn’t really meet my expectations. For instance, last time I was there I was non-specific about which wine I wanted, specifying a mid-range, full bodied red on the dry side, expecting a Cabernet Sauvignon or Cabernet Franc. Instead, while I ended up with a red wine, it was light bodied, sweet, and very fruity – a pinot, probably, though I didn’t ask. It was good – but it wasn’t what I asked for, or really wanted. When I picked up the tab, I also found that in no way was it ‘mid-range.’

That may fly in Addison – hell, I know it does, I see it all the time. The bartenders mix top shelf without asking, put it on the tab, and of course our faux riche that crowd the bars on Friday night don’t want to make a scene about the $17 cocktail that should have been a $7 cocktail. Or in my case, an $8 glass of wine that is suddenly $20. I’m not going to argue too much about the wine, given the location, it was probably a $14 glass of wine that had a $6 ‘being seen’ fee tacked on, but if you’re pouring at a wine bar, you should know wine.

My second issue that makes things difficult is that while they have “100 wines by the glass” and “50 more in the bottle” – the regions they pick and choose from are exceptionally limited. The bar is in Texas, two shakes from grapevine, a hundred and eighty miles from the Hill Country AVA. Amongst all of the US wines on the list, I’d say 80-90% are from the west coast, specifically Napa County, Sonoma County, and Washington State. Suspiciously missing are Oregon and any south coast wines, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything from anything on the list east of there. The list of imports from Argentina and Chile is sub-par for a wine bar with that volume of supposed variety; focusing instead on French wines with a smattering of other euros for measure. I suppose this makes sense, given the “Wine Guy” I’ve never met is French, but it is disappointing. On the upside, they certainly have more world varietals than Dali does.

My final point is what makes it such a love/hate relationship. The wines they do carry tend to be good – very good, actually, and that’s something I really enjoy. I know that I can find something that won’t let me down, no matter what the style – but none of it is truly new or surprising. There’s nothing that pops out and says to me, “Hey, there’s no way you’ve tried something like this before!” and given my prior experiences with recommendations (the one I detailed was only one of a few) I’m leery of asking for something without any specifications at all.

For what it is, an overpriced, well stocked (but non-varied) wine bar, Mercy is great. It’s even better if you know what you want before you ever walk in the door. Oh, the kicker for me is that their fortified wine (that’s sherry and port) options are limited to just just three, with no LBV or reserve choices in the lot.

Reading back on this it sounds incredibly harsh, like I’m beating up on Mercy’s flaws, and I am – but it’s still a wonderful atmosphere, and perhaps I’ll cover the excellent food at a later date. However advertising yourself as a wine bar and then not having people behind that bar with a clear understanding of what they are serving seems like a very poor idea, and it certainly does not bode well for attracting wine enthusiasts. It seems simply to be capitalizing on the money and ego driven atmosphere of North Dallas while disregarding what could be a fine staple of customers.

It may be relevant that I get worked up about travel industry news, especially when I feel that it is something that would be beneficial to me, and certainly I’m excited about this. First off, Frontier operates direct flights out of DFW. The thought of being able to book codeshare flights on southwest would be amazing, along with the fact that the number of two-leg flights would go up, instead of the fair few flights that southwest offers as three legs right now. Second, consolidating Rapid Rewards and EarlyReturns would be great for customers – and me. Third, and this is the most personal: it would make getting to Denver when booking through Southwest, as it’s already a straight shot on Frontier.

What does this really mean? Well, it means that in a way, Southwest is pre-empting JetBlue out of the Dallas market. If the acquisition goes through, then Southwest will be operating out of Love Field, as always, but also have a presence in the form of Frontier at DFW – and those people connecting through Denver would have a choice of departure points. Finally, it could give Frontier customers much broader, easier access to the east coast.

All of this is just speculation, and I’m sure there’s a mergers and acquisitions team at Southwest that has studied the business implications of this bid up, down, and sideways – but I’m all for supporting the home teams, especially when it comes to making my travel arrangements easier.

So pardon me while I go do up a baseball pennant with the Southwest logo on it, set up my lawn chair and my sippy-hat and cheer for Mr. Kelly to hit one out of the park.