I spend a lot of time traveling, both here and overseas. On average, I am on the road two or three days a week, logging tens of thousands of miles a year. I usually travel alone; Alma seldom joins me. She has heard all my speeches and knows all too well the travel drill: arrive, sleep, give the speech or perform at the event, and leave. There will be no touring, shopping, or leisure. I try to minimize time away from home. For me, it is strictly work. Even so, I don’t mind traveling. It opens up experiences that I wouldn’t see and hear in Washington.
Of course, most of my time on the road is spent outside the event itself—in airports, planes, trains, limos, and hotels. I enjoy sitting in an airport gate area wearing a baseball cap, hiding behind wraparound sunglasses, and watching America go by. Yes, many of us need to go on a diet and get more exercise. And yes, a dress code would be a big plus. But people seem happy and busy. I love seeing young mothers wrestle with their little darlings and all the paraphernalia now required to sustain a kid. I love older folks increasingly able to manage smartphones and iPads. The growing number of wheelchairs waiting for planes shows how we are aging as a people, yet we’re not just sitting around. I frequently drop in on the USO lounges to thank volunteers and chat with GIs. And I always watch with appreciation and admiration the mostly immigrant cleaning people who empty the trash, mop the floors, clean the latrines, and go about their work with quiet efficiency. It reminds me of my long-ago days mopping floors at the Pepsi-Cola bottling plant in Long Island City.
Nobody likes going through security, but I really can’t complain about it. I was in the administration that set up the Transportation Security Administration. I stand in line and wait my turn like everyone else. Try to bump the line, and the Internet will make you an instant villain. I take what comes to me as gracefully as I can. But sometimes it’s hard. Once at Reagan National Airport some sensor detected an explosive element on my hands. Examinations by two Explosive Ordnance Detachment teams and three supervisors finally got me sprung. It took thirty minutes. Pointing out that I had been Chairman of the JCS and Secretary of State did not do the trick. Afterward, they speculated that the alarm was caused by my morning blood pressure pill.
Short-distance air travel usually means getting crammed into a small Brazilian or Canadian plane. It’s like flying in an MRI machine. The logo on the plane’s tail may suggest a major airline, but it’s always hard to tell who actually owns and flies it. Nevertheless, it gets you there, even if you need a chiropractor after you get pried out.
I have nothing but praise for crew members, flight attendants, gate agents, baggage handlers, porters, mechanics, and all the others who, under lots of pressure, keep us moving.
I go back and forth to New York regularly on the Acela, the closest train we have in this country to high speed. It is fast, comfortable, and dependable . . . and there’s no TSA. I travel business class, but Alma always goes first class because of the service and the sandwich. (Grrr.) Many of my friends still fly the shuttle. But heaven help your schedule if there’s bad weather somewhere over the East Coast, clotting up air travel from Maine to Key West.
On the ground, for the sake of efficiency and comfort, I always insist on a professional limo service and an ordinary sedan. I am too old to crawl into one of those stretch limos kids use for high school proms. I am not stuck up. I’ve just had too many experiences where a client, intent on chatting with me, will borrow a new car from a local dealer, and then, distracted and erratic, try to drive, talk, and figure out all the new knobs and switches.
I am not picky about hotels. Any will do, from a Days Inn to a Ritz-Carlton. But I avoid hotels where there’s too much service. I don’t need staff constantly bugging me to explain how to adjust the thermostat or turn down the bed. I don’t need to rattle around large suites. When I sign in, I use an assumed name. Until writing this book I used Edward Felson, from, of course, one of my favorite movies, The Hustler.
My desires are mostly simple: Please give me a cheap clock radio; not one that needs printed instructions and plays my iPod. I am old; please make the numbers red and no less than three inches high. Get the cheapest one you can find, and tell people they are free to take it.
Give me a closet big enough to hang something in and not already filled up with a safe, iron, ironing board, and that silly folding suitcase rack, left over from the days of ocean liner suites.
Please, oh please, don’t get fancy shower controls with handles that give you no clue how to turn it, push it, or pull it on and off. I only need one showerhead, not a decontamination sprinkler system. Put the Jacuzzi in the Honeymoon Suite.
I haven’t really found a pressing need to have a television set or phone in the bathroom. Nor do I need a scale. And I’m really frightened by those padded and heated Japanese toilet seats in upscale hotels. The complex control panel suggests other things the toilet will do, but I have been afraid to try them and doubt the need.
Here’s a biggie: please, please, put large print on the shampoo and conditioner tubes and bottles. Is it asking too much to let us know in a readable font that we’re putting shampoo and not hand cream on our heads?
A simple coffeemaker, please. I don’t need to grind coffee beans. This doesn’t apply in Las Vegas, where they generally don’t give you a coffee machine in your room. They want you downstairs pulling the slots while you wait your turn in the coffee shop line.
Keep the TV simple. I don’t want to use it to go on the Internet or play games. Push a wrong button on the remote and you have to call room service to straighten it out.
Please cut the number of bolsters, cushions, and all the other stuff piled on beds that make it difficult to find pillows and have no functional purpose beyond encouraging female guests to do the same thing at home. Guys don’t get this.
Lamp switches should be at the base of the lamp. Don’t make me have to follow the wire down to a switch near the floor, or burn my hand feeling up toward the bulb.
Finally, we live in the information age. Please don’t make us crawl under desks looking for a wall outlet for our iPhones, laptops, iPads, and other electronic gizmos that need feeding.
Otherwise, I enjoy traveling. I am always happy to be out where I can observe all the myriad varieties of Americans. And I love being on the speaking circuit, or in schools, Boys and Girls Clubs, charity events, and all the other wonderful activities going on around our nation. They keep us rolling forward.