No one would ever stay at the Safari Motel in Joshua Tree for its palatial qualities. Nothing about it and no facilities that it boasts could ever be described in those terms and I suspect that I am the only repeat customer they’ve ever had.
After 5,000 miles cycling across the country and experiencing just how bad motels can get, the Safari compares reasonably well, but it’s not a Motel 6 or a Super 8 – and don’t even mention Marriott or Hilton in the same sentence.
It provides the basics; shelter from the elements, bed, toilet and shower but little else. In common with other motels run by businessmen from the third world, decrepit fittings get steadily worse until they cease to function, the room smells of cheap detergent and the provided accessories – soap, towel, toilet paper – are of the lowest quality and probably come in bulk from the Dollar Store down the road. The biggest surprise is the provision of shampoo, a rare luxury in such establishments.
Is it an accident that I am here? Is this my second visit, having suffered amnesia and forgotten the first? Is this the only motel around?
No.
I am a regular. I have been coming here, on and off, for nine years. I get the super discount rate of $45 per night – which is exactly the same as everyone else’s, but the owner wants me to feel special. I can almost hear the italics when he tells me the price. “It’s a good deal, just for you,” he says, leaning forward and dropping his voice conspiratorially. He probably doesn’t even remember me.
So, why do I stay here?
Quite simply, on a convenience scale of one to ten, the area would rank nine point nine. Within a short distance lies everything to make the transient hiker’s life perfect; food, drink, supplies, provisions, entertainment and, of course, accommodation.
Five minutes on foot is all it takes to reach the Joshua Tree Saloon, a no-frills, no-nonsense American pub that serves decent food and good beer, despite the Wednesday karaoke that always seems to be happening when I am there. Occasionally, a drunken regular will stumble to the bar and buy the whole bar a round – everyone, strangers and locals alike. Slightly further is the Crossroads café for healthy food, lively atmosphere and conversation at the bar with the type of customers who close doors behind them and use their brains before their mouths. I doubt anyone here would argue against health reform.
Between the two lie a hiking store, a gas station, a breakfast cafe and, should hell freeze over and I suffer a coincidental whim of insanity by wishing to get married, a small chapel. The access road for Joshua Tree park is less than a quarter of a mile distant, the Purple Turtle internet café – a rare breed in America – is not much farther and sits opposite a small shopping center which adds to my options. Should I wish to drive five miles, I can reach Walmart, Walgreens, Starbucks, McDonalds and a movie theater. I could even buy a hammer and nails, should I be so inclined, in the twenty-four hour Home Depot.
True, a few improvements in the motel would be nice. Towels that feel less like sandpaper, two-ply toilet paper and a fridge that didn’t sound like it was training to be a pneumatic drill would be a start – but there’s a lot to be said for handiness.
If facilities were like weather, Joshua Tree would be the perfect storm. I can suffer towels that have never seen conditioner, if I get to stay in the eye of the hurricane.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Capital One
I’m in the desert.
It’s close to 5.00pm, my legs are tired after six hours of strenuous hiking, I’m dripping with sweat and I stink of the day’s exertions. Today is relatively cool – around 100 in the valley and probably 5-10 degrees cooler here in the mountains.
I’m in familiar territory – ending the spectacular Wildhorse ridge trail and moving onto the Garstin – but time is rushing towards sunset and I’m in danger of not reaching the great wash before the sun creeps below the far mountains and the path becomes difficult to follow. Half an hour after that it will be dark and I am not prepared for walking in darkness. I’m trying to hurry, but most of the path at this point is steep and loose or requires careful placing of boots on rocks. Concentration on the ground is essential.
The phone rings.
In years gone by, there would be no such interruption. I have the cell phone for emergencies but omitted to switch it off after swapping some text messages earlier at a rest stop. Of course, I could ignore it or turn it off now, but there’s something about the insistent ring that demands to be acknowledged. I have become a slave to technology.
Without my glasses, I have no idea who’s calling – it may be a friend, a business acquaintance or a complete waste of time – but there’s only one way to find out.
It’s the Capital One credit card company.
A young-sounding Melissa asks to speak to me, thus indicating her attention level when I answered the phone by name. She wants to sell me protection insurance which would pay my credit card in the event that I am unemployed and begins to describe it in the halting terms of someone who’s reading from a screen.
Of course, I could simply hang up, but that would be rude and I don’t want to spoil Melissa’s day after such a spectacular one of my own. Besides, this justifies slowing the pace for a few moments and then I come to a complete stop because – being a man – I can’t do two things at once; talking on the phone and walking are two separate activities. God help us if men tried to text and drive.
Melissa’s description is riddled with clichéd stock-phrases; extraneous words worked into the text to bolster the product but which make it meaningless by their abundance. I am always referred to as the primary card holder, the beneficiary is you or a loved one and my job situation is gainful employment. The way in which these words are glued together is reminiscent of the one and only Christian Christmas church service I attended, where the words Jesus Christ Almighty could not be separated and the clinical manner of their repetitive bonding and the requirement to specify the phrase an exact number of times made me giggle.
The low cost of this important benefit is based on the current balance and I interrupt to say that my balance is zero, but it causes no more than a brief pause. It is 99 cents per hundred dollars of authorized credit limit. I want to ask what happens if I have strayed over my credit limit, whether the price would be reflected by the actual balance and I want to know the situation if I was not in gainful employment, but I can predict what confusion such questions would create and limit myself to the facts as presented.
He sun’s travelled another five minutes towards the jagged horizon by the time we get to the crunch point and Melissa asks whether I am interested. I am not and my negative response provokes her to ask whether I am in gainful employment. What’s the best answer, I wonder, so I go with ‘not working at this time,’ but it’s the wrong one and she tells me how I’m a perfect candidate.
I must end this conversation quickly and continue with the hike before I am left at the mercy of whatever creatures eat people during the dark hours in the desert mountains but first I decide to have a little fun. Maybe it’ll help her grow into a wise and wonderful person.
“So,” I begin, “This insurance would pay my credit card in the event of unemployment?”
“Exactly.”
“The entire balance?”
“Oh no.” There is noticeably less confidence. “Just the minimum payment.”
“And I could sign up for it even though I am currently not working?”
“Certainly.” She sounds a little happier.
“And it would pay immediately – since I would still be unemployed when the payment is due?”
“You’re not in gainful employment right now? You might have to go one cycle first.”
“I work fixed term contracts and, when they end, I am unemployed until the next one begins with a new company at some future, unspecified date. So what defines employment or, as you call it – gainful employment?”
“You would have to submit your employment details when you sign up.”
“Hmm. The cost is a little under one percent of the balance?”
“Oh no. The low cost of this important benefit for you or a loved one is only ninety-nine cents per hundred dollars.” The returning brightness in Melissa’s voice is not reflected in her mathematical ability.
“Right – which is almost one percent. The minimum payment is two and a half percent, so your charge for this insurance is more than a third of the possible benefit. Let’s talk real numbers for a moment. If my balance was $5,000, the minimum payment would be $125 – but you’d charge me fifty bucks per month to cover that. Doesn’t seem like much of a deal.”
“But isn’t it worth the peace of mind for you or a loved one in the case that you lose gainful employment through no fault of your own…?
“You mean I have to get fired? What about natural end of a fixed term contract?”
“If you lose gainful employment through no fault of your own…”
Melissa continues to ramble whilst I start to slowly walk, picking my way over the rocks and thinking about the setting sun and the utter surreal quality of this conversation. Situations like this do not happen to other people. Or do they? How can I be concerned about being lost in the dark in the desert, whilst arguing about credit card insurance with a young girl who knows nothing about it? When I next concentrate of the tinny voice in my ear, I realize I have no idea what Melissa’s said, so I switch gears and go back to being a Polite Person.
“Thanks, but no.”
She tries to argue, but I interrupt – politely, of course and in a very nice tone. I would transmit a smile down the line if I could.
“It really doesn’t apply to me, but I really appreciate you taking the time to call and speak with me about it. Please, have a lovely evening. Goodbye.”
I hang up before she has a chance to say anything more, turn off the phone and trudge into the setting sun. At least, if I should die out here tonight in the teeth of a mountain lion or a coyote, fall from a cliff face in the dark or get bitten by a bunch of man-hunting snakes, my last few words to another person will have been nice ones.
It’s close to 5.00pm, my legs are tired after six hours of strenuous hiking, I’m dripping with sweat and I stink of the day’s exertions. Today is relatively cool – around 100 in the valley and probably 5-10 degrees cooler here in the mountains.
I’m in familiar territory – ending the spectacular Wildhorse ridge trail and moving onto the Garstin – but time is rushing towards sunset and I’m in danger of not reaching the great wash before the sun creeps below the far mountains and the path becomes difficult to follow. Half an hour after that it will be dark and I am not prepared for walking in darkness. I’m trying to hurry, but most of the path at this point is steep and loose or requires careful placing of boots on rocks. Concentration on the ground is essential.
The phone rings.
In years gone by, there would be no such interruption. I have the cell phone for emergencies but omitted to switch it off after swapping some text messages earlier at a rest stop. Of course, I could ignore it or turn it off now, but there’s something about the insistent ring that demands to be acknowledged. I have become a slave to technology.
Without my glasses, I have no idea who’s calling – it may be a friend, a business acquaintance or a complete waste of time – but there’s only one way to find out.
It’s the Capital One credit card company.
A young-sounding Melissa asks to speak to me, thus indicating her attention level when I answered the phone by name. She wants to sell me protection insurance which would pay my credit card in the event that I am unemployed and begins to describe it in the halting terms of someone who’s reading from a screen.
Of course, I could simply hang up, but that would be rude and I don’t want to spoil Melissa’s day after such a spectacular one of my own. Besides, this justifies slowing the pace for a few moments and then I come to a complete stop because – being a man – I can’t do two things at once; talking on the phone and walking are two separate activities. God help us if men tried to text and drive.
Melissa’s description is riddled with clichéd stock-phrases; extraneous words worked into the text to bolster the product but which make it meaningless by their abundance. I am always referred to as the primary card holder, the beneficiary is you or a loved one and my job situation is gainful employment. The way in which these words are glued together is reminiscent of the one and only Christian Christmas church service I attended, where the words Jesus Christ Almighty could not be separated and the clinical manner of their repetitive bonding and the requirement to specify the phrase an exact number of times made me giggle.
The low cost of this important benefit is based on the current balance and I interrupt to say that my balance is zero, but it causes no more than a brief pause. It is 99 cents per hundred dollars of authorized credit limit. I want to ask what happens if I have strayed over my credit limit, whether the price would be reflected by the actual balance and I want to know the situation if I was not in gainful employment, but I can predict what confusion such questions would create and limit myself to the facts as presented.
He sun’s travelled another five minutes towards the jagged horizon by the time we get to the crunch point and Melissa asks whether I am interested. I am not and my negative response provokes her to ask whether I am in gainful employment. What’s the best answer, I wonder, so I go with ‘not working at this time,’ but it’s the wrong one and she tells me how I’m a perfect candidate.
I must end this conversation quickly and continue with the hike before I am left at the mercy of whatever creatures eat people during the dark hours in the desert mountains but first I decide to have a little fun. Maybe it’ll help her grow into a wise and wonderful person.
“So,” I begin, “This insurance would pay my credit card in the event of unemployment?”
“Exactly.”
“The entire balance?”
“Oh no.” There is noticeably less confidence. “Just the minimum payment.”
“And I could sign up for it even though I am currently not working?”
“Certainly.” She sounds a little happier.
“And it would pay immediately – since I would still be unemployed when the payment is due?”
“You’re not in gainful employment right now? You might have to go one cycle first.”
“I work fixed term contracts and, when they end, I am unemployed until the next one begins with a new company at some future, unspecified date. So what defines employment or, as you call it – gainful employment?”
“You would have to submit your employment details when you sign up.”
“Hmm. The cost is a little under one percent of the balance?”
“Oh no. The low cost of this important benefit for you or a loved one is only ninety-nine cents per hundred dollars.” The returning brightness in Melissa’s voice is not reflected in her mathematical ability.
“Right – which is almost one percent. The minimum payment is two and a half percent, so your charge for this insurance is more than a third of the possible benefit. Let’s talk real numbers for a moment. If my balance was $5,000, the minimum payment would be $125 – but you’d charge me fifty bucks per month to cover that. Doesn’t seem like much of a deal.”
“But isn’t it worth the peace of mind for you or a loved one in the case that you lose gainful employment through no fault of your own…?
“You mean I have to get fired? What about natural end of a fixed term contract?”
“If you lose gainful employment through no fault of your own…”
Melissa continues to ramble whilst I start to slowly walk, picking my way over the rocks and thinking about the setting sun and the utter surreal quality of this conversation. Situations like this do not happen to other people. Or do they? How can I be concerned about being lost in the dark in the desert, whilst arguing about credit card insurance with a young girl who knows nothing about it? When I next concentrate of the tinny voice in my ear, I realize I have no idea what Melissa’s said, so I switch gears and go back to being a Polite Person.
“Thanks, but no.”
She tries to argue, but I interrupt – politely, of course and in a very nice tone. I would transmit a smile down the line if I could.
“It really doesn’t apply to me, but I really appreciate you taking the time to call and speak with me about it. Please, have a lovely evening. Goodbye.”
I hang up before she has a chance to say anything more, turn off the phone and trudge into the setting sun. At least, if I should die out here tonight in the teeth of a mountain lion or a coyote, fall from a cliff face in the dark or get bitten by a bunch of man-hunting snakes, my last few words to another person will have been nice ones.
From Tampa to Palm Springs
I’m going hiking.
It’s only the third week since the bike trip ended and already I’m feeling apathetic. Not exactly boredom – as in nothing to do, nowhere to go, mope around the apartment and can’t get through the day without a drink – but more of a general lethargy and a suspicion that there’s something to life besides reformatting computers.
In a little over ten hours, I’ll be in Palm Springs.
I take a cab to the airport. The outrageous price of $25 for such a short trip irritates me – more the principle behind the fixed fare zone, rather than the actual dollar amount – but it’s cheaper than parking. Besides, it means not having to navigate the convoluted tangle of confused access roads myself and that civic planner’s nightmare shows not a hint of improvement.
Nothing about the airport’s changed. Although I wouldn’t necessarily expect to see great differences in 4 months, I’m strangely comforted by the consistency. Things often change far too quickly for my liking. I blink a couple of times or suffer a relatively minor hangover and suddenly the world is a different place. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning and find the aliens had taken over. That’s pretty much how it felt in 2000 after the ‘chad’ election. The only real surprise was that next day’s Washington Post didn’t have a sneak picture of the new White House resident with gray skin and two huge black slanted eyes.
Anyway, I digress…
There is one change. Starbucks is still serviced by people of foreign origin, but now there are no head scarves and they speak at an audible volume rather than the previous trademark murmur accompanied by a stare or weak smile. Unfortunately, they speak rather too much and the ongoing multi-source chatter of Spanish causes enough confusion to ensure that a good proportion of orders are wrong. How hard is it to pour a coffee and a glass of water? Maybe I added to the linguistic confusion by saying medium instead of dribbling granday. I know it’s an international airport and my own language skills are hardly anything to boast about but, in a busy place where speed is key, wouldn’t it be more sensible to employ people whose first language is the one spoken by the majority of customers?
The PA system frequently announces that Tampa airport is serviced by free wi-fi that may be used for all manner of purposes, but it must require some form of voodoo. This laptop tells me that I am connected, but that I cannot access the internet. To what is the machine connected, if not the internet?
Instructions for the wi-fi can be obtained at the information desk, the PA says. I go there, expecting no usable information and am not surprised. An old man who’s probably servicing the desk as a part time job to eke out his social security, blinks through owlish glasses and tells me that I have to turn the machine on and, ‘Just do it.’ With shaking hands, he holds out a pamphlet that supposedly helps other people, but it doesn’t show much to me. After staring for several minutes at two pages of cartoons as helpful as the outline drawings of fingers on the side of a pack of disposable chopsticks, I abandon the attempt and go in search of the gate.
A stirring in my stomach warns me that checking in online and printing my own boarding pass could lead to disaster. Similar situations have occurred before and now I regret not standing in line like everyone else but nothing goes wrong, my uncut paperwork is accepted and I pass through various levels of security without a hitch.
It occurs to me, as I sit and wait to board, how civilized American airports actually are when compared to say, Heathrow. British airports offer no outlets to plug in your laptop or re-chargeable items and, should you find one and attempt to use it, you will likely be instantly arrested and charged with stealing electricity. Security is an excuse for intimidating, uniformed thugs to relieve travelers of items they have bought only minutes ago in airport shops supposedly put there for the purpose and confusion is so great it can only be intentional. I have previously arrived from European destinations, faithfully followed the exit sign and immediately found myself in the midst of Boots the Chemist, surrounded by bewildered travelers who only want to collect their baggage and leave. By contrast, having to suffer a little Spanish in Starbucks and not get onto the internet at the first try doesn’t seem so hard to bear.
I don’t much like air travel, as is apparent to anyone who has ever sought to involve me in a conversation about it. It’s the only practical way to go long distances, but don’t expect my opinion to change about the rushing, waiting, overcrowding, cost, discomfort, lack of information or plethora of lies, to which every traveler is subjected during the process of moving from one location to another by air.
However…
On this occasion, nothing goes wrong.
The flight arrives, we board, it takes off and an hour later I am in Charlotte. The connecting flight to Phoenix is two hundred yards away, there are no technical issues, I get a maximum leg room bulkhead aisle seat and we arrive only ten minutes late. The final connection is on time, I get a window seat and, in less than half an hour, I am on the tarmac in the blistering 110 degree Palm Springs heat.
The Alamo rent-a-car desk is within sight and there is no one waiting. A friendly and helpful clerk give me a free upgrade, it costs less than $190 for 9 days and my car is exactly where he said it would be. The airport exit is simple, there are no confusing signs and I am driving down the main streets of Palm Springs within minutes.
Motel 6 has reduced their prices for the season, I get exactly the corner room I want on the third floor and go immediately to my favorite bar, where the bartender recognizes me and gives me a free drink with chips and salsa. “Lost weight?” he says and when I catch a glance in the behind the bar and see what losing 30 pounds has done, I am pleased to see a familiar image from the past. A brunette smiles across the island bar and, some time later, relocates to my side of it and we strike up a conversation that takes us onto the dance floor when the band begins their second set. Who knows where this evening could lead?
Hardly a thrilling tale of misadventure but perhaps this might supplant the opinion of those who think I am subject to negative karma.
It’s only the third week since the bike trip ended and already I’m feeling apathetic. Not exactly boredom – as in nothing to do, nowhere to go, mope around the apartment and can’t get through the day without a drink – but more of a general lethargy and a suspicion that there’s something to life besides reformatting computers.
In a little over ten hours, I’ll be in Palm Springs.
I take a cab to the airport. The outrageous price of $25 for such a short trip irritates me – more the principle behind the fixed fare zone, rather than the actual dollar amount – but it’s cheaper than parking. Besides, it means not having to navigate the convoluted tangle of confused access roads myself and that civic planner’s nightmare shows not a hint of improvement.
Nothing about the airport’s changed. Although I wouldn’t necessarily expect to see great differences in 4 months, I’m strangely comforted by the consistency. Things often change far too quickly for my liking. I blink a couple of times or suffer a relatively minor hangover and suddenly the world is a different place. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning and find the aliens had taken over. That’s pretty much how it felt in 2000 after the ‘chad’ election. The only real surprise was that next day’s Washington Post didn’t have a sneak picture of the new White House resident with gray skin and two huge black slanted eyes.
Anyway, I digress…
There is one change. Starbucks is still serviced by people of foreign origin, but now there are no head scarves and they speak at an audible volume rather than the previous trademark murmur accompanied by a stare or weak smile. Unfortunately, they speak rather too much and the ongoing multi-source chatter of Spanish causes enough confusion to ensure that a good proportion of orders are wrong. How hard is it to pour a coffee and a glass of water? Maybe I added to the linguistic confusion by saying medium instead of dribbling granday. I know it’s an international airport and my own language skills are hardly anything to boast about but, in a busy place where speed is key, wouldn’t it be more sensible to employ people whose first language is the one spoken by the majority of customers?
The PA system frequently announces that Tampa airport is serviced by free wi-fi that may be used for all manner of purposes, but it must require some form of voodoo. This laptop tells me that I am connected, but that I cannot access the internet. To what is the machine connected, if not the internet?
Instructions for the wi-fi can be obtained at the information desk, the PA says. I go there, expecting no usable information and am not surprised. An old man who’s probably servicing the desk as a part time job to eke out his social security, blinks through owlish glasses and tells me that I have to turn the machine on and, ‘Just do it.’ With shaking hands, he holds out a pamphlet that supposedly helps other people, but it doesn’t show much to me. After staring for several minutes at two pages of cartoons as helpful as the outline drawings of fingers on the side of a pack of disposable chopsticks, I abandon the attempt and go in search of the gate.
A stirring in my stomach warns me that checking in online and printing my own boarding pass could lead to disaster. Similar situations have occurred before and now I regret not standing in line like everyone else but nothing goes wrong, my uncut paperwork is accepted and I pass through various levels of security without a hitch.
It occurs to me, as I sit and wait to board, how civilized American airports actually are when compared to say, Heathrow. British airports offer no outlets to plug in your laptop or re-chargeable items and, should you find one and attempt to use it, you will likely be instantly arrested and charged with stealing electricity. Security is an excuse for intimidating, uniformed thugs to relieve travelers of items they have bought only minutes ago in airport shops supposedly put there for the purpose and confusion is so great it can only be intentional. I have previously arrived from European destinations, faithfully followed the exit sign and immediately found myself in the midst of Boots the Chemist, surrounded by bewildered travelers who only want to collect their baggage and leave. By contrast, having to suffer a little Spanish in Starbucks and not get onto the internet at the first try doesn’t seem so hard to bear.
I don’t much like air travel, as is apparent to anyone who has ever sought to involve me in a conversation about it. It’s the only practical way to go long distances, but don’t expect my opinion to change about the rushing, waiting, overcrowding, cost, discomfort, lack of information or plethora of lies, to which every traveler is subjected during the process of moving from one location to another by air.
However…
On this occasion, nothing goes wrong.
The flight arrives, we board, it takes off and an hour later I am in Charlotte. The connecting flight to Phoenix is two hundred yards away, there are no technical issues, I get a maximum leg room bulkhead aisle seat and we arrive only ten minutes late. The final connection is on time, I get a window seat and, in less than half an hour, I am on the tarmac in the blistering 110 degree Palm Springs heat.
The Alamo rent-a-car desk is within sight and there is no one waiting. A friendly and helpful clerk give me a free upgrade, it costs less than $190 for 9 days and my car is exactly where he said it would be. The airport exit is simple, there are no confusing signs and I am driving down the main streets of Palm Springs within minutes.
Motel 6 has reduced their prices for the season, I get exactly the corner room I want on the third floor and go immediately to my favorite bar, where the bartender recognizes me and gives me a free drink with chips and salsa. “Lost weight?” he says and when I catch a glance in the behind the bar and see what losing 30 pounds has done, I am pleased to see a familiar image from the past. A brunette smiles across the island bar and, some time later, relocates to my side of it and we strike up a conversation that takes us onto the dance floor when the band begins their second set. Who knows where this evening could lead?
Hardly a thrilling tale of misadventure but perhaps this might supplant the opinion of those who think I am subject to negative karma.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Introduction
Welcome to Flights Of The Feenix
This was originally to be titled Over The Hills, but some character of questionable parentage scythed that one from its stalk whilst I slept. Feenix is a name I used for several of my previous companies and flights refers not necessarily to air travel, but simply to all travel.
This is a collection of posts related to going to places. It includes such familiar topics as financial woes in foreign banks, questionable hotels, interesting restaurants, hopelessly inadequate travel arrangements and, in general, everything than can go – and has gone –wrong whilst traveling.
Almost by definition, writing of this type is only humorous and entertaining when critical. There’s very little of interest in a tale about a night in a hotel where everything was perfect, unless one happens to be a hotel connoisseur on the lookout for a decent review. I am not and, I suspect, nor are my readers…
So – keep Fawlty Towers in mind.
This was originally to be titled Over The Hills, but some character of questionable parentage scythed that one from its stalk whilst I slept. Feenix is a name I used for several of my previous companies and flights refers not necessarily to air travel, but simply to all travel.
This is a collection of posts related to going to places. It includes such familiar topics as financial woes in foreign banks, questionable hotels, interesting restaurants, hopelessly inadequate travel arrangements and, in general, everything than can go – and has gone –wrong whilst traveling.
Almost by definition, writing of this type is only humorous and entertaining when critical. There’s very little of interest in a tale about a night in a hotel where everything was perfect, unless one happens to be a hotel connoisseur on the lookout for a decent review. I am not and, I suspect, nor are my readers…
So – keep Fawlty Towers in mind.
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