Free valet parking -- now? How timing your askings right can bring better results

This weekend, I was in Portland, Oregon for two fun filled days. Mr. A and I snagged the tickets during a crazy Southwest Airlines sale all the way back in June, when October seemed like a hypothetical crouching somewhere over the horizon.... That is, until our flight hit this Saturday morning at 6 a.m., leaving us little time for suitcases and planning between cascading work deadlines --

But it all worked out. We had a great time. La Sorella drove down from Seattle. We cupped coffee at Stumptown and sampled taco trucks and plundered Powell's Books for some amazing reads. And... I asked for free valet parking. Here's the how (and why):

I'd reserved a discounted hotel room on Hotwire which didn't include the $20/night valet parking. Our hotel, the Avalon, seemed far below capacity, at least judging from the parking lot. On Saturday, we went about our business, and when we go back that night around 2:30, it was raining. And the lot was still almost empty. To be safe, instead of the lot we parked on the sidewalk just outside the hotel -- what luck! there was a spot! -- and checked that there were no signs. It looked clear. To be extra safe, I ducked inside and asked the parking valet if there was streetsweeping, a permit, or any hidden reason why we should move.

"You should have no problems," he answered.

I turned around to tell the others to leave the car and come inside, when he ran after me with this update: "Actually, my manager says you can't park there. It's a private way."

"I see. Ok."

Outside, we conferred: Was it really a private way or was that just a line? After all, his first answer was to say we could park there -- wouldn't he know the deal? Would they tow us if we left it there? Did we really want to go for street parking, which entailed a 10 minute walk in the rain? But pay $20 when the lot was empty, when we wouldn't pay $20 when the lot was full? No way.

We were about to pull away in the car when I pulled away from the group.

"Be right back!"

I walked up to the manager.

"Hi, how are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. How can I help you?"

"I'm the one who was asking about parking a car outside, and here's the thing: Can we just please leave it on the sidewalk overnight, since it's late and your lot isn't full? For free?"

"What kind of car do you have?"

"A black Ford."

"Is it a hybrid?"

"No."

"Darn, because we have free parking for hybrids."

"Argh, that's nice, but it's not a hybrid. Do you think.... we can just move it inside the lot, please?"

"Why don't you want to park on the street, up the hilll? It's not far."

"Honestly, because it raining, it's late, and I'm not going to pay $20 when there are free spots, and I'm just feeling lazy. I could walk back in the rain but I just want to go up to bed and curl up and fall asleep."

She nodded, smiled and agreed -- but only for one night. We left the keys with the valet and headed upstairs for a very good night's sleep.

Saved: 10 minutes the rain and/or $20. So worth it, for this Southern California girl.

Here's a post-asking takeaway reflection:

It seems like a positive story -- avoided rain, avoided spending $20 and got to bed sooner. And the manager was certainly kind. But after the fact, I realize that I didn't play my cards right.

The more you seem you want something, the less bargaining power you have. This is Asking 101, but what's interesting, to me, is how this axiom can sneak up on you.

Sometimes, it's easy to avoid showcasing your desire. What's harder is realizing when you're projecting desire inadvertently. When your situation tacitly or implicitly betrays your desire or need. And, most importantly, when you've backed yourself into a corner and need or desire something, when you might not have otherwise.

In this situation, I put myself at a tactical disadvantage.

I walked in wet and tired.

It was clear that I reeeeally wanted that free, convenient parking.

And it was clear to the manager that one night of free, convenient parking for me was worth a lot -- perhaps what two or three nights might value, for someone else.

What if I'd opted for a different route: Called ahead and asked for 2 nights of free parking as I weighed different hotel options? Or asked, casually, while checking in? In fact, I never hesitate to ask a hotel for an extra little perk I might need or desire. Many hotels strive to accommodate, especially in this economy. And when you're asking in advance, you're the opposite of needy -- you're discerning and empowered. This time, it just didn't occur to me.

So timing is one thing to consider is when you're asking. While the inconvenience or cost to the other party might be the same earlier or later, the perceived benefit to you if you ask later is sometimes greater -- so the value is greater. Asking a friend for a lift to the airport the next morning seems last minute and desperate -- so countes a hefty favor. Asking someone 2 weeks ahead seems like a piece of cake.

(On the flipside, just to cover all our bases, sometimes last minute asking can pay off royally, too. "Hi, do you have any rooms left over/parking places I could use/extra cream cheese to throw in with my package -- since it's the end of the day/week/season?")

I loved Portland, by the way. Anyone else out there?

[image source -- in time for Halloween: ToonPool.com]

Change my rental dates?

Here's an example of a simple asking that just puts a smile on my face.

Because it was so easy to ask. It made my life so much easier. It made sense. And it helped me save money. Only, it almost didn't occur to me.

For my Rome visit, I rented a studio (asked for a discount -- from 300 to 250 euros/week) and was planning on staying two weeks: Sept 12 to 26.

Then, a friend invited me to visit her on an island in the south for a few days. It's called Ischia, and I've heard it's gorgeous.

As I packed my bags for the weekend, something was bothering me. Couldn't quite put my finger on it. And then, it dawned on me. Totally coincidentally, I also wanted to extend my dates in Rome by 2 nights because some family will visit then: two cousins and my future parents-in-law.

So there I was, about to disappear for 4 days this weekend, and then about pay an extra 2 days the following weekend.

Bingo.

I emailed the landlord and asked him if we could "slide" my second week so that it started and ended on Monday instead of Friday.

He happily agreed, saying he might even rent out the studio that weekend. Win win.

I have just saved 160 euros.

Finding your negotiation style

The neighbors have been screaming all morning.

"Mamma! Why do keep asking me 'Where are you going? Who are you meeting?' Stop trying to find out everything about me!"

Muffled sounds from an older woman, and then the shrieks again.

"Maaaaamma! Leave me alone!"

Doors slam.

Silence.

**

A car stops in the middle of a narrow street and waits. And waits and waits. Behind, a line of cars grows. Manual transmission, uphill. Not fun for those drivers. Finally, a man jumps out of his Range Rover, bounds up the hill and starts screaming.

"Who the f*ck do you think you are! What ever gave you the idea that it was ok to park your *ss in the middle of the street and keep the rest of us waiting! Move NOOOOOOW! NOOOOOW!"

The car moves.

Traffic jam: finito.

**

A man tells his business partner:

"Shut up!! Why do you keep butting in? BE QUIET!!!"

The partner obliges.

**

A merchant in a food cart screams at two tourists in a language they don't understand.

"This is the part where I tell you to GO F*CK YOURSELVES! Morons!!"

The couple, German or British, by the looks of them, wander away, confused and suspecting the merchant is upset for some reason.

**

Conflict resolution, Italian style.

I'm in Rome now, and I've been amazed at the amount of yelling that happens in this city. I've been here before -- spent three summers working, and I've come back on vacation a few times since then. But either I hadn't noticed, or I've forgotten, how vocal they get here.

About traffic, and interruptions, and tourists who don't understand they can't pay with a credit card (or who knows what offense that couple committed).

But yelling is one side of the coin. The other side is the soft, subtle 'arranging' Italians do. You help my daughter find work. I'll make sure you get your building permit. Not so much a quid pro quo as loose network of accords, agreements and connections.

Not that different from America, really.

When I finished my year of daily asking and did a statistical analysis of the data, I was interested in a range of practical questions. Is it better to ask impulsively or in a planned fashion? Did I fare better when I was alone or accompanied? Is asking sweetly or aggressively more effective?

(For any newcomers to this blog since then, the results and my take on them are on this page: Ask-o-logy. I'm no statistician, but Mr. A has an advanced degree in a field that lets him spin numbers like taffy. Hint: the posts are in reverse order, so scroll to the end and move up.)

One question that developed in the first few months of asking daily, first subconsciously and eventually quite overtly, was HOW it's best to ask. Of course, the situation may dictate or suggest a method, but were there some modes generally better suited to asking success than others? Here's what I found out: I was far more successful being nice than any other approach.

(more details here). And over time, my personality as an asker developed to play up that feature. Now when I ask, I innately make eye contact, take time to establish a rapport whenever that's possible, and humanize myself and the other party. It makes all the difference.

Now I'm curious about the next frontier: What's my negotiation style? Wheeler and dealer? Charmer? Problem solver? Cooperative team member? Bossy beeyatch? So far, all I know is that I'm an asker who rarely turns No's into Yesses. I can get a discount, but only if I ask and it's given to me. I rarely push back.

That's about to change.

This weekend I'm going to venture to Naples and try my hand at negotiating in one of the city's most dangerous markets. My target: pick up a fake Louis Vuitton purse. I've heard they can sell for as little as 15 euros and look like the real thing. Will I make it? Will I get robbed blind? TBD.

What about you, gentle reader? Thinking about your style as a negotiator -- in personal relationships, professional ones, the commercial and financial worlds you deal in -- what do you think you're style is? What's your greatest weakness, and what's your biggest strength?

[image credit]

Detour for a last minute food fest?

At 2:30 this sunny Friday afternoon, we were on our way to the airport.

The traffic wasn't bad downtown, but I had no idea what was waiting for us on the highway. Would we make it? Would be stuck in some tunnel for hours? As we sped through the city, I scanned the streets, clinging to every detail. Our trip was four days long. Too short.

Mr. A, meanwhile, was tinkering with his cell phone and looking preoccupied.

"Do you think we'll make it to the airport in the next two hours?" I asked the driver, with a tinge of irony he caught and threw back at me.

"I don't know.... Maybe."

"Really?!"

"No, no, don't worry -- more like 20 minutes!" (Instead of Mr. A's friend, the friend sent a friend. Talk about sweet. Thanks to you both, gentlemen!)

I nodded. So we'd be there at 3:00. And have three hours to kill. I exhaled, resigned. In San Diego, I fly enough to know traffic patterns on the city's highways -- and at the airport. But this is the kind of stuff that happens when you're a tourist. You end up getting to the airport three hours early and wasting the afternoon in a smoky lounge watching soccer transfer gossip on Romanian ESPN.

We were getting closer fast. I recognized some of the buildings we'd seen on the way in. And then, out of nowhere, I asked: "Are we close to The Hunchback?"

"Really close. It's the next exit. Wanna go!?"

The Hunchback is a restaurant I'd heard about from a bunch of people. It's supposed to be close to the airport, and it's got those scrumptious meech I admit I'm obsessed with (described here), plus legendary french fries.

"Do you want to?" I asked Mr. A shyly. Because he was tired and stressed, and I realized that this ask might seem like a request. I didn't want to sway or persuade, not this time...

"If you do."

"What do you want me to do? It's the next exit!!" the driver hollered.

"Will we make it to the airport on time?" I yelped back.

He made a hard right and a few blocks later, we were there.

The Hunchback's real name is Sandu, a brochure states, but now he is known across Romania as "King of the Grill." As we stepped onto the terrace, I saw him standing a few feet away, at a grill lodged between tables of lunchtime patrons, flipping the meats that made him famous. And his eyes caught mine, a flash behind the fragrant smoke.

[image credit]

Searching for the truth at a Bucharest taxistand

Mr. A and I are leaving Bucharest today. We were in town for a few days, for some work and some play. Our flight leaves at 5:45 from an airport that's about 10 miles out of town.

"You should leave at 1:30," one of his friends told us. "There's horrible traffic and on a Friday afternoon, you never know. You could end up stuck at the same intersection for an hour."

"Seriously...?"Mr. A wondered.

"If you leave any later you'll miss your flight."

1:30?? What about strolling through the city, picking up a few souvenirs, taking some final photographs? It's an intriguing place and this trip has been way too short.

"I think we need a second opinion," I told Mr. A, who didn't object.

First I called a taxi company and asked what time a cab should pick us up for arrival at the airport at 3:45. The operator told me she doesn't know and can't find out.

"But how do I know what time to call the taxi to pick us up?" I persisted.

"Call 15 minutes before you want to be picked up." Click.

I went downstairs, to the taxi stand, and asked the first cabdriver I saw: "How long will it take to get from here to the airport at rush hour?"

"20 minutes." He sounded impertinent, like that's the name of a special move he knows that drives all the ladies wild.

"Reeeally. Because someone else told me it will take at least 3 hours with the traffic."

"Nah. 20 minutes is all you need. Trust me."

"Would you be willing to risk my flight? I just want to know what time to leave, so I don't miss my plane. It took 20 minutes into the city with zero traffic, at midnight. It's really the same on a Friday?"

"Exactly the same. They opened up a new road and now the traffic problems are all over."

I thanked him (for nothing) and left.

I stopped in a convenience store and tried to get the cashier's opinion.

"I have no clue," she said, apologetic. "It depends on the day, the time, the season."

"What about today? for an afternoon flight?" I repeated.

"It depends," she answered, and turned to the customer behind me.

Next, I walked up to a cab waiting a few blocks away.

"Hello. How long will it take to get from here to the airport? I have to catch a flight at 5:45, so I should be there at 3:45. When should I leave from here?"

"To be there at 3:45? I'd say 45 minutes."

"On a Friday afternoon, with traffic?"

"With 45 minutes you should be fine."

"There's no risk I'd miss my flight?"

"If you call me, I guarantee I'll get you there on time."

I thanked him and picked up his business card before leaving.

Last stop: One more cab driver on the way back, to see if he could settle this tie.

Same question, and at last, a similar answer.

"It should take between 45 minutes and an hour, miss. If you leave at 3 or 3:30 max, you'll be more than fine."

"Thanks!"

"My pleasure. Have a great day."

And now, at 2:21 Bucharest time, we're preparing to take the bags down because Mr. A's friend called to say he'll take us -- at 2:30. Just to play it safe.

...Then why am I still nervous?

Que les vaya bien?

I’m in Segovia now, sitting under the aqueduct.

Last night I had dinner at El Candido, a place everyone who has ever been to Spain recommended. "You have to get the cochinillo," they commanded. Cochinillo is Spanish for "best meal of your life." Synonym: roasted piglet.

True, a 'Segoviana' I asked for directions told me to skip that tourist trap and go to Jose Maria -- apparently, the source of the more authentic piglet -- but for once, I wanted the tourist trap. I wanted to have the premium meal under the silvery arches. I wanted the mariachis, the white table cloth and the cliches, every one of them.

Turns out the mariachis were actually a string quartet and the diners were almost all Spanish. As for the piglet: There are many things that can be described with words and many things that should be, and generally those categories overlap. This experience is neither.

All I will say is that my dinner felt like a sacred anatomy lesson, because pulling up the crispy skin, pushing away a layer of fat with the tip of my knife, picking apart the miniature ribcage and separating each muscle from the rest was a reminder of how perfectly living beings are put together, and how easily they can come apart. Every sinew, every capillary of that dead beast was sacrificed for my sensory pleasure, and for that, 18 hours later I continue to feel a burden of responsibility and gratitude. I am not saying this lightly. I took a life, and I’m deeply grateful for, and respectful of, that baby pig's final gasp.

As for askings: There have been several in Segovia. Here are three favorites.

Hotel upgrade?

I asked my hotel’s front desk manager if she could upgrade my room to one with a view, because I read online that the top floor offers a stunning panorama. She said no, but offerend to let me see the room she wanted to me to take.

I went upstairs, walked to the window and saw the “non-view”: from a pair of balconies that opened onto the street, I watched townsfolk and tourists bustling below, a dozen or more balconies on the building across the way and, about 50 feet to the left, the sunlit Plaza Mayor. If this wasn’t a view, I'm not sure what was.

“I’ll take the room,” I told her, downstairs. “But I don’t understand. What view does the other room have?”

“La sierra,” she answered softly, as if this were the name of a prayer. (The mountainside.)

In that case, I'm glad she didn't give me the upgrade!

Fulfill your credit card promise?

When trying to pay for a tasty but overpriced salad, I begged the waitress to please take my credit card. They had a sign loud and proud that they accept Visa and Mastercard, but she protested.

"I don't know, we have a minimum," she said. "I'll have to ask my boss."

"Yes! Please do."

Two minutes and 12.50 euros later, she swiped my card and it was a done deal.

Que les vaya bien?

When we part ways, people keep telling me: "Que te vaya bien." It's a thoughtful way to end conversations with a tourist you'll probably never see again. A wish for the best.

But I was curious if the plural would be le, or les: Que les vaya bien?

I turned to a lady sitting next to me at a cafe and asked.

Predictably, that turned into a conversation about her life, the granddaughter who is coming to town to see her, and her son's apartment a few blocks away, and my nifty little laptop, and how I like Spain, and Mr. A's line of work.

"What kind of work do you -- or did you -- do?" I asked.

"Me! I had 11 children!! I got married at 22 and that settled it!"

She was giddy as she said this, and I remembered that for her generation and in her culture, a woman was only worth what her husband could earn and the notion of work must have been shameful at worst, inconvenient at best...

Yay, progress.

Yay, women who work, women who stay home, women who have that choice.

Yay, women who ask.

Whan happens when you can't ask?

I shouldn't be here. To-do list 30 items deep and one hard deadline for everything. Saturday morning, when I'm taking off on the next trip.

But here I am.

What can I say... I miss you guys! And I want to wrap up the Ecuador reports.

So, this brings us to asking reflection #3 from Ecuador. My question for today's post is, Sometimes you cannot ask: What then?

A few days into the trip, I hitched a ride to a remote rainforest lodge. Most of our group traveled in a van, but I split off and went with two locals, to learn about their work in conservation. We were all heading to the same destination, and they had room in their car, so why not? About an hour into the trip, it started getting dark, and I started getting some darker thoughts. Who are these guys, really? How do I know I should trust them? Great move, getting separated from the group. What if they think I'm a wealthy gringa and blindfold me and take me somewhere awful and ask for a ransom and something goes wrong and I don't see my family again until I'm 52 and Mr. A will have a new Ms. A and my hair will have fallen out from malnutrition not to mention the other horrible things I don't want to consider unless i have to?????

As we chatted -- about biodiversity and saving the planet (looking back -- and even at the time -- I realize how absurd my worries were. These were upstanding people doing valuable work. But I'd rather find myself needlessly frightened than in a situation that warrants caution and miss the signals) -- I started plotting my escape. Unless it was a specially outfitted kidnapping truck, the unlock button was a few inches from my hand. It was night, so once I threw myself outside I could land in anything -- a field or a ferocious river or a ravine. But it was better than years of torture and humiliation, or worse. But my laptop! I couldn't leave without that... I would try to clutch it, but if it got stuck, I'd cut my losses... At least my notebook was small, and I could definitely cram that into my pocket... I toyed with the idea of asking flat out: "Where are you taking me and are you who you claim you are?" but I opted against that, since a) if they really were innocent biologists that would be incredibly insulting and b) if they were not, why would they confess?

Fortunately, there were some electric wires that ran along the side of the road, so once I hurled myself outside the car I could always let my eyes adjust to the night and then look for the silhouette of the black electric poles against the deep blue sky to find my way back. Then, surely a family would take me in, let me use a phone in exchange for eternal gratitude... and if I couldn't escape, maybe I could offer to write blog posts and do marketing for them, supporting their cause, in exchange for my life, and there I could encode messages for the U.S. embassy...

"Here we are!" my guide announced as we pulled up to the lodge.

"Awesome," I answered with a smile. I thought we'd never make it.

That night, I confessed my ridiculous thoughts to a fellow traveler, and she said she was in a different truck -- and thought the exact same thing. We fell asleep laughing and feeling safe -- and fortunate.

One more anecdote:

A few days later, while we were on a group hike, I made a wrong turn. I ended up alone, in the rainforest.

Lost.

It's not as dramatic as it sounds (or hey, maybe it doesn't even sound that dramatic). I was on a groomed trail, and it was far from dusk. The problem was, I was separated from the group and as I advanced toward where I thought the lodge was, I kept coming to forks in the road. One led left, another right. One led up a hill, another into a valley. One of the forks had a map, but it was nonsensical. "To the lodge" it stated with an arrow, but the arrow pointed where I was coming from. Someone from the group had said the path to the lodge "is quick and easy" but this route was long and winding...

I was screwed.

For the second time in days, I didn't have anyone to ask for info or advice in an unfamiliar environment: which way? how long until we get back? could I be in danger? will things be ok? I had to sharpen my hearing and use my eyes more aggressively, searching for human figures through the trees.

I started doing some calculations. It's 11 a.m. If I get really really lost, I still have 7.5 hours before nightfall. I can always retrace my steps to the main road in that time. Worst case, I hitchhike. Or I can keep walking, since these are trails -- one has to lead to an exit, eventually. I have no food with me. Bad. There are no man-eating predators here. Good. I could always just wait here, until someone finds me. But what are the chances the lodge is just after that next hill? Are they all at the lodge having lunch? Or maybe the rest of the group is right behind me... I think I can hear their voices... Speaking of lunch, I wonder if there are any bananas in these trees...

I imagined this was my life: solo traveler, resourceful jungle woman. All I needed was a machete and toilet paper, and I would make do.

I walked and walked, until I got so far I was worried it would take too long to retrace my steps. And then I turned around. Eventually, I heard voices: some people in our group were not far behind me. And since everyone had broken off into smaller groups, no one even noticed I was missing.

Two comments. First, mom -- don't worry!! All ended well.

Second, not being able to ask for help, info, context or advice forced me to devise my own exit plan, study my surroundings, use my senses in a new way, test my imagination and anticipate things. I was never really scared in either situation -- it was daylight and I had no doubt I could make it back to the road in an hour or two, and in the truck every piece of info I had been given about my driver and the situation, plus my gut feeling, pointed to a happy resolution. But there were some risks. Slipping, getting hurt, walking away from the destination rather than toward it, meeting an unsavory character...

And let me tell you: both of those experiences remain among the most vivid hours of my trip.

Back in San Diego, I'm wondering how I can translate that resourcefulness into my everyday life.

Avoid complacency... put myself in challenging new situations, ask when it makes sense but don't depend on others to the point where it's a crutch, and relish in the ability to do things for myself -- not because it's the "nice" way or because I don't want to impose, but because I can.

What's your take: in what contexts or situations do you think NOT asking and relying on yourself can be advantageous? And a potential minefield of a question: Do you think men and women have different approaches to asking avoidance?

Looking forward to your insights.

Back

I cannot believe I'm sitting at Bread & Cie eating a soggy quiche, a table away from a woman wearing patent leather heels maniacally reading the contents of a lime green piece of paper into her cell phone and laughing, with the a/c bearing down on my freshly washed, still damp hair...

Two guys in head to toe professional biking gear, with spandex advertisements stretching across their bodies like shrinkwrapped billboards, locked their bikes against the terrace railing outside and sat down to drink two coffees in to-go cups. A man with long wavy gray hair, an ancient black baseball hat ("Hawaii" in white italics), a giant wooden crucifix and the slouchy posture of an insecure teenage girl came up to them, said something, waited for an answer or action from the bikers that never came, then walked away.

Three cars just zoomed by, each larger than the next: a red mini cooper, a red sedan (chevy malibu?) and a shiny dark SUV.

In Ecuador, in the rainforest, people drive trucks. The need them to get through mud that's a yard deep. The other popular car is the Yaris. That's the hot new car for city driving, a man who takes tourists around the country in his blue minivan told me. "It's got a smooth ride," he explained, when I asked why.

In Ecuador, the showers were either cold or nonexistent. A few times I lucked out and found hot water, but waiting three days between ablutions wasn't as disgusting as it sounds. It rained constantly, so my hair was always just a little bit damp. A few times the sun came out and dried it, but a few hours later it started raining again.

In Ecuador, I ate a lot of tilapia. I usually can't stand this fish. Mr. A loves it, so for a while we ate it all the time, until I finally told him I would rather lick a bus tire. But the tilapia in Ecuador tastes very different from the soft, mealy, spreadable excuse that passes for fish they sell in the frozen section here. They grill it or steam it in banana leaves, that the result is something so flakey and spiced-just-right that eating it four days in a row, like I did, is a privilege.

In Ecuador, every meal I ate was served with aji: a salsa, made from tree tomatoes, whose exact flavor, color and spiciness varies from region to region, town to town, household to household. At first I cautiously dipped two tines of my fork in the container for a noncommital sample, and by the end I was spooning it on everything.

In Ecuador, the bugs look like plants. I saw many, many moths that I thought were leaves or twigs until someone pointed out their true identities. I can't begin to estimate the number of moths I saw that I didn't realize were moths.

In Ecuador, husbands cheat. This I found out by asking two of the biologists I was traveling with, after a conversation with a peace corps volunteer who told me how often she'd been propositioned by married men. They confirmed that infidelity is high and when I asked why, one answered, simply, that cheating is "the men's nature." That started a three hour long discussion about love and marriage, cheating, desire, risk, reward, commitment, promiscuity, cultural difference, gender difference and human nature with: an atheist rabbi from Boston, two local biologists, one conservationist from San Diego, a U.S. department of defense employee, a peace corps volunteer, and an asker. When we stopped talking, the rain had also stopped.

I can't believe I'm back, here, Parallel 33.

By tomorrow, I know it will be harder to believe I ever left.

Next posts: 5 things I asked for, was asked for, or discovered about asking on this trip.

First, a few pictures.

Relaxing at one of the lodges we stayed at.

The shepherd's cabin. (Not really, but that's how I like to think of this place. Also, sheep were nearby, so it's not impossible.)

Jose's pet.

Between showers.

Moth Katydid that looks like a leaf.

Leaf that looks like a moth.

Tilapyum.

Speechless.

Reader asks for -- and gets -- $250 airline voucher

I got this thrilling email yesterday from Priya, a reader and fellow asking adventurer. Let me extract my favorite words in this post from the get go:

...on principle I figured, why the hell not try [asking].

Indeed! But enough from me. You should hear this straight from Priya. Here's her email to me.

Speaking of traveling and planes...

I've been meaning to recount another asking to you. Last Christmas a big snowstorm derailed my flight plans by a few days. I finally made it to the gate in DC when yet another delay meant I would either a) have eight minutes to make a connecting flight or b) be stuck overnight at O'Hare. But United's Best Employee Ever got me a ticket on a direct flight from a neighboring airport. One very expensive cab ride later, I was boarding a plane. In my jubilant state, I hadn't thought to ask Mr. Best Employee for a voucher or coupon toward the cab ride. But once I reached my final destination, I thought, why not? So I wrote United a long, colorful account of my experience, thanking Mr. Best Employee by name, and kindly asking for any sort of compensation.

It worked! They gave me a $250 voucher toward a ticket.

Fast forward to last week. I'm about to buy a ticket with the voucher but want to call my mom to check something quickly. When I click "Continue," the price that I had to pay jumped from $14 to $32. I was miffed, but I was still getting a plane ticket to NYC for the same price as a bus ticket. So I tried to let it go.

But I couldn't. And I thought, can I strike gold twice? I sent another e-mail, beginning and ending with a huge thank you for the voucher. But I also added that I didn't think it was fair that the exact same seat doubled in price over the span of 5 minutes. I recognize that my argument wasn't nearly as compelling as last time's, but on principle I figured, why the hell not try. If I look ungrateful or cheap, so be it. And on the off chance that United did actually give me the money back, well, I'd fly exclusively United.

I did receive an e-mail from United, but all it said was that my itinerary had been updated. I checked. The times were all the same, but unfortunately, so was my credit card statement.

But the whole thing was a revelation. As you know, retail and money askings are the most difficult for me. But this time, I, the consumer, felt jilted.I knew it was a long shot and I'm not surprised that they haven't obliged, especially considering that I had the voucher. But I did what I could. Nevertheless, I wouldn't have minded a response, even if it said, "Well, a large group of middle-schoolers suddenly decided Labor Day was the best time to have a history lesson on Ellis Island, so tickets for that flight were in higher demand, hence the price increase."

What were the magic words in her first letter, you're wondering? I was wondering the same thing, so naturally, I asked her to share. She sent me the first and second emails.

DECEMBER

While I normally stay close to home during the holidays, I decided to travel by air this year to spend time with extended family. I hardly imagined what an adventure I'd have just making it to out there.

I was scheduled to depart on Saturday. The impending blizzard cancelled my Saturday morning flight, and my travel agent rebooked me onto a new flight departing Sunday.

The snow came, and came, and came, and cancelled the Sunday flight as well. After much searching, I found seats on a new flight.

As I sat at t he gate, I noticed that the flight kept getting delayed. When scheduled takeoff jumped from 7:05 to 7:56, I knew something was amiss. This couldn't have been catch-up from the snow delays, for from what I heard, flights had been moving smoothly all day.

After waiting patiently in line for about 30 minutes, I explained my predicament to a gentleman at the counter. It turned my connecting flight was the last flight of the day. Was I really about to become one of those holiday passengers, traveling alone and stranded in an airport in the middle of America, wanting nothing more than to greet my family as I'd planned to do two days earlier?

After some more searching, the representative told me there was a direct flight from a neighboring airport departing at 10:05. My heartbeat quickened. Two questions stood between me and unbridled relief. Were there seats on that plane, and did I have time to make it to the airport? The answer to both questions, thankfully, was a yes. I expressed my utmost gratitude to the representative, snagged my new boarding pass and sped off, my holiday plans salvaged.

I can't even imagine how much work went into fixing all the flight schedules the snowstorm disrupted, and I'd like to commend you for getting through it all. I'd also like to thank once gain the representative (I believe his name was Best Employee) for making it possible for me to spend Monday night with my family instead of a cold hotel room or vast airport terminal.

However, I didn't expect to have to take an $80 cab ride from airport to airport to do so. Although I'm grateful that everything worked out, I lost two days with my family because of all the cancellations.

I would like to request compensation for the $80 cab ride. I do understand that the snowstorm was out of anyone's control, but I had specifically planned my trip based on access to public transportation From Saturday to Monday, I had been scheduled on about seven different flights. I don't know what caused such delays on Monday's flight, but given the circumstances, going to the other airport was really the only way to salvage my situation.

I do hope you consider my request for remuneration. Please feel free to e-mail me or call my cell. Thank you very much and happy holidays!

Her second email:

JULY

Last December I received a courtesy voucher in response to travel delays incurred due to the December 2009 snowstorm. First, I want to thank you very much for giving me this travel voucher. I greatly appreciate it. This evening I redeemed it for a round-trip ticket. The original price I clicked on, around 8:30 pm, was $14.40 after the voucher was applied, but when I clicked continue, the site said that price modifications had bumped the price up to $32.40. I know that calculating flight fares is a complicated process, but I don't understand how in just a few minutes, the price more than doubled for the exact same ticket. I completely understand that, factoring in the voucher, the amount I paid was far less than the original price. However, I don't think it's fair that something that was valued at $14.40 suddenly went up to $32.40 in such a short amount of time. Would it be at all possible to adjust this ticket back to the price at which it was originally listed? Once again, I truly do appreciate your help and am grateful for anything you can do. Feel free to e-mail me or call me.

Priya's post-game analysis, included in her email to me:

I milked the first situation for all its worth -- crippling snowstorm, holiday spirit and the lonely girl who just wants to reach her family. It was a compelling story and I kept the tone light. The second one was less narrative and more straightforward. Maybe plain old unfairness isn't reason enough for them to give me the refund. Do you think it conveys a sense of entitlement? Is it too demanding? Do I come off sounding whiny? Like I'm throwing an e-mail tantrum? Did the fact that I had a voucher and still paid hundreds less than the actual price negate any right I had to complain?

I'd be interested to hear your/readers' thoughts...

My take?

Priya, you did great!!!! You identified an opportunity where it was far from obvious. You crafted a compelling letter. You persisted. You thanked people for being kind and rewarded their generosity by privately and publicly lauding them (in your letter and in your email to me, which is now a blog post).

As for the second letter -- it does come across as demanding, or more curt and businesslike, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. You did thank them and acknowledge how awesome their first response was. Here's what I like most about it: you took the risk. You tried. So what if it didn't work. You felt you were owed an explanation (at least that, if not the price difference as well) and you decided that your feeling is worth something: action. That's tremendously courageous. Over time you can work on figuring out what style to use for every situation and if there are ways to ask that don't leave you feeling insecure about your approach. But above all, it's fantastic you asked, not once but twice. It's great you felt your needs weren't being met. It's great you tried to resolve that.

I can't wait to read your next asking adventure. Thanks so much for sharing this story.

[image credit]

Hotel discount?

Next week, I'll be in SF with Mr. A.

He has a conference, and he invited me to tag along. I'll skip the socializing and, instead, work in a different cafe every day. There's one last chapter I have to edit, and that will be the week to crank it out. (I won't be done then, unfortunately. Still have to revise everything with professor feedback, format it and do the front/back matter. But this will be a big leap toward completion.)

For most of our trip, the hotel is paid for by his company. But we're arriving a day early, so I set out Wednesday to find a hotel. It had to be affordable and centrally located.

SF has several nice options. I settled on The Touchstone, which is close to Union Square had acceptable reviews on Tripadvisor. Instead of doing it online, I called to reserve, since I wanted to get a room up high -- and get a discount.

The voice on the other end, male and youngish, said they have rooms, he confirmed the lowest price is $62, and he agreed to give me a room away from the noisy streetside facade.

Next, I asked for a discount.

"Do you think you could knock off 5 or 10 percent? Maybe come down to $58 from $62?"

"I should be able to do that, yeah."

No clue where I got the $58 from.

I also didn't think he'd say yes. Not sure why, but that was my gut feeling.

Glad my gut was clueless.

$4 off isn't close to nothing -- yet it's also worth a coffee or maybe even two. Free breakfast? I'll take that.

[image via Strange Maps. Cool blog!]

Please let me go on vacation, Jet Blue?

[via ffffound]

Just when I thought I had nothing to ask, leave it to an airline to make my day.

JetBlue was having an amazing winter sale that ended at midnight-- with $99 fares between NY and San Diego, each way. Mr. A and I haven't had a vacation together in too long, so we decided to escape for a long weekend.

The sale was expiring at midnight, and at 11:45 I entered their site. (Cutting it kind of close, but I'd be jeopardizing my status as pro procrastinator if I got there any earlier.)

I rapidly selected tickets for the best dates and prices (since not all times were at the sale price). Woke up Mr. A to confirm he could miss work for a few days. Entered all my info. Confirmed it. And clicked submit. Before midnight.

Only to have the purchase screen go blank.

I waited a minute in case it was loading. Then, I tried on another browser and got an error message:

There has been a communications problem. Data lines may be congested right now, or another issue may exist. Please try again later or contact our reservations center.

We apologize for the inconvenience.

The use of pronouns and verb tenses alone would make for a nice master's thesis, but don't get me started.

I called JetBlue and explained what happened: I was trying to book the sale fare when my screen went blank. I was definitely on the site before midnight. Did the transaction go through? Could they still apply the sale fares if it didn't?

"The sale ended more than an hour ago and our computers are down now."

"Can you see if my card went through?"

"Our system is updating. And the sale ended at midnight Mountain Time, not Pacific Time." REALLY!? Fine print: 103,392. Roxy: 0. "Call back in 20 minutes and someone will be able to search for your transaction."

20 minutes later I called back, found out my card hadn't been charged. But, by some miracle, those cheap tickets were still available. Everything else had shot up by $50 or even $200, but those particular dates and times were unchanged.

SCORE!!

Thanks, Jet Blue, if not for a soothing purchase transaction, then at least for keeping airfare prices reasonable.

BANG

Miracles do happen.

My last asking for this year involves something I NEVER would have imagined doing last July.

I....

Hold on.

Let's backtrack.

Before this unexpected evening, I completed my first request for the day by asking something for someone else.

A friend called me for some travel advice. She is on a very strict budget, but wants to buy a plane ticket for her son so he could be with them when the husband/father turns 50 around Labor Day. This man just had a heart attack, so the whole family is excited to finally be together for this milestone.

Could I help her look online to book a supercheap ticket?

I checked a few sites, but it didn't look good. Prices are lower than last year, but not low enough.

So instead of giving her airline or website recommendations, I did something a little more extreme.

With her permission, I wrote an email to one of the airlines that services their two cities and asked for a discount or courtesy ticket.

I know this woman is in debt, and she really shouldn't put this on her credit card.

So maybe, maybe, maybe, the airline will agree to lower the cost.

Before I could write to any more airlines, she called and said she put the flight on her card after all, because she didn't want to risk a "no" and miss the last available seats at the lowest price.

Gained I: Tried to help. Didn't work out as I'd hoped. Glad the family will be together that weekend anyway.

As for tonight.

I was sitting at my dining room table, alone.

Tabulating the data from this year of inquiries.

Mr. A is in LA for a conference. The house seemed really empty.

And I was a little down.

It was not how I imagined I'd be spending the last night of asking.

Inviting myself to drive someone's cool car? Maybe.
Crashing someone's party? Why not.
Asking a pastry chef for his awesome banana bread pudding recipe? Yum.

But crunching numbers seemed like such a... whimper, not a bang.

Then the phone rang.

"What are you up to?"

It was Jem.

"Nothing much. How are you?"

"Good! I'm calling to see if you want to go to dajin."

"Where's that?"

"The gym."

"Did you say G-Y-M?"

"Yeah! The K-meister just got me a membership and we're on our way over."

"Really. Mmm, I'm not sure I have time.... I'm sort of busy..."

"They have a pool, and a sauna! Come on!"

"Really?"

I weighed the two alternatives: Sit home alone and stare at the wall. Or meet some friends for a workout.

"If I come, can we hang out after too? Get a drink or dinner?"

"I would love to."

Half an hour later I was on a stationary bike, watching CNN.

The place wasn't half bad.

Clean.

Good music.

Badminton courts, unlimited yoga. Stuff I'd vaguely considered looking into. One day.

On the way out, I stopped by the membership desk. The girl told me there is no signup fee -- today only -- and no cancellation fee, ever.

So I signed up myself and Mr. A.

But not before asking for -- and getting -- a free month.

Gained II: 3 months for the price of 2. Value: $30.

Did I sufficiently tantalize you? When you read that gooey first line, about miracles, did you expect I'd say I knocked on the door of the White House or asked Steve Jobs about his surgery or begged my grad school for an expedited PhD?

Well, until tonight, any of those possibilities struck me as more feasible than La Roxy joining a gym!!!

I crave sunlight, not elliptical machines.

But so be it.

So that's that.

365 days.

Done!

Poof!

Finito!

Results and revelations coming soon. But first I'm taking a break.

Until we meet again,

xoxo,

La Roxy

Best apartment rate? And some much needed advice?

June 25. Day 360.

My dad and stepmom are going to France, and they asked me to help them book a hotel or apartment. They're on a tight budget, and they want a kitchen, so I went for the Craigslist approach.

Rather than query 20 apartment renters separately, I opted for a more efficient approach. I grouped together all the listings that matched most of my criteria and sent a mass email.

Hello,

I am interested in renting a studio apartment for 10 days between the dates of July 11 or 12, and July 21 or 22.

It is for my father and stepmother. (They are unfamiliar with Craigslist, so I offered to help them find something.)

Their budget for 10 days is around 250 euros per week. They would pay cash at the beginning.

Is your apartment available in that period?

If so, would you please email me a photo of the bed, bathroom and kitchen, or give a website where these items are clearly visible. Also please tell me the address, and list the name(s) of the nearest metro stop(s)? Finally, if it is on the 4th floor or higher, is there a lift?

If it is occupied then, it is available at any later time? They may be able to shift their vacation to August instead.

Merci, bien a vous,

La Roxy

Got some answers with prices around my target. Yay.

Bon voyage!

Next, I asked for advice about yesterday's job offer. I got a tutoring gig that pays $40 per hour, or around $25 factoring in travel time and preparation.

I asked three people their input and they were unanimous: Don't take the job.

Mr. A said I need to be writing my dissertation, and the last months are the most grueling. He knows. He's been there. He also reminded me that I don't NEED NEED the money. If I couldn't cover the rent or had a family to feed it was one thing. But I have the basics taken care of. Do I really want to drive across the city just to pay for coffee? Isn't there a better job out there? What's the rush?

Eau, my friend in DC who visited a few months ago, who previously advised my sister to demand better pay in a similar situation, said I should be charging way more given I almost have a PhD from a top school and I've been tutoring for 15 years. I stammered it's tough times, people can't afford to pay a lot these days, and she listed half a dozen friends with less experience who are earning at least triple what I am charging. Ouch.

My grandma told me to skip the job and be a student. Then apply for jobs with all my might. But don't do things half way.

I think they all had good points. So my instincts were right -- I way undersold myself. I'm still thinking about it, but I'm leaning toward calling her back and either asking for more money, or turning it down entirely...

Gained: A preliminary room in Paris for my dad and stepmom. And advice from The Three Wisepersons.

Everybody wins!

June 17. Day 352.

In LAX's terminal 8, the home of United Airlines, I had three hours to kill before my flight to San Diego. After asking to move to standby and recheck my luggage, and being told my discount ticket isn't eligible for changes, I staved off sleep and wandered around the terminal.

On a corridor in the middle of the food and shopping section, between clusters of gates, a young woman was standing next to a big wheel and smiling.

"Come get your prize!" she was calling meekly. I stared at her suspiciously, walked past and then grabbed lunch. Probably from a credit card company or someone trying to get me to trade miles for a duffle bag. Typical.

On the way back, I walked past the "fair booth" again in a hurry, but remembered something: I'm supposed to be asking at every opportunity I can. Once a day isn't the rule, but the minimum. So what if I asked already to leave earlier. The result was nothing special. And what did I have to lose by trying? So I approached her.

"Hi. What's this for?"

"You can spin the wheel and get any of our prizes, like a free upgrade, door to door luggage service, a bottle of water, extra leg room on your next flight."

"I don't need to pay or give you my contact info or anything?"

"No! Nothing at all! I just need to check off your boarding pass. And everybody wins"

"What's in it for you?"

"We're just here to promote the airline, give people a little cheer. And let them know about our new Travel Options program."

"Well good golly! All right!"

I gave the wheel a brisk spin and it approached a free premium status voucher -- then ticked past, to a book of games.

"This will keep you entertained on your next flight!"

Actually, this will serve as a good chewing gum wrapper, or regift, since I am as passionate about sudoku as Berlusconi is about women over the age of 18.

After I collected my prize, I asked her if she's been swarmed with wheel spinners. The answer was as I suspected. People usually react the way I did initially -- suspiciously, in a rush, scared about their privacy. They don't get over that, don't come back. My day is no better for spinning the wheel and getting that book of games. But what if I had won an upgrade, free miles or a bottle of crisp sparkling water??

That is asking at its core, actually...

Never shoot yourself down. Just got for it, and let people or situations tell you no, if they must.

Gained: A book o' games. A chance at something better.

What is a panzerotto?

June 16. Day 351.

For my last few hours in Milano, the plan was to meet up with La Divina, Il Divo and some of their friends and have a farewell drink.

(By the way, I've gotten one email vote for Il Grillo -- it's more original, this reader says. Hmm. Sounds reasonable. Perhaps I should just defer to the subject himself. Cosa ne dici, carissimo???)

On the way to the bar, we passed by a locale brimming with people.

"That's Luini. The panzerotti place," La Divina explained.

"Panzerotti?" I asked.

"You don't know what a panzerotto is????"

She redirected me to the counter and ordered one for each of us.

And then I discovered.

Panzerotto, n, masculine. Pocket of pizza dough folded into a half moon and stuffed with tomatoes and mozzarella, occasionally variants like pesto, then deep fried and served steaming hot, to go. Originally from Naples. Frequently used as an alcohol sponge, dinner substitute, salty dessert and/or pre-happy hour thirst instigator.

Women in the workplace?

June 15. Day 350.

La Divina and her boyfriend teased me that I don't have to do a lot of asking around them. It's true. I don't even open my mouth and things are already awesome. I can't think of a thing to ask for, in the current state.

Instead, I asked them about, rather than for, something: women in the workplace, In italy. As in... any progress since 1600?

The verdict was that it's still not an easy place to be a professional gal.

It's still ruled by an old boys club, literally, because to be anyone or anything you need connections. And those are usually passed down from daddy to son.

Gained: confirmation of what I feared, I guess.

Any Italians care to agree or disagree? Men or women? Bosses or employees?

Moving on!!! Next blog posts coming right up!!!

Live to eat, or eat to live?

I owe you an apology... I realize there's a huge lag between today and when these posts are dated. Trouble is, some days I'm inspired to write and some I'm not, and if I force it, if I plow through and write them in the time it takes you to read them, I know I will regret it later. You can always skim or skip a post, that is, but I cannot. And I'd rather make it worth my while. ;)

But here we are, catching up bit by bit.

***

June 14. Day 349.

I've mentioned before, though it goes without mentioning, that Italians like to eat.

This weekend, this tenet was applied to its most vigorous maximum, as I sampled the cuisine of the Italian countryside with La Divina and her beloved, Il Divo.

I wavered between nicknames for him -- Il Divo, I think I'll stay with. Other options were Il Grillo (the cricket, but also a reference to a movie character he loves, Il Marchese del Grillo, pictured here) or Il Papi (in local parlance, the affectionate name for Berlusconi -- and his idol.) Any votes?

After my business trip wrapped up in Florence, from Friday though Sunday we've been spending nights in Montecatini Terme, in a hotel that seems like it was designed explicitly for the purpose of housing one night stands between Russian aristocrats with diminished fortunes and their Swiss mistresses circa 1958. Double twin beds, chinzy wallpaper, undoubtedly the height of luxury about 50 years ago. And zee staff is very discreet, my darlink.

As for days? We've been touring Tuscany in La Divina's peppy MiniCooper, looking for food.

Yesterday we got up, decided whether to eat lunch sooner or later, decided where to eat lunch, drove toward lunch, where we spent a lot of time discussing when and where to eat dinner. Oh yeah, and somewhere between all that we saw Pisa and bought some leather.

Then we drove to dinner, discussing dinner and lunch, had dinner discussing tomorrow's plans (including dinner) and then drove back discussing future culinary plans.

Today, naturally, we planned the itinerary around where to eat, since Il Divo had read about a restaurant in a cute town.

Over lunch, I explained to them that in America, there's an intriguing group of people called "Foodies."

"Foodie? What is this?" Il Divo asked.

"They are a special group of people who will drive 100 kilometers to try a restaurant, they will buy a cow in the countryside so it produces milk for them, they only want the best ingredients and love to obsess over food -- the finest details, the quality of the salt. That sort of thing."

"Bello. But why this is special?"

"Special, because that's not the normal way. Foodies are rare, a minority. Normally, meals are more rushed, food is about ingesting and satisfying hunger between long workshifts. There's a controversy: to eat well or cheaply? eat at length or be efficient? Are foodies heroes -- daring to prioritize taste and company at the dinner table when fast food reigns -- or are they decadent snobs?"

We went on to talk about lunch time: In Italy, according to them, you must take an hour, by law. And they milk that hour. Eat a proper meal. See a friend. Sure, go home later because of that. But it's a pleasure, a right, not an obligation.

I confessed that when I've had desk jobs, I routinely worked though lunch.

But Italians are faced with the same dilemmas, in a grand scale: Eat well or eat affordably? Be productive or perish? Grocery stores deliver mass produced super cheap crap, and the cost of commodities make many better foods prohibitive. And it's not that they hold back -- eat less, to afford a good quality. As for productivity, lunch time in Milan is becoming more of a time for errands -- even if lunch is still sacred in the rest of Italy. So maybe, maybe the empire of calm, caring meals will collapse, there, too.

Despite all this, I suspect that for many people here, it's a moot point. If you can afford it, of course you buy the hand sliced prosciutto. And even if it cuts from other options, you make the time. You take a day to visit the truffle festival three hours away. Pick up the tastier pesto, even if it adds 10 minutes to your commute. That's not time wasted, it's time that will improve the meal with your loved ones. Live to eat, not eat to live. Of course.

Am I rhapsodizing? Romanticizing? Am I just hungry again?? What are your thoughts, Italophiles, Italophobes -- and others?

As for what I asked: after dinner, which was a three-course meal of penne pomodoro, chicken, and tiramisu, topped off with coffee and liqueur, I asked the waiter for a slice of lemon. (Helpful hint: lemon works wonders against car sickness.) Because as much as I adore this lifestyle, as much as I enjoyed every bite and every conversation about every bite, there's one sad fact I can't ignore: Tuscan mountain roads in a Mini at 60 mph + La Roxy on a full stomach = a recipe for disaster.

Best leather?

June 13. Day 348.

For four days, I've been doing research. There are a few leather items I've been wanting to buy -- a little something for Mr. A, a few accessories for friends, and one special piece for a friend who's about to celebrate a birthday, graduation, and a promotion.

In Florence over the course of three days, after concluding that the leather sellers at the market by my hotel were way overpriced, I talked to people on the street to find out the best place for such a purchase.

I asked four people and got four answers:

1) Waiter, eyes flashing greedily (ok, not really, but wouldn't it be cool if they did?) "Go to Luca and tell him Antonio sent you. His booth is two streets down, hang a left, first right, halfway down the alley, by the bar, on the right. You can't miss it. Make sure to tell him I sent you. He will make you a special price."
2) Real estate agent: "There's a leather school near Santa Croce where you can probably find better prices."
4) American tourist by the leather school: "The leather school is totally overrated. I spent 250 euros on a bag. I just bought it because I spent nothing in Florence and so I had to buy something. Definitely not the 50 euro artisanal steal. Keep looking."
3) Shopkeeper with an antique bike and nerdy glasses: "San Lorenzo has a good leather market. You could explore that. But all these merchants are going to overcharge. The quality sucks, the patterns are outdated, and you're not going to find a good product for a good price. Be prepared to overpay for something equivalent to what you have in your home country. Florentine leather is a myth."

Over the course of four days, I shopped in one store and about three street stands, all with different prices and willingness to bargain.

I got two wallets for 20 euros instead of 30, by shamelessly flirting. I whacked off 2 euros from a different stand, by claiming the dollar was weak. I tried to bargain down a purse in a store but failed. Still bought it, because it was gorgeous, and something I think the recipient will like.

That was yesterday. I'm writing this all today, since today is the culmination of so many days of leather hunting.

I spent the day in Pisa with La Divina and Il Grillo (aka her boyfriend - more on the pseudonym later), who drove down from Milano last night.

And here, in Pisa, the dilemma of "where to get the best price" suddenly melted away. Because I came across a merchant with products so exquisite that were completely worth every cent. I did try to negotiate, but the woman was firm, confident. People were crowding behind me to grab the things I put down. Clearly, this was the place to shop.

In all, over four days, I saved about 12 euros on a handful of wallets.

Coffee with Valentino?

June 12. Day 347.

This afternoon I passed through Cetona, a thimble-sized town knwn for its oblong piazza (pictured below), its fat old men sitting on the shady patio of the only open bar around 4 p.m., and, my business acquaintance told me, Valentino's vacation home -- tucked behind a thick wall.

"Are you serious? You have it on authority that Valentino lives here?"

"Yes! Only in the summer, on weekends. Not all the time."

"So what are the chances that he's here now?"

"It is possible."

After a day of meetings, we were heading back to the train station so I could return to Florence. As we passed through Cetona, he drove slowly, and then indicated the palazzo from the car.

"There."

It was massive, the color of orange sorbet.

What I wanted to do: Get out, run up to the buzzer and ask Signor Valentino to tea, coffee, a drink, a conversation, anything. But I held back. What if this man driving me to the station, who is not exactly a client, but certainly someone with whom I need to act professionally, thinks I'm a totally immature American tourist with a star-f*cking complex? (And hey, maybe I am, but does he need to know?)

I decided to test the waters.

"Have you ever had the impulse to ring the bell? I mean, do you think people ever do that?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Do you think he'd be nice?"

"I heard that he is. When he's in this town, especially, he acts like one of the locals. Has coffee in the square, talks to people."

"Would you be interested having a coffee, the three of us? If I rang the bell?"

"What do we have to lose. If he says no at least we tried."

A kindred spirit! Eccellente.

Behind the wall, the villa was barely visible. The door was huge and imposing and wooden, tall enough to let a horse carriage with lit torches to pass through, wide enough for an RV.

We both got out of the car.

I approached the buzzer.

My heartbeat quickened.

I rang.

"Si?" an old woman's voice answered.

I looked into the eye of the camera that was surely watching me.

"Buongiorno. Cercavo il Signore Valentino. E a casa?" (Hello. I am looking for Mr. Valentino. Is he home?"

"Non c'e. Chi lo cerca?" (He's not here. Who's asking?)

"Va bene. Non importa. La ringrazio. Arrivederci." (Ok, forget it. Thanks. See you later!)

Gained: Nothing, and yet something. I tried to ask a fashion icon to hang out for the afternoon. Or even just chat for a minute. Something I would have never done before last July... It was an attempt that could have ended with coffee at his villa, or maybe a swearword and the boot. But at least I went for it. Worth this story, if nothing else.

The great elevator escape.

June 11. Day 346.

Italian elevators, like mediocre wine, are best enjoyed in moderation and ideally not too aged.

Italian elevators are like gnocchi in summertime: sound better than they taste.

Italian elevators are like Stalin. They suck.

Ok, so I'm not inspired tonight. But I think you get my drift.

All this because of the blasted Florentine ascensore of via Calimaruzza, 3.

I was running around all day, meeting with people, and I was pretty tired. All I wanted to do was leave some books in the hotel room and have a final meal before leaving this enchanted city.

I stepped in and hit the button labeled "4."

At the fourth floor, it stopped. I opened the inner doors. (Italian elevators are like trauma operating rooms: they have two sets of double doors and you're lucky to get out alive.)

Outside, the next set of doors was blocked.

Locked.

Almost sealed, save for a thin crack of light shining through.

I closed the inner doors, tried again. Closed them again, hit the "4." Then, the ground floor button. Niente.

A few thoughts went through my head. Fragments, disorganized, a cacophony of ideas, worries, possible approaches. All in a flash.

--Is it just stuck, or is something really wrong -- i.e. could it fall?
--Am I strong enough, or do I have any tools, to pry or break the outer door?
--Would messing with the doors cause the elevator to plummet?
--Should I wait for someone or take immediate action?
--Can people hear me if I scream?
--Would those hearing me be inside, or across the open window and in the next building or street?
--Am I liable, will the hotel blame me, or what's Italian law like?
--How long until someone passes by?
--Is there enough oxygen in here?
--How long is my cell phone battery going to last?
--Should I post this on Blogger, Twitter or Facebook? (I kid you not, I actually considered this, along with the next equally essential question:)
--Where would I go to the bathroom?
--Damn it, I'm really can't afford to miss my meeting tomorrow morning.
--Damn it, I really don't want to spend my last night in Florence in an elevator.

Several of the answers came indirectly, from the horrific and beautiful video clip I was now replaying in my head -- the video that made waves on Youtube a year ago. If you haven't seen it, DO. It's amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM679Zwpp8E

I saw I had a lot of cell phone juice left, and a strong signal, so I called the hotel.

I could hear it ringing, somewhere in the cavernous rooms behind me.

No answer.

I let it ring and ring, and finally someone picked up.

"Pronto?"

"Hello, I am a guest in your hotel, and I am stuck in your elevator. Can you help me?!" I asked.

"Ah! I'll be right out!"

A guy emerged, smiling but anxious looking.

He instructed me to try the door, try pushing a few buttons. Then he told me to press "ALT" or stop.

He said he'll be right back. I could hear him run down a flight of stairs, where he stopped. A moment later, the elevator car lurched down, then resumed its calm course to the third floor.

This time around, all the parts lined up, both sets of doors opened and I tumbled out.

"GRAZIE!!!!"

"I'm very sorry that happened. It happens quite frequently. They don't maintain the elevator very well in this building."

Italian elevators are like Italy, come to think of it: Ancient, attractive, comfortable, quaint, but rotten beneath the seams, and damnably predictable for those who know.

Gained: Freedom.