Traveling Together

Brooklyn borough president Marty Markowitz caught flak, and a $20,000 fine from New York City’s Conflicts of Interest Board, for taking his wife, Jamie, on three overseas trips paid for by outside entities. Though it appears he technically violated the law, Markowitz’s argument that his wife was an asset on two trips to Turkey and one to The Netherlands resonates with me, and not just because I, too, am a Brooklyn native.

From my very first year as a business journalist I took Gilda (and subsequently our young children) along on as many multi-day conference trips as possible. Building rapport with customers, clients and sources is among the most important part of any relationship. A spouse is an invaluable asset in forging those ties.

Gilda’s first trip with me was to New Orleans for a restaurant conference produced by the trade newspaper I worked on. She wound up seeing more of the Big Easy than I did, visiting a plantation outside the city as well as the Garden District and a warehouse where the floats used in the Mardi Gras parade were stored. The pattern of her seeing the sights, or just lounging by the pool, while I worked the conference sessions repeated itself on subsequent convention visits. More importantly, the contacts she made with the spouses of retailers and suppliers turned into introductions to company executives during cocktail receptions and dinners I would have had difficulty making.

We started taking our children with us when Dan was just two. At the Del Coronado Hotel outside San Diego, he learned to say “croissant,” as every morning he and Gilda would breakfast on the French pastry while dining on the balcony outside our room. One of my favorite pictures has me wearing a straw cowboy hat, plaid shirt and jeans while carrying Ellie, her head in a bandana, asleep on my shoulder during a cocktail reception during a conference at the Arizona Biltmore in Phoenix when she was barely one.

The kids traveled with us through elementary school. Most of these excursions were during the school year. Gilda and I earned a deserved reputation as parents who blithely took their children on trips without caring what classes they missed. Guilty, with the explanation that our credo was they would learn long division two weeks later, but the educational experience of seeing different parts of our country, and one time even Japan, far outweighed any classroom instruction they might have received.

I was fortunate to work for a company that appreciated the value a spouse brings to the business environment. After I became a chief editor, my employer footed the bill for Gilda’s presence at many of the conferences I attended. Perhaps business has become less intimate (though I doubt successful people would say that), but I never understood why more executives didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to bond in a more personal way with their contacts at other companies. Yes, more spouses had jobs of their own and perhaps could not get away; not everyone could be as cavalier as we were about their kids missing school.

The bottom line for me, however, was the chance to share with Gilda the thrill of seeing a new environment—San Antonio, Marco Island, Tokyo, New Orleans, Oakland, Nashville, Dallas, Kyoto, Maui, Luxembourg, Strasbourg, Stratford-on-Avon, Brussels, Boca Raton, Palm Beach, Paris, Prague, Phoenix, Scottsdale—venues we might never have experienced together.

Borscht-Belted

Sometimes, a picture can sucker you into reading an article you otherwise would have passed. Case in point: Last Friday’s Weekend Arts section of the NY Times showed a young couple standing in front of Kutsher’s, artwork for an article on a rock concert the two were staging at the legendary Catskills resort (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/03/arts/music/03parties.html?scp=1&sq=kutsher%27s%20sisario%20september%203&st=cse).

Ordinarily, I avoid reading about rock concerts. But the picture drew me in. Like me, the young man in the photo is lean and bearded. He is 38, a year younger than I was when I was first sucker-punched by a Times photo of Kutsher’s. Let me explain:

In 1988, when our son, Dan, was 9, he went to sleepaway camp for the first time for eight weeks. With the assistance of a neighbor who agreed to watch the then 6-1/2 year old Ellie, Gilda planned a romantic weekend getaway for us. Having never experienced a Catskills resort when growing up, Gilda craved the experience. She had seen an article in The Times describing a renovation of Kutsher’s in Monticello. She made a reservation and sent a $50 deposit.

Now, I had accompanied my parents to many Catskills hotels when growing up. They were generally pleasant, but by 1988 I had been exposed to, shall we say, a more refined world. I traveled across the country for my job, staying in many first class hotels and resorts. Gilda had often shared the resort trips with me as they centered around conferences where the presence of a spouse was a definite advantage in meeting and mingling with sources. Despite Kutsher’s renovations as described in The Times, I was less than enthusiastic about trekking off to the Catskills. Having just mastered riding a bicycle at age 39 (a subject of a future blog), I was happy to learn Kutsher’s had it own bike trail around its lake and provided bikes free of charge.

The fateful weekend in early July came. I admit I did not muster much enthusiasm. Gilda was rightfully upset with my attitude. As we pulled onto the hotel driveway, the same canopy depicted in the picture in last Friday’s paper appeared. It was not the equal to the Del Coronado outside San Diego. Or the Boca Raton Country Club. Or the Arizona Biltmore, the Scottsdale Princess or the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach, all hotels Gilda and I, often with our children, had enjoyed. I sensed her trepidation as we entered the small registration desk just inside the front door.

She wanted to see the room before we officially checked in. The registration clerk asked why. Just to be sure. We didn’t want a room with double beds. Reluctantly she agreed to show us the room. As we walked across the lobby, I detected a strange odor. It reminded me of a used kitty litter box. I suggested perhaps the carpet was mildewed and was immediately rebuffed. It was new flooring, I was told. New or old, I said, the carpet smelled.

I glanced out the picture window and saw the “lake” with the bike path surrounding it. It appeared to be about a half acre in size. Yes, bikes were available, but they couldn’t be ridden anywhere off the paved path around the lake. So much for any biking expedition.

We arrived at our room and stepped into the 1950s. It had separate beds; the carpeting was a long shag of deep orange. We demanded a different room. Reluctantly Kutsher’s agreed. We asked to see it. Again the clerk was less than enthusiastic. The second room had a single bed and decent carpeting. But its only window was higher than six feet from the ground. Standing on the bed I could see out the window. If I craned my neck I could see part of the pool. But most visible was the building next door. Had I wanted to see a building when I looked out the window, I told the clerk, I would have stayed in Brooklyn.

Gilda was now convinced Kutsher’s was not going to be part of our weekend escape. We were prepared to forfeit the $50 deposit, but amazingly Kutsher’s refunded it. We weren’t ready to return home, so we decided to check out the Concord in Kiamesha Lake. Before registering, however, we opted to scope out the hotel. It seemed acceptable until we came upon a yoga class in progress. How can I say this delicately? The yoga instructor could be a contestant on the show, The Biggest Loser. No way, Gilda said, was she staying in a hotel that disrespected its clientele with such an instructor.

Disappointed, we headed homeward till I remembered about the Inn at Lake Waramaug in Litchfield County, Conn. It’s a beautiful setting, with individual cottages. No TVs. No phones. Just the opportunity to commune with nature. That is, unless it’s pouring rain, which started to fall right after we arrived and kept coming down well into Saturday morning, by which time we decided that White Plains wasn’t too bad a place to spend a romantic weekend by ourselves, with Ellie down the street playing with Issa and her mother, Angeles.