AT&T Hands Ads

If you've been to the airport recently, chances are you've seen one of the AT&T ads promoting their wireless international roaming. I love them, but they were something that I forgot the moment I moved past. Randomly, on my way to Istanbul, I wrote a note in my notebook to research these ads and I found a few that I hadn't seen before. As a rabid consumer, I always enjoy eye-catching adverts. Bravo, BBDO!

Substitute Teacher - Substitute or Teacher?

As many of you may not know, during this time of unemployment, I have gone and gotten certified to substitute the children of Gwinnett County. This certification involved FIVE RIGOROUS!!!!! hours of mind-numbing training. If by training, you mean me bashing my brains out and learning nothing - the only benefit is now I can legally substitute teach grades K-12 for up to 15 days in a row.

I know that I’m far from brilliant but I believe that I have realistic expectations on what a substitute teacher is. Much more a substitute, less a teacher. My recollections on what a sub does involves, movies, tests, and sitting in the corner and keeping busy all the while we, as unruly children, misbehaved to our fullest. Now that I’m on the other side, I fully intend to be that cool sub. The one that gets things done but is not someone’s mom, is not power hungry – because let’s face it, we get paid $87 a day – the only hungry I am is in my stomach from being poor. This seminar led me to realize that many other people’s expectations as a substitute teacher are far from realistic. They want to teach. They want to touch these children. I laughed when I heard this comment. No one else seemed to understand the humor.

When I arrived this morning for my quickie seminar, I took a quick glance at the substitute population and my heart dropped. Have I really come this far in my schooling only to land so low? Last week I was riding high in Istanbul, this week, I’m sitting in a room being interviewed by a man with the last name Crapo (I’m NOT kidding.). I thought that I would see many of my peers, my unemployed new college graduated peers. To my dismay, I was treated to a cast of rejects, ranging from morbidly obese housemoms to barely literate angry women, and of course, the consummate morning brown-noser who is ALWAYS IN A GOOD MOOD. As a morning person myself, I wanted to slit his gay-voice throat. I discovered the only thing worse that a gay voice – is the Southern version, the know-it-all, slightly slow gay voice. Disgusting.

Then came the confusion on the dress code. The email I received mentioned something called business casual. I’m positive business casual is something that involves, skirt, close toed shoes, a blouse and hair brushing. Tell that to the haggard house mom who showed up in gardening jeans, flip flops and a t-shirt. I woke up early to blow dry my hair so that it was all flipping to the same side and I encounter THIS. This offends my sartorial sensibilities to the extreme as about ½ of the 16 people attending this seminar have disregarded dress code as merely a suggestion. My professional heart shudders.

Anyway, in this seminar, we were treated like 1^st graders, getting reward tickets for answering questions. Split in groups of 4, we read paragraphs and were expected to be able to summarize them to teach them to our group mates. Not so hard? Yeeeeeeah. Not so hard for those that can read. I haven’t encountered that much blustering in my life.

One woman, whose name is Janise – pronounced Ja-neice – was on THIS side of literate, she could read, but not really comprehend what she was saying. Other than being blinded by her aquamarine ruffled blouse, my head nearly exploded by trying to listen to her speak. She had 2 pages to summarize and couldn’t do it. I would say she was maybe, late 20s? She ended up reading a paragraph, trying to summarize the rest, giving up, skipping a paragraph, reading every third word of the next, going to the next page, before finally just reading everything out loud to the group. THIS IS MY SUB POOL. She demonstrated to me her inability to think on a higher plane beyond reading words. This probably means that she’s not that bad a driver, as she can comprehend the meaning of STOP. After a laborious 10 mins explanation of collaborative group work, she confessed that she was nervous – obvi explaining why she forgot how to summarize.

At one point, we’re writing on giant sticky notes stuck on the walls. I’m circling something and I accidentally draw on the wall with my Crayola, non-toxic, washable BOLD purple marker. My group members laugh nervously as I shrug. Washable for a reason, folks.

In the end, I signed up to sub in elementary, middle and high school. I figure I actually have a higher chance of getting hired since I still have contacts in these schools. I actually hope I get called in to sub an elementary Chinese language class. That might be awesome. My dreams are to go into an AP Euro class, perhaps AP World, or even AP English. Knowing my luck, I’ll get stuck with 7^th grade biology with girls who are nasty and like Miley Cyrus. If that’s the case, they don’t know what’s coming to them.

All I have to say is, if this is the substitute training, I can’t wait to actually get into a classroom.

The only question that remains is: who will pick me first?

Crisco... does a body good? (UPDATE)

As a recession moisturizer it does. I'm taking this 1 lb., $2.49 baby for a moisturizing ride of its life. This is day 1.

Before you think I'm too crazy - think of it this way. It has all natural ingredients, it's unscented, it even has 15% of your daily vitamin E - all in one tablespoon.

Wish me luck.

______
UPDATE:

After I put it on, it was quickly absorbed into my skin and this morning I woke up, with no dry patches on my legs, which usually happens after I apply lotion. Unline Vaseline, which is altogether too greasy, Crisco goes on and absorbs with no residue. I believe this blog says it best, stating that Crisco may even be better than Creme de la Mer.
Here are some comments from makeupalley.com that gives Crisco a 4.3 out of 5 - one of the most highly rated moisturizers on the website.

i love you. cards

I just received my i love you. cards in the mail. I'm about to spread them around with the help of spare change and postage.

I discovered them on dailycandy and sent for them from here. Two weeks later, I've gotten 25 cards in the mail that are hot pink with i love you. written simply on the front! Free.

I think she may be from Atlanta, a lot of the cards are all around Midtown and Athens. I think they give a good message. (OR whoever you give them might think that you're super creepy and file a police harassment report against you .... whatever).

Feel free to order them, she's sending them everywhere!

I can't be your favorite Asian.

Yesterday, I was asked by a Lutheran minister, “Now honey, do you speak English?”

My answer. Yes.

Here is my life story.

I am from Lilburn, GA. For the first ten years of my life, I interacted with three other Asian people in my elementary school. Karen, James, Loren. They were Korean and Vietnamese. The rest of the 200 people in my class were white. It may be safe to say that I have been able to safely acclimate myself to the American South.

My cousin, who is four years older than me, used to mock me constantly for having a dopey Southern accent thanks to Harmony Grove pre-school. Two hours of back-to-back episodes of Saved by the Bell on TBS combined with some Family Matters reformed me of that through my formidable years.

I don’t know how many times that I’ve been called Juan, which is a bastardization of my last name. What part of my existence makes someone think that I’m part-Hispanic? After being called Juan for about 13 years of my life, I have permanently corrected people how to pronounce my name, INCORRECTLY. I actually was inspired by this character, I think in a Nancy Drew chapter book that was Korean. Now, people pronounce my last name U-N, like the United Nations. It’s just a lot easier for people to digest and re-pronounce. (It also sounds like You win!) Who doesn’t like to have a name that’s basically – You win, Christine.

Then, dun DUN dun, I went to UGA. The Harvard of the South. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. At UGA, I met a ton of people that had never had a Chinese (Taiwanese) friend before. I joined a sorority with another girl, who was Korean, but adopted by a fam. To make things simpler, together, we became Asian.

This is where my downfall began. I have been referred as many a person’s favorite Asian. This is great at the time, usually this title is given during intoxication. But the reference stuck and no one thought to take a deeper look. The problem is this: you have only known one Asian person in your life. Me.

People in Cali, most likely do not have this problem that I do. I could never tell someone they were my favorite white person. Most all my friends are.. errrr. White. I cannot imagine this title working for anyone other than Asians.

What I’m saying is, I can be your favorite Asian, but if you feel like telling me, I would prefer if you dropped the Asian bit, and just let me be your favorite at the moment.

If you haven’t figured it out: I do speak English.

So do my parents.

And they are American citizens. They live here. IN AMERICA.

Avec Eric, Indeed

Please watch below this fine example of Eric Ripert, the chef of Le Bernardin in NYC, making a zucchini frittata. (retrieved from his blog)

Yummy! It looks easy too! I will be making this soon!

If you don't crave the dish itself, please pay attention to his amazing French accent. If you know anyone currently in possession of this accent, have them contact me.

A Letter to Chuck Bass

Dear Chuck Bass,

Why do I love thee?

Is it your thick bountiful hair? Is it your purposefully slow drawl? The way you rake over your soon-to-be conquests with your indolently thick-lidded eyes? What is it? I don’t even think you’re truly handsome.

Your foppish wardrobe is colorful (read: purple) and well-fitting. It’s the anti-hipster. The anti-black when in NYC black is always the new black. You’re supposed to be in high school, yet you act mature beyond your years. You’re rich, tortured, and you and Blair will never get together for more than 60 minutes at a time. You’re so sexy, even your creepy uncle is sexy by proxy of being related to you.

The sneer of your mouth, the tilt of your head makes my mouth go dry. I truly cannot fathom why you are so attractive to me… and yet……..

Don’t think I don’t know that you’re a fictional character on a television network that may or may not still feature Girlfriends and Martin. Moesha? Oh yeah. In real life, Ed Westwick has a British accent and he’s a below average in height actor who is a spokesperson for sneakers on the side. Ed may have made out with Drew Barrymore. He lives in Chelsea. He is not Chuck Bass.

All these factors aside, I loyally watch Gossip Girl every Monday night, and soon thereafter pray to whoever will listen – DO ME, CHUCK BASS. Chuck Bass, you are the yin to my yang. I don’t want you to treat me right because that’s not what you do. I want you to respect me. Then… disrespect me.

LOVE,

CHRISTINE

P.S. GG returns March 16!! Cannot wait!

P.P.S. The answer to Chuck's question? Yes. Please.

A Diary, a Journal, an Emo-explosion

What this blog will never be. Why not? Why not share my feelings on the internet? Why not expose to the WWW when I am sad, when I am mad, when I am glad?

Because, GOD, I have taken too much pleasure out of reading the diaries of other people. People that I know, marginally. People whose feelings have nothing to do with mine, and yet a sick twisted curiosity possesses me and most other people to read their trash. It's too easy and too much fun.

You're mad? Shitdamnmotherfuckingsoangry you have to post it on the INTERNET? oh NO. If you post it online, will the person in question read it, feel guilty about how they made you feel, then apologize to you? OR will they laugh, acknowledge that it was them to all their friends, and email them to show them how ridiculous you are?

Maybe if you're vague, I won't know who you're talking about. Sadly, that hardly works. It doesn't matter who someone else is talking about, I just like to read about it. That's why facebook is so popular with everyone. Who doesn't like to know everyone's business? Who doesn't like the idea of someone wanting to know about you? That's why I started this blog. I want people to want to know what I'M doing.

Don't get me wrong, if you have a blog that's just about you and what you're doing, I'll read it and I'll probably love it.

I like to know what my friends are up to. Plenty of those are entertaining and awesome. It's the ones that are cryptic and secretive - emo-explosions - that really keep me entertained. It astonishes me as to why people would want to share their nervous breakdowns on the internets. Writing is cathartic. It keeps your mind straight. I get it. (Again, more reasons why I started this bad boy.) But.... if you're really upset, perhaps typetypetypetypetypeeditclickpost is not the best way to handle things.

But I'm no doctor, keep doing what you're doing.

P.S. If you're interested in knowing what blog I'm talking about, you need only ask.

GG! Come back soon!

Justin Timberlake on Jimmy Fallon

Take a break from Istanbul! Funny and awesome clip. Justin Timberlake is kind of a douche, but he's got talent!

I love him.

Make sure to go to the promotion of Bud Light Lime at the 34 min 10 sec mark.

P.S. I totally stole this clip idea from Perez, BUT, my clip is longer and you get to hear the part I like.





SAD: Hulu killed the clip, if you want to see it, here's a bad version on Youtube.

Yum-yum-YUMMAY

Turkish food continued! I'm back in Atlanta and I want to start blogging about normal things but I feel like I need to be fair to Istanbul and finish posting some photos.

Macaroni and cheese. But let me tell you what's unusual about it. In its uncut form, it looks like... a hunk of bread, and then the man slices me off a piece, tells me it's "macaronay" and asks me if it's for 1. I nod. 3 lira = 2 USD later, he lays this plate of macaroni in front of me. He has separated the layers from the "bread" and serves it to me on paper. Mmmm. Great snack!

Cappuccino at Roberts Coffee. This place serves mediocre food with cappuccino that kind of tastes like the stuff that you get at gas stations.... which means it's rather delicious. at 2.5 lira, I don't mind, what I actually went to Roberts Coffee was for these: Please meet Autumn...



...and Spring. These two art deco tiles have been restored. Originally there were four seasons, but the other two could not be saved, and the cafe has two large windows in the shape of these tiles, what obviously used to be Winter and Summer.


















Rice pudding with a raspberry jam topping. The thick consistency of the pudding make it taste like mochi.


This is doner kebab with fries, rice, and pita bread underneath the meat, garnished with a tomato and a pepper. It seems a little carb heavy, but when in Turkey, order what the locals order.

Last but not least, lahmacun. Turkish pizza baked on a thin pita. Minced lamb meat with herbs, peppers, and who knows what else is schmeared on top and it's cheap and deeeelicious. For 2 lira = a little over a buck, I could eat this many a time. Thank you, Istanbul for introducing me all these tasty treats!

Tastes from Turkey

Midye Dolma. Mussels stuffed with rice that has been fried with onions! According to Lonely Planet, these things have the most bacteria, but easily were the most delicious things I ate in Istanbul. Found in Sampiyon Kokorec, they are the fast food of Turkey. I am jealous!

Manti. Turkish ravioli stuffed with lamb in yogurt sauce. This dish looks like Chinese dumplings and tasted like it, but not as delicious.
Turkish coffee. I don't understand what makes this so popular. It's small and thick, like an espresso but with grainy bits, like an espresso not made correctly. My theory is that the native people of Turkey only drink Nescafe and that Turkish coffee is actually for tourists to be charged at an exorbitant rate. Laugh away, you Turks. I tried it at a blasphemous 6 lira at Havazlu, a tourist trap at the Grand Bazaar. Deliciously overpriced indeed.
FIGS. What an explosion of flavor! Stuffed with roasted pecans and topped with clotted cream. This cream had a consistency that was a mix between ice cream and whipped cream. All of it was soaked in honey. This was just an OD of sugary sweet heaven!

Don't think this is all I ate. It's the middle of the night. I will post more food in the morning!

How Bazaar, how bazaar.

The Grand Bazaar, Part II, Illustrated Ed.
Take a peek, my precious, into the hallowed hallways of the Grand Bazaar. Sold by young hot Turkish studs at bloated prices to unsuspecting tourists, these wares are only to be seen here in the markets of Istanbul :)
Oooh Aaaaah. Pretty lights...How can you bring this look home if you buy merely one? Solution: Buy a few!
These are "hand painted" by his grandmother!













Take a break and read a book, read a book, read a motherfucking book! (Bought in the outdoor book market down the street)

You light up my life! @Dolmabahce Palace

If this is wrong, I don't want to be right. These do not belong in my house, but they sure are PRITTY.
Front hall. Welcome!
Murano glass chandelier from Venice.
The green makes things more interesting!
Main stairwell.
Proper lighting really completes a room.
One of my favorite rooms. Click to make photo bigger!

When Stitching Goes Wrong...

The largest light fixture at the Dolmabahce Palace x 3! It's already 4.5 tons, does it really need to be bigger? Apparently my computer thought so. No amount of arguing could fix this.
What a 4.5 ton looks like, party of 1. Love it! It could eat the table.

A multifaceted view of the Blue Mosque

Blue Mosque, by night, with snow, in black and white. Timeless.
Blue Mosque, by day.
Blue Mosque, a stitching of the front, with a glimpse of the dome above.
Blue Mosque, another stitch of the interior, standing at the same spot, but pointing the camera up. Multi-dome action.
Blue Mosque, from the Hagia Sofia. One of my favorites!

Hagia Sofia, from different perspectives

Hagia Sofia, being propelled up with my guns. Man, I'm ripped. These small enclosures are perfect for 12 year olds, or those people that look like it! (Like my blue body suit?)
Hagia Sofia, outside. Everyone who goes to Istanbul poses here.
Hagia Sofia, from one place in the front where I was standing and took 10 photos, then sewed them together like the unemployed baller that I am. The black hole in the middle is where I obvi missed a spot.
Hagia Sofia, by night. Boring, but monumental.

This Little Piggie went to Market

Or, in the case of Istanbul, the Grand Bazaar. The Grand Bazaar, located two tram stops from the Sultanahmet area is like any major market in any city, full of kitschy trashy things that you probably shouldn't buy because you don't need, but you will because you're here. In the case of Istanbul, it involves evil eyes that were made in China, colored lamps that may not be compatible in America, and colorful wares that don't go with anything else in your house. There was also a book market nearby that housed books from beautiful illustrated Korans to C++ manuals.

Misconceptions of Istanbul, Reconceived

Istanbul: the gateway between Europe and Asia.
Europe on one side, Asia the other. What I imagined Istanbul to be was different than it actually was. In my mind, Europe and Asia were connected by a raft/canoe/small boat that was captained by a native, sort-of Thailand style. Instead, Europe and Asia are 20 mins away by a power ferry that seats 300 people.

The people. I had thought of trendy Europeans-esque dream hunks. The reality of it was that it is a liberal Muslim city with Middle Eastern dream hunks.

I also thought that there might be more Asian heritage looking people in Istanbul, when, in fact, being Chinese made us stand out, a lot (This is not the case in Dubai, where I had similar expectations). Everyone in Istanbul looks more on the Middle Eastern to European scale.

The main sites of Istanbul are pretty centrally located, and the city itself, pretty small. I would equate it with Buenos Aires, perhaps Florence? It's totally walkable and has a handy tram system that can't be beat. The maps of Istanbul are misleading and I just didn't notice the scale.

Istanbul possesses funiculars, modern, metro style ones. Not like the ones in Vina del Mar, Chile that are glorified old-timey style elevators. These are like.. one stop metro trains.

The availability of doner kebabs. Being there on every street corner. Like hot dogs in NYC. NOT THE CASE. Nor were they as delicious, due to the fact that the doner kebab was, in fact, invented in Berlin. Doner kebabs in Turkey - are dry, without the yogurt-cucumber freshness and the hot sauce, spicy war.

Europop is the Best Pop

One of the other reasons why I like traveling to Europe is that inevitably, I'll be introduced a new pop hit on VIVA. Feast your eyes on this creepy/awesome song.

Turkish Delight

Upon immediate arrival in Istanbul, I realized what had been missing in my life. Or, rather, where what was missing had gone. Get me? Istanbul is famous for many things, all of which I tried to get a taste.

Hagia Sofia? Check.
Blue Mosque? Check.
Boatride that connects Europe with Asia? Check.

Taste of Turkish delight?.... welllllllll.... That depends. If you view Turkish delight as the chewy candy, then yes. I sampled a piece. If your definition of Turkish delight was in fact, the sexy thick-haired, bushy eyebrowed, intensity that are the Turkish men of Istanbul, then.... NO.
Pre-mature male pattern baldness is obviously a recessive trait here because everyone had thick beautiful hair.

Istanbul was strange in the sense that all the servers in restaurants were male. I did not have a single waitress. All of them were young, attractive men. They dangled in front of me, reminding me of the impossible situation that I was in. How could I signal to them that I wanted them, in front of my mother?
How could I flirt with them, alert them to my obvious attraction to their sexiness?

The cab driver, the waiter at Dubb, the merchant trying to swindle me. HOT HOT HOT. Laugh because you think I'm boy crazy, but Istanbul is where all the hot guys went. My only complaint is the Burt Reynolds mustache...

(none of these men are attractive, but please notice how everyone on the ferry is a man. seriously, where are the women in Istanbul?)

JFK-IST

Some plane food. In Business Elite :) :) :)

I am over 21, trust me.

Sitting at JFK for hours at a time drives one to drink. After waiting in the lounge for 4 hours, I got up to ask the bartender for a cranberry vodka, which is impossible to mess up. I stand at the bar and ask for my drink politely and she stares at me and smiles. I stare back at her. She looks at me for about 10 seconds.
I tell her: You don't think I'm 21.
She agrees.
I offer to get my passport and show her. She shakes her head. No need, she says. The man sitting at the bar laughs.
She asks me how old I am. I tell her I'm 22, which is old enough. She smiles, stares at me again. I ask her if she believes me. She laughs and pours even more vodka in my drink. I stare at the amount. Jesus. I'm going to be drunk.
She tells me that she believes me because if I were under 21 then I would try harder to look older and gun harder to get this free drink. I tell her, look, I almost feel like if I come back, I should show you my passport... she laughs before handing me my drink. AWKWARD.

Road to Istanbul

But almost not. For about 3 weeks, Istanbul was touch and go to the point where I did not tell most of my friends where I was going, because I wasn't sure if I was actually going to get there. After being bailed on by a friend, I decided that traveling to Istanbul was a must, since I had spent over 3 weeks invested in planning to go. Getting there was slightly harder than I had planned. Departure on February 21 meant that I had to wake up early in the morning, drive 40 mins to the airport and check in at the airport to connect to Philly before arriving at JFK to get to IST. For reasons that I was to discover later, all the flights to NYC that past weekend were packed, so I had to figure out a circumnavigatory way of arriving at JFK so I could connect to my flight to IST. So my original flight plan was – ATL-PHL-JFK-IST. When I arrived at the airport, I couldn’t kiosk check myself in because there were too many flights scheduled so I had to wait in line with the people that didn’t understand kiosk check-in, which means they don’t understand much, and the people that had about 7 bags to check. Everything seemed tight but a go – until my mother decided to switch up my flight from the original plan to ATL-DCA-LGA-JFK-IST. Now if you’re not familiar with airport codes, that means, Atlanta to Reagan National Airport in DC, to La Guardia, followed by a cab ride to JFK, which led to a flight connection to Istanbul. Whew! Complicated right? Wait ‘til you hear the rest.

We get to DCA, only to find that the DCA-LGA/DCA-JFK/DCA-BOS flights are OVERBOOKED, OVERSOLD, and there are 70 standby passengers waiting. I’m 52 on the list and I will not be getting on a flight that day. Instead, my mom flies home back to Atlanta and I’m stranded in DCA for a surprise family visit.

My cousin comes to pick me up and I get to celebrate my aunt’s birthday with awkward career conversation and a night of calling hotels.com to postpone my hotel reservation. I call at 3 in the afternoon to find out that it’s 7 hours ahead and it’s 10 o’clock at night there, and the hotel reservation manager isn’t on duty, they tell me to call at 9 am their time: 2 am EST. Done. I’m usually awake at 2 am anyway. This is no different.

What I didn’t realize was that I don’t normally wake up at 6 am, 1. So by 2, I’m exhausted. 2. When I called at 2, they told me to call back at 3, fine. I had some notes to read up on Istanbul anyway. Plus, at this point, I’ve hit my second wind. I’m young, baby. 3. When I called at 3, they said to call back at 5, because the person was not able to be reached. At this point, I realize it’s an all-nighter because I’ve got to get up at 5 anyway to make my 6:35 am DCA-JFK flight. 4. I call at 5, they put me on hold and I literally wait 30 mins before I have to get off the phone because I’m checking in and going through security. 5. At 5:50 am, I call back and manage to get everything straightened out before I board the plane at 6:20 am.

I board and at this point, I’m exhausted. I’m in 8A and as I arrive, I see an older man with a gold chain around his neck and smirk on his face. It’s 6:20 am and I need to pass out. I gesture to his right and tell him that I am sitting next to him. He tells me snarkily, “Oh? I was saving this seat for someone else.” My response: “Too bad, get up.” He looks to his friends who are sitting across the aisle, and together they laugh. I’m delirious and do not find any of this funny. He’s got a nasty guido borough accent that I’m disgusted to be sitting next to him. His elbow is digging in my side and I hate that I’m on a 50 passenger plane sitting next to the most ignorant asshole on the plane. Then, I black out. I snore the whole 40 min flight next to the nasty guido and his friends on their way to Antigua. His friends say that they were not able to sleep one wink. Sorry, man. Actually, I’m not.

I arrive at JFK before 8 am. Did I mention the Istanbul flight is at 4 pm? Anyone that’s been to JFK knows that it’s a hellhole. The people are rude, the airport is shit, and who doesn’t love that Puerto Rican bitch at the gate who has nails too long to type on the computer and an attitude that makes you want to reach across the counter and slap her. JFK is always an adventure. I go to Burger King next to gate 17. It’s lofted and much to my surprise, a breakfast croissant, tots and drink is $7.70. SERIOUSLY. $8+tax for sewage in my body? Pass. I grab a coffee and eat a Luna bar that I had thoughtfully stocked up on at Whole Foods the night before. In the lofted BK, I hear the chirping of birds, then I see them. There are little birds, the kind you see OUTSIDE, inside the terminal of JFK. The room is circular and there are no quiet spots. I laugh at how ridiculous this is.

Fortunately, my mom pulls through and gets me into the Crown Room at gate 6 and I wheedle my way until the airport wide guestbook, which lets me into the Crown Room at gate 21. It’s so nice, it has showers and open bar…. which leads me to my next entry.