Transient

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport (SEA-TAC)

2009-03-14T17:11:00.001-07:00

San Diego International (SAN)

2009-01-30T18:38:00.000-08:00

San Diego, California

2009-01-30T18:30:00.001-08:00

Wata (from Boris)

2009-01-29T18:48:00.000-08:00

Boris

Boris

Boris

Boris

Boris

New Orleans, Louisiana

2009-01-02T17:22:00.000-08:00

New Orleans, Louisiana

2009-01-02T17:18:00.001-08:00

New Orleans, Louisiana

2009-01-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

Back in Philadelphia

2008-09-26T07:39:00.000-07:00

I’m back in the States.

The “Seminarios Educativos de la APP” went amazingly well—as usual—but I did sneek out of the hotel several times to visit museums. (The lectures were entirely in Spanish—except for the few English-speaking instructors, who were translated.) I saw Diego Rivera’s house (Anahuacalli), the Frida Kahlo/Diego Rivera House, and the Dolores Olmedo Patiño Museum—a huge, former private residence that houses a huge collection of Diego Rivera work.

Karem and I also spent some time together—with my horrible Spanish and her less-than-perfect English, we were a good conversational match. We further bonded over our excitement for the end-of-the-week lucha libre (Mexican wrestling) match. We were both psyched when Karen was able to get tickets for what everyone around us said was to be the biggest match of the year.

Lucha libre was a highlight of the week. The final match went to Villana, and, after being defeated, Blue Panther took off his mask and gracefully retired, at 48 years old. The crowd went nuts.

Saturday was yoga (at a Mexican studio in Spanish), a trip to Wakantanka piercing studio, an afternoon of shopping, and then a six-hour bus ride down to Oaxaca—getting in at 2:30 in the morning. Sunday was sleeping late, heading to the market with Jason and two of his friends, and then visiting traditional Oaxacan rug merchants. Sunday left me feeling drained and not at all well.

By Monday, I was full-on sick. The week—and the month of preparation that went before it—finally caught up to me, along with the bad air, lack of sleep, and intermittent eating schedule; I was whooped. The day was spent mostly in bed, only going out later for Mexican-style chicken soup.

Tuesday morning, after a relaxed breakfast, I headed to the Oaxaca airport. Upon landing after a one-hour flight from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I found myself stuck in the labyrinthine MEX airport while I searched for the check-in to my flight back to the states. After almost an hour of frustratingly searching for my gate, I found I was in the wrong terminal—and getting there was its own adventure. After finally reaching the Delta counter—at 2:40, for a 3:15 flight—I was told that the flight was closed, it was the last flight to the states that day, and that they would try to get me out the following day. Fuck!

Luckily, there was a woman next to me in the same situation—only she was late because of her connecting flight. Long story short: they held the flight while she and I ran full-on to the gate. I got on my flight to ATL sweaty, out of breath, and feeling AWFUL—but I made it. Onto Atlanta, and then home. (While the Mexico City airport was probably the most confusing I’ve ever been in, ATL definitely had the worst food. I know I’m a Yankee, but I would have loved something that wasn’t going to sit like a Southern-fried rock in my stomach.)

So—after conquering all the forces conspiring against my making it back to the states—I got in late Wednesday night and headed straight to Andi’s; it was good to be home.

La última noche, en Oaxaca

2008-09-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

Vamos a comprar alfombras en Oaxaca

2008-09-25T10:31:00.000-07:00

Vamos a Anahuacalli (parte 2: el metro)

2008-09-25T10:21:00.000-07:00

Vamos a Museo Diego Rivera Anahuacalli

2008-09-25T10:15:00.001-07:00

La última dia de los seminarios de la APP

2008-09-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

Los seminarioes, y la calle cerca del hotel

2008-09-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

El perro mexicano de Ana Paula

2008-09-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

Cuando vamos a ir a Museo Diego Rivera

2008-09-17T17:59:00.001-07:00

Una foto de lunes, y cena de martes

2008-09-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

Domingo, el Mercado

2008-09-15T17:22:00.000-07:00

The view from Danny's roof, and Santo posters

2008-09-14T08:01:00.000-07:00

Danny's apartment has an amazing view of the rest of the city. The photos above are from last night, looking out from his terrace. And one of Danny in his office.

In less than an hour we should be off to the Sunday market to meet Bethra and Ana Paula. ...and look for Santo movie posters.

Me gusto mucho las peliculas de Santo. (Las peliculas no estan "bien," es verdad, pero es muy interesante porque como habla para México.) Cuando viaje a México en 2006, comproe dos pósters de peliculas de Santo. Y compre DVD's de Santo. Algunas tienen subtítulos, pero algunas no. No importa. Puede entender si no tienen los subtítulos...

Si no entienden, Santo es un luchador. El luchador mas famoso de México.

En México DF

2008-09-13T17:45:00.001-07:00

I am now in Mexico City, sitting at Danny's dining-room table as I update my blogs.

I will be in Mexico for ten days. Tomorrow is the market with Bethra and Ana Paula, with the rest of the APP Board arriving throughout the day. Monday and Tuesday are Board meeting days, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are the APP Mexican Seminars, and then it's down to Oaxaca over the weekend to visit with Jason. On Tuesday I fly from Oaxaca to Mexico City, and then back to Philadelphia.

I hope to maintain as extensive a blog as I did during my last trek across the desert for ADHA and NEHA. We'll see.

Estudio español mucho antes este viajo de Mexico. Tengo tres años de español cuando estoy más joven, pero no recuerdo mucho. Para dos semanas tengo un professor de español, y estudio mucho (tres clasas por la semana). Cuando hablo español esta bien, pero no entiendo mas cuando me habla.

Y cuando escribo en español, esta mal tambien.

Chicago, Illinois

2008-08-12T15:39:00.001-07:00

Chicago, Illinois

2008-07-19T08:53:00.001-07:00

Tucson, Arizona

2008-06-23T20:11:00.001-07:00

NEHA, Day 2

2008-06-23T20:05:00.000-07:00

8 am: After a hurried breakfast at the hotel (in which Didier spilled more of his food down the front of him than he ate) we arrived at the opening of the expo. Most other attendees were complaining about the early start time. I’m still on East Coast time; I was up at 4:30 am.

The second day was much less busy than opening night, but the people Didier and I spoke to at length were no less appreciative of our presence or the work that we do. We spoke to representatives from Arizona, New Mexico, Florida, Alaska, Georgia, New Jersey, Washington DC, Utah, Minnesota, Oregon, Washington, California, Hawaii, Idaho, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas, Massachusetts, Alabama, Indiana, Michigan, New York, Maryland, Ohio, Illinois, Nebraska, Colorado, Montana, British Colombia and Great Britain. (This may not be a complete list, but this is what Didier and I could remember by brainstorming in our hotel room.) Many of these people are directly responsible for either the inspection of body art establishments or the policies or legislation that governs and informs those inspections.

The most memorable thing I heard was from a woman from Montana, who talked about regulations and inspections in her state. She thanked us for our efforts—as an organization—and closed by saying, “We couldn’t have done it without your help.” I was almost knocked over by the power in her words.

The stated mission of the APP is to disseminate information about body piercing to piercers, health care professionals, legislators, and the general public. As piercers, we will most likely never all fly the same flag, and the crusade to educate the public is just at the beginning of a long and hard road. But health care professionals now know who we are and where to find us—my trips to the annual conferences of APHA (the American Public Health Association), ACHA (the American College Health Association), and ADHA (the American Dental Hygienists’ Association) have proven that to me. The reception that Didier and I received at NEHA showed that we have are succeeding with legislators as well. “We couldn’t have done it without your help” speaks volumes.

2 pm: The expo closes, and Didier and I pack up the booth and load the car. (The temperature gauge in the car says 116 degrees; we can’t tell if that means outside or inside the car.) We head to the Post Office to ship what few supplies we have left—along with the booth—to San Diego in preparation of the APHA conference the end of November, and then drive the hour to the airport for Didier to catch his flight. I don’t leave until tomorrow morning, so after dinner I head back to the hotel to finish my blog of the trip and prepare for an early bedtime. I will not be leaving the comfort of the room or the air conditioning again until I leave for the airport tomorrow morning—I have to return the rental car before 6 am, so I’ll be up at 4:30.

[This and the proceeding posts will be compiled into a future article for The Point: the Journal of the Association of Professional Piercers. Subscriptions are available for $10 a year and free PDF’s are available at safepiercing.org.]

Albuquerque to Tucson and NEHA, Day 1

2008-06-23T07:26:00.001-07:00

6:30 am: As Crystal and I are driving to pick up the rental car we run out of gas. Completely. The car simply sputters and dies as we’re going down the road. It seems that Crystal has been hanging her ADHA badge on the steering column—over the fuel gauge—and she simply hadn’t noticed how little gas we had left. Luckily, the two-lane access road was deserted (it was early Sunday morning) and the car came to a stop at the curb about a quarter-mile from the rental car lot. While Crystal waited for her business partner/ex-husband to come with gas (we owe him a BIG favor), I hoofed it to the lot and picked up the car. Crystal joined me shortly, we transferred the booth and boxes to the rental and I was on the road a little after 7 am.

12 noon: I’ve been barreling through the desert for five hours. My only stop was a Denny’s in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. My soundtrack so far has consisted of Hank Williams, the O’ Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack and Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde and Highway 61 Revisited. Things are good—until I realize the fuel gauge is on “E.” Fuck—twice in one day. I hear Caitlin in my head: after I told her the drive would be an “adventure” she replied that it’s only fun until you run out of gas on the highway fifty miles from anywhere in the hot sun and they find you dead on the side of the road, your corpse picked over by vultures. (Actually, she didn’t mention the vultures, but they were certainly implied.)

The last sign I remember seeing was a “last rest stop for 78 miles” sign. How long ago was that? I’m going a steady 90 mph now and sweating, a little from the nervousness but more form the fact that I’ve turned of the air to conserve gas and it’s 105 degrees outside. And I have no cell phone reception out here.

I finally see a sign: “Wilcox - 10 miles.” Please let me make it. Please, please, please, please… I make it the 10 miles to the exit, and I see another sign: “Wilcox – 4 miles.” It seems it was 10 miles to the exit. Shit. I make it to what I assume is Main Street—Wilcox isn’t much more than a stop on the highway—and with great relief I roll into a gas station. Whew.

2 pm: I arrive at the Tucson airport as Didier plane from San Diego is landing. We have 3 hours to find the convention hotel and set up the booth.

3 pm: We find the convention hotel—it’s a huge Hilton “resort—and we find the hotel where we are registered. They were supposed to be close; they’re four miles apart. It’s now 110 degrees. We decide to hold onto the rental car.

4 pm: We arrive at the expo hall. The other exhibitors give us “the eye” as we set up. It’s the annual meeting of NEHA, the National Environmental Health Association, and full of health inspectors and others who deal with public health and policy. It’s our—the APP’s—first time here, and we’re not quite sure what to expect. They don’t know what to make of us either. We quickly set up the booth and the table and high-tail it out of there. We have to back for the expo opening and “party” at 6 pm, and we’re drenched in sweat. It’s 112 degrees outside.

6 pm: Dider and I open the doors and walk into the expo hall, and it’s like the scene out of Animal House—the one where they go to the bar in the “wrong” part of town: Conversation stops and all eyes are on us. (I imagine the silverware dropping and the needle going over the record.) It’s a long walk from the doors to the table.

We set ourselves up and wait. (We are right in front of the door; you can’t overlook us.) The attendees start to slowly trickle in, and then we are deluged with people. Everyone, it seems is working on legislation/policy/protocol in their state/county/city dealing with body piercing. We give away the majority of our material in two hours. They love The Point. They grab handfuls of the brochures. They take the CD manuals like they’ve been handed the scriptures. (Well, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but they are incredibly appreciative.

I meet a health inspector from Florida who I’ve previously talked to only by phone. I talk to inspectors from Colorado and Albuquerque that have already worked with APP representatives on policy. I talk to people who have never heard of us but promise to contact us—and they will.

It was absolutely amazing, and this was only the first three hours.

9 pm: The expo closes, and Didier and I grab our things and head back to our hotel, as the floor opens again on Monday at 8 am. It is a little cooler outside—only 103 degrees.

ADHA Conference, Day 2

2008-06-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

10 am: Crystal and I arrived just as the exposition hall opened on the second day.

From the several ADHA representatives that stopped by the booth we got information on attendance this year: There were approximately 1300 attendees this year—the highest figure they’ve ever had—with 300 of those being students—up from about 100 last year.

The response we received was amazing. It may have been the increase in attendance, the spike in the number of students, or the fact this was our second time exhibiting, but people were very enthusiastic about our presence there.

(It’s also worth noting that, with the huge booths from Colgate, Johnson and Johnson [makers of Listerine], Tom’s of Maine, etc and dozens of other manufacturers selling everything from medical instruments to office lighting, we were the only booth not selling anything—not anything besides information.)

The encouraging part of the day wasn’t talking to new people—to people that hadn’t heard of us—but to people who already had. Repeatedly people would come up and talk about how they had done a presentation on the topic of piercing for their school, for other students, at a local health conference, for the local health board; how they had been involved in education on some level and how invaluable our material was to them.

4 pm: Angela helped me break down the booth and pack up for the next leg of the trip—Tucson.

ADHA Conference, Day 1

2008-06-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

6 am: I’m awake. My body still thinks it’s in Philadelphia—actually, I don’t think my body knows where the hell it is.

9 am: Crystal and I arrive—a little late—to the convention center. The expo is already overflowing with people as we make our way to the booth and hastily set up the APP material: brochures, including four new Spanish-language ones; posters; procedure manuals, both hard copy and disc; pens and stickers; and about ten different issues of The Point. (The back issues of The Point are always eye-catching, and make me very proud.) As we set up, we were swamped with people, asking questions, wanting information, thanking us for being there. I remembered: this is why I love these conferences.

10 am: The most interesting point in the day was in the early morning, around 10 am. As a representative from the ADHA introduced herself—thanking us for once again being there—there was a small gaggle of people slowly walking towards us, deferentially surrounding an old woman as she made her way down the aisle. As she came nearer, I was told—with a tone of reverence—that the woman making her way to us was the “Queen of the ADHA.” Before she could say more, the woman reached us and was ushered behind our table and into our booth space. Evidently the juxtaposition of a septuagenarian dental hygienist posing with the two tattooed and pierced exhibiters was a photo opportunity not to be missed.

She posed—flanked by Crystal and I—while our picture was taken. After the first set of photos, she looked behind her at the booth behind her to see where she was—not out of mental frailty, but as someone important enough that they were used to being shuttled from one photo opportunity to the next without having to concern herself with more than being diplomatic. We were motioned together for a second set of photos, and as my hand brushed against hers she grabbed it and held it tightly with the kind of clasp that can only come from someone older, someone who has no time for worrying about misunderstanding, who holds your hand as though there could be no other reason for that grip than pure warmth and understanding. I immediately knew why everyone held her in such regard, why she commanded such respect. After the pictures were taken, she turned to me and said, simply but earnestly, “I don’t like tongue piercings.” She said it in such a way that I didn’t hold it against her, as I knew she didn’t hold it against me.

She then slowly walked away, followed by her entourage, her court. This was my experience meeting Dr. Esther Wilkins.

1 pm: They had mariachis walking around after lunch.

PHL - ABQ

2008-06-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

6 am, Philadelphia: My alarm goes off. My lover/ride-to-the-airport doesn’t even move. I have to get up now to make my 8:20 flight. I wonder why I agree to do these conferences.

8 am, Philadelphia International Airport (PHL): My flight is delayed one hour. Fuck.

11:15 am, Tucson International Airport (TUS): Since my first flight was delayed, my one-hour layover is now a fifteen-minute layover. I grab a disgusting chicken sandwich from the only food counter without a line, grab a bottle of water and run to my flight. I’m so hungry I’m angry, and I’m really wondering why I do these conferences.

2 pm, Albuquerque International Sunport (ABQ): I finally land. The chicken sandwich sits like a weight in my stomach; I managed to sleep very little on either of my flights; it feels wonderful to get off the plane. Crystal’s employee, Angela, picks me up curbside. In her silver Honda Civic she has the huge box with the booth and a second large second box with the art for the booth filling the back seat, pushing our seats forward. The trunk is full with nine boxes with brochures, posters, magazines, pens, stickers, and everything else needed to set up the APP booth. We have three hours to get to the convention center and set up everything for the exposition at the American Dental Hygienist’s Association (ADHA) conference, which starts tomorrow.

It’s hot as hell. It was light jacket weather when I left Philadelphia. It’s in the mid-nineties here, now. Angela and I drive around and finally find where to unload. The boxes, while not too unwieldy in moderate weather are unbearably heavy in the heat. I wait on the sidewalk in the hot sun with the boxes while Angela parks the car.

The booth set-up is easy; I’ve done it often enough, and air conditioning makes anything easier. We escape by about 4 pm. We head to Evolution where Crystal warmly greets me in the parking lot in back; I feel a lot better. We head to her house—it is very red—and then go out to eat. She goes out, and I stay at her apartment to check my email; I’m soon asleep on her sofa.

Chicago, Illinois

2008-06-07T13:52:00.001-07:00

Pittsburgh International (PIT)

2008-05-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

Las Vegas, Nevada

2008-05-01T11:49:00.001-07:00

Chicago, Illinois

2008-04-13T12:27:00.000-07:00

Denver International (DEN)

2008-04-13T12:26:00.001-07:00

Chicago, Illinois

2008-02-24T11:28:00.001-08:00

It was a crisp, cold day.

Houston Hobby (HOU)

2008-02-24T11:23:00.001-08:00

New Orleans, Louisiana

2008-02-24T11:12:00.000-08:00

Mardi Gras, 2008.

Chicago, Illinois

2008-02-02T11:41:00.000-08:00

Pasadena, California

2008-01-24T12:08:00.001-08:00

Denver, Colorado

2008-01-13T06:26:00.000-08:00

Chicago, Illinois

2007-08-30T09:54:00.000-07:00

Memphis, Tennessee

2007-07-03T16:36:00.001-07:00

Atlanta, Georgia

2007-06-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

The Osama Bin Laden targets were half price.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

2007-01-13T19:22:00.000-08:00

When I got back in Philadelphia, I took a train from the airport and got out at Market East, and walked to have a solitary dinner at the Pho restaurant at Tenth and Arch Streets. Afterward, after several unsuccessful minutes trying to hail a taxi from the street corner and with a great amount of reluctance, I walked over to the Greyhound Station and the line of taxis parked out front. (Anyone from Philly who’s ever tried to pick up a taxi there will know what I’m talking about.)

The first taxi driver in line rebuffed me—“I’m eating,” he said, holding up his takeout. “Try the next one.” The next driver told me to go to the first in line. “He says he’s eating,” I say, after which he hails his friend’s taxi that is driving past. “Open the truck, man!” he admonishes his friend, and I load in my suitcases, mad at myself because—for just a minute—I start to feel surprised and indignant that neither of them helps me with the bags I’m so obviously struggling with. And then I remember where I am.

I get in the back—after first waiting for the driver to finish with his friend so that he can unlock the door. After throwing off the last off my bags and my unseasonably warm coat, I give the driver my destination. “Fifteen dollars okay?” he asks. “Um…” I start, hesitantly, “Can you just use the meter?” “Special rate tonight—Eagles game!” he replies, with enthusiastic insincerity. “Sure,” I reply, begrudgingly. I figured it for a ten or twelve dollar ride, so I resign myself to a three dollar or so increase, figuring the tip on a regular fare. “Welcome back to Philadelphia!” I say to myself.

When he drops me at my door, I hand him a twenty and ask for a five back. He hesitates, as though expecting some sort of tip in addition to his extorted rate. I take my change, pop the trunk with the passenger door still open (so he can’t drive off with my luggage), gather my suitcases, and shut the trunk and back door without a word before going up the steps to my door. He doesn’t wait for me to get inside before driving off.

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

2006-12-03T18:38:00.000-08:00

The best way to describe Gatlinburg, Tennessee is to call it the Las Vegas of the South. At night the whole town lights up, with souvenir shops and (family themed) comedy clubs and Elvis impersonation venues and the Alabama (the band) restaurant and club and Dollywood close by and go-cart tracks and American flags and Christmas decorations EVERYWHERE. A and I only got to drive through at night, but it's probably just as well: Anything that glitters THAT brightly can't help but be a bit of a letdown when you get a closer look.

New Orleans, Louisiana

2006-11-19T16:40:00.000-08:00

A and I stayed in the French Quarter. It was my first trip to New Orleans, and I fell completely in love with the city.

We went down for Halloween. A told me repeatedly that this was nothing compared to how the city was before the storm, as though New Orleans needed to apologize for a less than hospitable atmosphere. It didn’t matter; it was easy to get a feel for what the city (once) was.

We stopped by all the bars where A’s friends would be—drinking, working, or both. It was wonderful how all the bars had big French doors that opened out onto the street, as though you didn’t ever really leave one before you were in another. At several, A got drinks to go (to go!). I met all of her friends. At one place, I was given a sympathy card for being her new man. It was obvious they care for her intensely, all of them.

And the Quarter was just like “A Streetcar Named Desire:” The passionate life, the drunkenness, the drama, the eroticism, the dirt, and all the sweaty illicitness that Tennessee Williams play embodied. It was absolutely diluted, trampled a bit and unsure of itself, but it was still there.

And I hold an unapologetically romanticized view of the place—I think everyone there does--especially with only one visit. It was still a shell, and there were many walking around in the leftovers of the city, but the city was still there. The architecture still held it, the people still clutched it, and if you listened closely, and looked—really looked—you can see the New Orleans that is an idea. And that idea is still alive there. It is wounded, surely, but it is there still. And that idea is intoxicating.

—And then we took a car trip through the 9th Ward. One year after Katrina.

San Antonio, Texas

2006-08-06T11:53:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my room in a Travelodge in San Antonio, Texas. I'm here manning a booth at the National Association of Local Boards of Health Conference.

It's hot as hell.

Just to paint a picture of this place: Today, during the complimentary lunch at the hotel—as though to not let anyone forget that we're in the deep south—we were instructed to stand as they had a color guard, complete with flanking riflemen, march the US flag and the flag of Texas into the banquet hall. After leading us in the pledge of allegiance, they brought a cute Southern belle up to the podium to sing an especially creepy a cappella version of the national anthem. And then hoping, I suppose, to show that Texas was not a state of only good ol' boys, they had a black woman preacher come forward to lead the prayer before eating. I've heard the expression "feeling like a whore in church" before, but I don't think I've ever embodied it so exactly.

It was especially slow today at the expo hall (a large room, really), as there is a concurrent conference going on down the street for NACCHO (The National Association for County and City Health Officials). Most of the events taking place today are at the other hotel. The big expo day for NALBOH is tomorrow (or so I've been told), so I left early to walk around the city.

San Antonio is a depressed, depressing town. The whole city revolves around the tourism of The Alamo: a monument to futility where 187 Texans held off 4000 Mexicans before ultimately being slaughtered. I think that may explain the feeling of utter futility and defeat that exudes from the city and seeps into you. The fucking oppressive heat doesn't help the mood either. I heard one of the women at the conference talking about trying to get her family to see The Alamo, and that her son said "Why would we want to see that? They LOST!")

Everywhere I walk, all I see (besides fat, ugly American tourists) are poor Mexican-Americans waiting at bus stops. All over. As though victory at the Alamo ensured their rights to ride public transportation 200 years later. When I walked past the big bus station on my way to the conference, I wanted to sing out loudly "The stars at night, are big and bright..." and see if a chorus of cowboys would answer, in song: "Deep in the heart of Texas!" with hand claps all around—just like in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. I have a suspicion they won't.

Next year's NALBOH conference is in Anchorage, Alaska. If we decide to attend, I think I should get to go after putting in my time in this purgatory. I am now sure that, if my sins are too great, and I get up to those gates to find Saint Peter with a look of disgust on his face, I will be going to Texas. I am now sure that is where my own personal hell is.

For now I've escaped to the air conditioning of my hotel room, with the TV, internet access, and take-out sushi. I plan to stay out of the ungodly Texas sun for the rest of the day—at least until I have to be back to the conference at 7:30 tomorrow morning.

And The Alamo itself is in no way inspiring. Yet I do feel as though it would be a wasted trip if I don't go and ask to see the basement...