This morning in our condo complex swimming pool a fellow frequent visitor to Rehoboth Beach now living in Fort Lauderdale asked, "How was your trip?"

He was referring to the post-Christmas three day jaunt that my partner and I took to enjoy the lights, sounds and sights of the Big Apple. And yes—before I go further—we can swim in our outdoor heated pool 365 days a year, barring hurricanes, tropical storms and other assorted inconveniences. But I still miss Rehoboth.

When I didn’t immediately respond with, "Oh, it was wonderful and we had a great time," and when he noted my long silent pause, he raised his eyebrow and said, "Maybe I shouldn’t have asked."

"I’m just struggling to find the right descriptive word," I countered. "Let me just say it was an experience—and overall a good experience, but not without angst." Then I went on to describe the fact that instead of staying in the city, we were staying with my partner’s brother and his wife in New Jersey some twenty miles out of New York. That meant we either had to borrow brother Eric’s car in order to access train transportation into the city or rely on Eric as our taxi driver.

I had suggested renting a car in order to avoid sibling dependency, but in a nod to economy, we relied on Eric for both transportation and housing. Early on our first morning, and by prior arrangement, we borrowed Eric’s Audi and headed to a nearby Y for a morning workout. Slowly backing out of the driveway we felt a slight jolt and heard a loud POW. The utility pole at the end of the driveway had deliberately jumped behind the car and stopped us. South Floridians aren’t accustomed to frost on the rear windshield and, truthfully, we never saw the pole.

A quick survey of the damage revealed only a few paint scratches which Eric later admitted were the result of his encounter with a different pole at a different place and a different time. Nevertheless, it was no way to start the day.

Our second fiasco was that evening when we went into the city to see Spamalot and the ticket taker informed us that our tickets were for the following evening. I had bought the tickets and in my mind we were seeing the Rockettes at Rockefeller Center the following evening at five p.m. and Spamalot that night at eight. But I’d gotten the dates of the two shows confused. As a result we missed the Radio City Christmas show completely and $360 dollars worth of tickets went down the tubes.

We did finally see Spamalot the following evening and loved its slapstick high school humor thoroughly. As we retreated across the Hudson on the Hoboken ferry after the show, I couldn’t help but remember our April visit to Amsterdam at tulip time. Instead of checking our travel documents when they arrived, I stuck them in a drawer. When I did check them, a week ahead of our departure, I discovered that the travel agency had booked us into the Amsterdam hotel of our choice for August, not April. Oh well, both months start with "A." I guess that counts for something.

Since we were arriving in Amsterdam on Good Friday and staying in the city through the Easter weekend, and since there was a World Cup soccer playoff in town, all the hotels in the city were booked solid. We ended up at a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Amsterdam, the only advantage of which was the fact that it was at the end of a transit line which made accessing the city easy. Every time we boarded the trolley we attempted to purchase a three day pass only to be told that the operator didn’t have any and we could purchase it on the next trolley. For three days we traveled all over Amsterdam free of charge courtesy of the local transit system because no one had the advertised three day pass.

With memories of New York and Amsterdam in my mind, as we entered the New Year I resolved that I would revert to my Boy Scout heritage and make more of an effort to "Be Prepared"—but not necessarily as Tom Lehrer, an MIT math professor who gave up teaching to become a New York cabaret stalwart in the sixties, wrote about preparedness. I’ve long remembered the lyrics of his song.

Be Prepared! That’s the Boy Scouts’ marching song,
Be Prepared! As through life you march along.
Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well.
Don’t write naughty words on walls, if you can’t spell.

Be Prepared! To hide that pack of cigarettes.
Don’t make book if you cannot cover bets.
Keep those reefers hidden where they’ll not be found,
And don’t smoke them when the scoutmaster’s around.
For he only will insist that they be shared.
Be Prepared!

Be Prepared! That’s the Boy Scouts’ solemn creed,
Be Prepared! And be clean in word and deed.
Don’t solicit for your sister, that’s not nice,
Unless you get a good percentage of her price.

Be Prepared! And be careful not to do
Your good deeds when there’s no one watching you.
If you’re looking for adventure of a new and different kind,
And you come across a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined,
Don’t be bashful, don’t be backward, don’t be scared.
Be Prepared!

Now why can I remember the words of a 1960s song and not remember which date we have tickets to see the Rockettes? Perhaps it’s because I really don’t have much of a Boy Scout heritage after all. I never made it past Wolf Cub, the lowest entry level to the fraternity. I was bored making coasters out of rolls of confetti so I rejected the Scouts before they had a chance to reject me—for other reasons that became increasingly obvious as time went by.

But when it comes to travel planning, I resolve to be more careful next time.