You're never too old to visit one of nature's hotspots. Cancun, Mexico isn't just for the spring break crowd but can be enjoyed by "children" of all ages year-around.
The Cancun hotel zone, nestled between the crystal-clear Caribbean Sea and Nichupte Lagoon, offers a mix of stay-on-resort entertainment and outside nightlife. A mere 20-minute ride from Cancun International Airport, Cancun offers an unforgettable vacation.
After being tackled by Hurricane Wilma in 2005, Cancun has undergone a major facelift and has reconstructed many properties into more appealing vacation spots.
One resort you can't refuse is the Oasis Cancun All-Inclusive, which includes the upscale Grand Oasis. While both sit virtually upon the same property, consisting of a 1/4-mile pool, swim up bars and access to one of Cancun's most elegant beaches, the Grand Oasis offers more attractive rooms and a wider variety of all-inclusive restaurants to choose from, including complimentary room service. For those who aren't familiar with the term all-inclusive, it generally defines all room rates and fees, eating, drinking and non-motorized resort water sports, for the duration of your trip.
The Oasis offers rooms in one of four phases, two of which are seated oceanfront, while the Grand Oasis's establishment is built in the shape of an ancient pyramid situated on the center of the property, set back a bit from the beach.
Within the Grand Oasis is Club Up and Down, the hotel zone's best foam party. For those guests staying at the Oasis, a cover charge is required, while those staying at the Grand Oasis will enjoy the club cover-free.
For those travelers who dig nightlife, the Oasis property is a mere 20-minute bus ride to all the hotspots, costing less than $1.50 roundtrip. Coco Bongo, Carlos n Charlie's, Dady O, Dady Rock, La Boom, The City, Senor Frogs and Fat Tuesday, which also features a late afternoon/evening MTV Island cruise, are all sure to be a solid time.
For spring breakers, these Oasis resorts are a must. Those on an economic budget will find the services offered at the Oasis Cancun to be just fine, but if you want to spend the extra money, the Grand Oasis will always be a good upgrade with a great abundance of property options.
A word of advice: To save money on travel, learn how to use Orbitz.com and Expedia.com. Designate a friend as the travel planner and have them constantly check, multiple times each day, air and hotel combinations for the dates you and your friends wish to travel. The airfares are changing more constantly than the room rates and will do more damage on your wallet. Once you get a rate that seems suitable for all members in your party book it right away. Even though you can save that itinerary in your free online Expedia or Orbitz account, if you decide to book the package at a later date, and the price has changed, you can bet that you'll be charged the new rate. But hey, you never know, you might get lucky and the package price may have dropped. Additionally, don't worry too much about booking transportation to and from the airport when purchasing your package. -- There are plenty of transportation services waiting at Cancun International that will drive you and your party to the hotel zone for a mere $10 per person each way.
Sure, the student travel service networks are great and will save you a lot of planning headaches, but knowing how to create your own vacation on Expedia and Orbitz can save you hundreds of dollars, each traveler.
For those who are not in spring break mode and don't enjoy being around a magnitude of the younger population, avoid Cancun from mid-February until mid-April. The Canadian spring break carries through the last two weeks of February, while spring break in the United States begins during the last week of February and lasts until the middle of April. Additionally, many high school seniors travel to Cancun immediately following graduation, starting the last two weeks of June and stretching through the first two weeks of July.
On your next tropical destination trip be sure to consider the white sand beaches of Cancun, Mexico. With the right mindset, you can't go wrong.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Into The Flames
Each member of the volunteer fire service can explain his sole reason for taking the oath of courage. I can't. In fact, 17 months later, I'm still trying to pinpoint the reason for raising my right hand and being sworn in.
For the first 26 years of my life, I lived in a household that echoed the constant sound of a fire department scanner that was enough to collapse walls, and was laden with firefighting paraphernalia. My dad was a member of the East Rockaway Fire Department (NY) for 45 years, before retiring to the Gulf Coast of Florida in the spring of 2005. During his tenure, I received the opportunity to see a lot -- and hear a lot -- but never had a true interest in following his lead. Neither did any of my siblings. I guess we all saw -- what we believed as -- an enormous amount of time dedicated to a full-time volunteer job.
Then, it happened. It was sort of like the zap of an unexpected lightning bolt. In the summer of '05, I was driving past fire department headquarters and spotted the sight of an East Rockaway chief. I hit the brakes, parked and pounded on the door for a good five minutes until he let me in. He must have thought I was psychotic. We sat, talked, and two hours later my application was complete, notarized and returned. What the hell was I thinking? I still don't know.
I have to admit, I was a little scared at first; I never had an interest in this line of work and, now, here I was, not really knowing what I was getting myself into. But I quickly found my place -- my zone. And the men and women who have helped me along the way thus far, well, they're my boys (and girls).
I joined the same department my father served for nearly half a century. Shortly after completing the fire service academy in June of 2006, I ventured onto the EMS Academy to pursue my New York State EMT license. For a guy who never had an interest in firematic services, I suddenly gained a supreme quest for the knowledge of flame-fighting and injury treatment.
More than 500 days after walking into the zone of the unknown, I can say that my experience there has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
The adrenaline, camaraderie and, most important, the ability to make even the slightest impact on the lives of others (civilian or firefighter) is what the fire service is all about. If we can travel through life and make a meaningful, significant difference in the attitude, passion or ability of just one person, each and every one of us has done our job.
Anything more is golden.
For the first 26 years of my life, I lived in a household that echoed the constant sound of a fire department scanner that was enough to collapse walls, and was laden with firefighting paraphernalia. My dad was a member of the East Rockaway Fire Department (NY) for 45 years, before retiring to the Gulf Coast of Florida in the spring of 2005. During his tenure, I received the opportunity to see a lot -- and hear a lot -- but never had a true interest in following his lead. Neither did any of my siblings. I guess we all saw -- what we believed as -- an enormous amount of time dedicated to a full-time volunteer job.
Then, it happened. It was sort of like the zap of an unexpected lightning bolt. In the summer of '05, I was driving past fire department headquarters and spotted the sight of an East Rockaway chief. I hit the brakes, parked and pounded on the door for a good five minutes until he let me in. He must have thought I was psychotic. We sat, talked, and two hours later my application was complete, notarized and returned. What the hell was I thinking? I still don't know.
I have to admit, I was a little scared at first; I never had an interest in this line of work and, now, here I was, not really knowing what I was getting myself into. But I quickly found my place -- my zone. And the men and women who have helped me along the way thus far, well, they're my boys (and girls).
I joined the same department my father served for nearly half a century. Shortly after completing the fire service academy in June of 2006, I ventured onto the EMS Academy to pursue my New York State EMT license. For a guy who never had an interest in firematic services, I suddenly gained a supreme quest for the knowledge of flame-fighting and injury treatment.
More than 500 days after walking into the zone of the unknown, I can say that my experience there has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
The adrenaline, camaraderie and, most important, the ability to make even the slightest impact on the lives of others (civilian or firefighter) is what the fire service is all about. If we can travel through life and make a meaningful, significant difference in the attitude, passion or ability of just one person, each and every one of us has done our job.
Anything more is golden.
Monday, May 28, 2007
A Writing Development
Learn, and create a mold. For the inspiring journalist, high school and college years are the best times to absorb, produce, find a writing niche and persist.
Print journalism is one of the most difficult fields to establish a full-time career. Rejection is plentiful. But don't give up. The phrases, "we'll pass" and "sorry, that doesn't interest us" will constantly frustrate and boggle anyone trying to establish byline status.
It's best for the journalist-in-the-making to begin writing as early as possible. Experience and development are the key to separating mediocre journalists from those who display a great sense of near-mastery.
Absorb: The best way to learn is from those who are better, more advanced writers. Listening to veteran journalists, who have written for a wide variety of publications, will help to develop a comparison between various writing techniques. Also, taking note of editing changes will assist in answering specific questions about grammar, style and method. The most enthusiastic writers will examine editing and find out how to correct mistakes in previous pieces and transfer that learning into future pieces.
Produce: Write over and over, encompassing many different types of works - hard news articles, columns and features. Good writers aren't shaped from occasionally sitting in front of a computer screen and typing a few paragraphs. A quality writing standard is developed over time, after a continual writing effort is put forth. This consistency helps progress a choppy writer -- with lots of mental word and sentence blockage -- into a fluid one.
Find a writing niche: All writers must develop into their own unique journalist and find a particular system fitting his persona. No two journalists are exactly the same. Finding a personal style is extremely important in creating a comfort zone, helping those less confident writers develop more structured stories with balance and detail.
Persist: Don't be afraid of rejection. When a publication says "no," find a reason -- and show them -- why they should say "yes." The only loser in a battle of writing rights is the writer himself -- publications have an abundant pool to choose from.
In journalism, it sometimes appears no hope is in sight. But don't look the other way. Keep writing.
Make an impact.
Print journalism is one of the most difficult fields to establish a full-time career. Rejection is plentiful. But don't give up. The phrases, "we'll pass" and "sorry, that doesn't interest us" will constantly frustrate and boggle anyone trying to establish byline status.
It's best for the journalist-in-the-making to begin writing as early as possible. Experience and development are the key to separating mediocre journalists from those who display a great sense of near-mastery.
Absorb: The best way to learn is from those who are better, more advanced writers. Listening to veteran journalists, who have written for a wide variety of publications, will help to develop a comparison between various writing techniques. Also, taking note of editing changes will assist in answering specific questions about grammar, style and method. The most enthusiastic writers will examine editing and find out how to correct mistakes in previous pieces and transfer that learning into future pieces.
Produce: Write over and over, encompassing many different types of works - hard news articles, columns and features. Good writers aren't shaped from occasionally sitting in front of a computer screen and typing a few paragraphs. A quality writing standard is developed over time, after a continual writing effort is put forth. This consistency helps progress a choppy writer -- with lots of mental word and sentence blockage -- into a fluid one.
Find a writing niche: All writers must develop into their own unique journalist and find a particular system fitting his persona. No two journalists are exactly the same. Finding a personal style is extremely important in creating a comfort zone, helping those less confident writers develop more structured stories with balance and detail.
Persist: Don't be afraid of rejection. When a publication says "no," find a reason -- and show them -- why they should say "yes." The only loser in a battle of writing rights is the writer himself -- publications have an abundant pool to choose from.
In journalism, it sometimes appears no hope is in sight. But don't look the other way. Keep writing.
Make an impact.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A Decade Of Drafting
It just recently hit me how long I've been writing. I began my journalistic quest in my junior year of high school as a student columnist in the paper's school section. I believe I was 17 at the time. Ironically, I have no idea what my first published column was about or whom it involved. -- I'm lucky if I can remember five minutes ago. It's Alzheimer's setting in at an early age. Or maybe I'm just spent.
I'm 28 now, so, as I figure it -- I was never good at math -- the end of this year will conclude my 10-year writing anniversary. Yes, I'll be hoping for a silver star. ... But, no, I won't bash my head into a stonewall waiting. I'll just sit back and be thankful for what I've received during my writing tenure.
I wasn't a journalism major in college. I opted to flow in the direction of business management. In fact, I can only remember taking one class that involved some form of creative writing. But I learned journalism the best way possible -- from those who were a hell of a lot better than me.
My writing development began in high school with journalism teacher Chuck McAnulla who helped to open my 'brows to an entire unexplored world and presented me with an opportunity to initially get published. And it's been the people I've worked with who have continuously helped me mold into a writer with impact. I've had publishers who've always had the belief that I could achieve, despite my sometimes-awkward approach to topics; and editors that always made attempts -- despite my arguments and stubborn nature -- to have me close the thesaurus and speak directly from the inside. But there are also those who still cringe each time they receive a column of mine to edit. -- Even though my sometimes-awkward sentence structure and weird vocabulary organization sends them into heart palpitations, their way of making me sound like a genius has ingrained an understanding that continuously helps me develop into the columnist I've always inspired to be. I'll probably never be a Rick Reilly, but I wouldn't mind coming damn close.
Journalism isn't always as pretty and glamorous as it may sometimes seem. A very small percentage of the population will respond when they read an article or column they like, but a very large number of people will throw rocks at what they consider undesirable topics. But, as journalists, we learn to develop leather skin, knowing we won't always be appreciated. And we teach ourselves to believe that an adequate job was done providing fair representation.
I am now living -- what I guess can be considered -- the good life of an independent contractor. I have ultimate writing flexibility -- a little game of pick-and-choose.
It's been real.
I'm 28 now, so, as I figure it -- I was never good at math -- the end of this year will conclude my 10-year writing anniversary. Yes, I'll be hoping for a silver star. ... But, no, I won't bash my head into a stonewall waiting. I'll just sit back and be thankful for what I've received during my writing tenure.
I wasn't a journalism major in college. I opted to flow in the direction of business management. In fact, I can only remember taking one class that involved some form of creative writing. But I learned journalism the best way possible -- from those who were a hell of a lot better than me.
My writing development began in high school with journalism teacher Chuck McAnulla who helped to open my 'brows to an entire unexplored world and presented me with an opportunity to initially get published. And it's been the people I've worked with who have continuously helped me mold into a writer with impact. I've had publishers who've always had the belief that I could achieve, despite my sometimes-awkward approach to topics; and editors that always made attempts -- despite my arguments and stubborn nature -- to have me close the thesaurus and speak directly from the inside. But there are also those who still cringe each time they receive a column of mine to edit. -- Even though my sometimes-awkward sentence structure and weird vocabulary organization sends them into heart palpitations, their way of making me sound like a genius has ingrained an understanding that continuously helps me develop into the columnist I've always inspired to be. I'll probably never be a Rick Reilly, but I wouldn't mind coming damn close.
Journalism isn't always as pretty and glamorous as it may sometimes seem. A very small percentage of the population will respond when they read an article or column they like, but a very large number of people will throw rocks at what they consider undesirable topics. But, as journalists, we learn to develop leather skin, knowing we won't always be appreciated. And we teach ourselves to believe that an adequate job was done providing fair representation.
I am now living -- what I guess can be considered -- the good life of an independent contractor. I have ultimate writing flexibility -- a little game of pick-and-choose.
It's been real.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Never A Dull Moment
I was late getting out of work. Actually, leaving at 4:40pm was earlier than my normal 5pm departure, but it was later than anticipated. After all, I was on my way to JFK for a weekend family rendezvous in Sundance, Utah at one of the state's premier spots. It doesn't get better than this.
I left work feeling good and relaxed. My washed-out Abercrombie jeans fit to just the right length, the cuffs on the black Express button-down I was wearing were popped to perfection, and my brown leather shoes were unusually comfortable. I could have done a little better with the shoe/shirt combination, but how much can you really ask for from a color-blind guy? I didn't care. Yup, yup, I was in the zone.
Delta Airlines calls themselves the "New Delta." I was excited. I'm not a man of change, but humor me and maybe, just maybe, I'll fall victim.
Well, I did.
The Kiosk self-check-in machines are a great concept. At times I can be a computer nerd but always seem to struggle using these contraptions. It's probably because I spend way too much time playing with every flight function and option, including changing my seat a zillion times until my rump feels mentally comfortable with my selection. Window: If I have to pee then I would be required to climb over a slew of unhappy passengers. Isle: Nice access to freedom, but I'm tired of getting slammed in the head with the service cart. Middle: Yeah, OK. Never. I'm not a human kielbasa. So, I finagled my way into a window seat in the emergency exit row. At 5-foot-10 my lanky lower half would have plenty of room to breathe. Perfect.
As I stood on the ensuing Kiosk baggage drop-off line, I took notice of a woman speaking with a Delta manager. She was visibly upset. Drama, I thought. Nice. So, I eavesdropped, hoping to catch just a dribble of her complaint. "They flew me into JFK, then drove me all the way to JFK," she said. "Then, they made me stay here last night and drove me back to JFK." Huh? I was boggled. All of a sudden, I took particular interest in the coal black thigh-high socks, cherry red "there's-no-place-like-home" shoes and bright maroon glasses she was wearing. I laughed to myself and quickly became forgiving.
I was already entertained and I hadn't even left the check-in zone. Finally, I reached the top of the baggage line and was approached by a very courteous middle-aged woman, aka Ms. Pleasant. Her flight was scheduled to depart in 20 minutes, and she nicely asked a man (aka Mr. Smiles) and me if she could go next.
Note: Previously, Mr. Smiles was at the Kiosk self-check-in terminal next to me, when all of a sudden he screamed, "Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeessssss!," at the top of his lungs. But he seemed like a good guy, so I befriended him. I still don't know what he was so excited about. Maybe it was the feeling of accomplishment -- his first time printing his own boarding pass. Technology can do that to some people.
All of us have issues of need, and neither I or Mr. Smiles were in a rush, so we gave Ms. Pleasant a quick smile, coupled with our nods of approval, and let her hop in front of the line. I'm glad we were able to help make her day better. But not all those waiting in line behind us felt the same sympathy. They didn't have a choice, though -- Mr. Smiles and I were the co-captains of that line.
Not more than two minutes following our act of kindness, Ms. Pleasant erupted into a verbal assault with the counter ticket agent, after he told her she didn't have a reservation. But, but, but she told us her flight was about to leave. She lied to us? That's messed up. Mr. Smiles and I didn't deserve that. But there she was -- Ms. Pleasant -- storming through the terminal making a scene, only turning around to scream, "You know what, I'm calling your manager!" ... And I'm stomping my foot down on line cutters from this point forward.
It was finally time for me to sit in my thrown, seat 18F. Ah, it was comfortable and the body room was more than adequate. This was going to be a great flight.
Prior to takeoff the flight attendant approached the eight of us seated in the two exit rows and explained our duties in the event of an emergency evacuation. As part of protocol, she asked each of us for a verbal confirmation of understanding. There was just me and an 80-something year-old man assigned to our row of six seats. After proudly pronouncing my "yes" of support, the attendant turned to the elderly man. "Sir, do you understand," she said. "Sir, do you understand? Sir? Sir, do you understand? Sir?" No response. He was passed out, asleep, against the emergency exit door. Well, at least I know I'm in good hands.
Damn, this martini tastes good.
I left work feeling good and relaxed. My washed-out Abercrombie jeans fit to just the right length, the cuffs on the black Express button-down I was wearing were popped to perfection, and my brown leather shoes were unusually comfortable. I could have done a little better with the shoe/shirt combination, but how much can you really ask for from a color-blind guy? I didn't care. Yup, yup, I was in the zone.
Delta Airlines calls themselves the "New Delta." I was excited. I'm not a man of change, but humor me and maybe, just maybe, I'll fall victim.
Well, I did.
The Kiosk self-check-in machines are a great concept. At times I can be a computer nerd but always seem to struggle using these contraptions. It's probably because I spend way too much time playing with every flight function and option, including changing my seat a zillion times until my rump feels mentally comfortable with my selection. Window: If I have to pee then I would be required to climb over a slew of unhappy passengers. Isle: Nice access to freedom, but I'm tired of getting slammed in the head with the service cart. Middle: Yeah, OK. Never. I'm not a human kielbasa. So, I finagled my way into a window seat in the emergency exit row. At 5-foot-10 my lanky lower half would have plenty of room to breathe. Perfect.
As I stood on the ensuing Kiosk baggage drop-off line, I took notice of a woman speaking with a Delta manager. She was visibly upset. Drama, I thought. Nice. So, I eavesdropped, hoping to catch just a dribble of her complaint. "They flew me into JFK, then drove me all the way to JFK," she said. "Then, they made me stay here last night and drove me back to JFK." Huh? I was boggled. All of a sudden, I took particular interest in the coal black thigh-high socks, cherry red "there's-no-place-like-home" shoes and bright maroon glasses she was wearing. I laughed to myself and quickly became forgiving.
I was already entertained and I hadn't even left the check-in zone. Finally, I reached the top of the baggage line and was approached by a very courteous middle-aged woman, aka Ms. Pleasant. Her flight was scheduled to depart in 20 minutes, and she nicely asked a man (aka Mr. Smiles) and me if she could go next.
Note: Previously, Mr. Smiles was at the Kiosk self-check-in terminal next to me, when all of a sudden he screamed, "Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeessssss!," at the top of his lungs. But he seemed like a good guy, so I befriended him. I still don't know what he was so excited about. Maybe it was the feeling of accomplishment -- his first time printing his own boarding pass. Technology can do that to some people.
All of us have issues of need, and neither I or Mr. Smiles were in a rush, so we gave Ms. Pleasant a quick smile, coupled with our nods of approval, and let her hop in front of the line. I'm glad we were able to help make her day better. But not all those waiting in line behind us felt the same sympathy. They didn't have a choice, though -- Mr. Smiles and I were the co-captains of that line.
Not more than two minutes following our act of kindness, Ms. Pleasant erupted into a verbal assault with the counter ticket agent, after he told her she didn't have a reservation. But, but, but she told us her flight was about to leave. She lied to us? That's messed up. Mr. Smiles and I didn't deserve that. But there she was -- Ms. Pleasant -- storming through the terminal making a scene, only turning around to scream, "You know what, I'm calling your manager!" ... And I'm stomping my foot down on line cutters from this point forward.
It was finally time for me to sit in my thrown, seat 18F. Ah, it was comfortable and the body room was more than adequate. This was going to be a great flight.
Prior to takeoff the flight attendant approached the eight of us seated in the two exit rows and explained our duties in the event of an emergency evacuation. As part of protocol, she asked each of us for a verbal confirmation of understanding. There was just me and an 80-something year-old man assigned to our row of six seats. After proudly pronouncing my "yes" of support, the attendant turned to the elderly man. "Sir, do you understand," she said. "Sir, do you understand? Sir? Sir, do you understand? Sir?" No response. He was passed out, asleep, against the emergency exit door. Well, at least I know I'm in good hands.
Damn, this martini tastes good.
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