The Keeg Zone

New York City – June 2011 – Day 1

2011-12-16T23:47:00.001-08:00

Four years ago, at the close of my Boston blog, I wondered if New York City might soon be on my destination list, considering I had visited Philadelphia the year before, and had just crossed off Beantown. At long last, we made it happen this year, spending five nights in the heart of town (before heading to Rochester to visit family) and barely skimming the surface of this powerhouse city.

I thank Continental for providing us a direct flight to Newark Liberty International. I send an infinite amount of curses to United, who is taking over Continental, for screwing up our journey. Yes, anything positive should be attributed to Continental, which has never failed us before. Anything negative must be blamed directly on United, which has no such record of success in my travels. What did they do this time? Put Mike and I in middle seats in completely separate rows. Months before, Mike had picked out our Aisle/Middle seat combos. We didn’t even think about checking the tickets as they printed, having never had an issue like this. Only once we were on the plane, with me trying to push forward to the row printed on my ticket, much to the confusion of Mike who had already arrived at the row on his own, did it dawn on us what had happened. This was not something to spring on a Keeg that had sacrificed many hours of beauty sleep for this early flight, and I grouchily slouched my way to my seat. As I settled into The Worst Possible Seat (aka the middle), the guy in the window seat asked me what the commotion had been about. I explained what had happened. His curiosity evaporated at light speed as he responded with a short, “Oh.” It was clear to me he regretted opening up a conversation about this, as he probably feared I might consider asking him if he’d perform a switch with Mike. I didn’t want to relegate anyone to sitting in a middle seat alone any more than Mike or I wanted to sit in them alone ourselves, so I simply huffed and puffed to myself for about ten minutes, thinking this was just about the worst trip I had ever been on, laughing at myself for concluding this so early on, and then getting over it pretty quickly after that. After all, I’d be spending the next several days with Mike, 24/7, and we might each be begging for alone time before too long.

I was dreading transferring to a train in Newark, as nothing in Newark seemed intuitive or user-friendly the last time we visited the airport. But everything went right this time, with good signage to a free train from the airport to a New Jersey Transit station just a few minutes away, where one can board another train for just $12.50 and be at Penn Station in Midtown in about half an hour. I totally recommend this over a cab, which apparently costs closer to $50 or $60. I wouldn’t know for sure. In fact, we avoided travel via cab the entire trip, relying only on our trusty feet and transit.

A former New Yorker rated our odds of actually surviving any amount of time in the city of Newark (encapsulated by a train or not) as very slim, and after seeing burly shirtless men doing burly-shirtless-men-in-prison type exercises in what looked to be a minimum-security fenced courtyard, just adjacent to the train tracks, Mike and I began to furiously text updates of our wills to Brutus back home. Their exercises had not yet made them capable of catching up to a speeding train, so we sat back, breathed some sighs of relief and texted Brutus, “j/k!”.

Just as I was about to work up the proper amount of embarrassment that the German girl across the aisle had packed a suitcase about half the size of mine for her trip, the train arrived in Manhattan. The rail car rebounded a few feet once my suitcase and I exited, and Mike and I began walking up the steps of Penn Station to the surface level. I had my eyes already widened in anticipation of being overwhelmed by the magnitude of the buildings. But this wasn’t what had their attention - instead, it was the sheer multitude of people. Everywhere. Walking with so much purpose. And speed. Those creepyfast zombies from 28 Days Later would go hungry in this city, because you can’t catch a New Yorker.

We could have taken a subway up to the street our hotel was on, but we decided to stretch our city legs and walk about 15 blocks north. So it was that Mike, myself and Bertha (the...uh...suitcase) forged ahead as resolutely as possible, alternately with and against the tide of humanity coursing through the street. The buildings did not have a chance to impress me; if I took my eyes off of the horizontal plane, I would be so much roadkill on the sidewalk. In fact, sidewalks probably do not need much replacement in this city, as they are regenerated organically via trampled tourist.

Still, I took a second to make the proper expression of “OMG, WTF” as we entered Times Square: HyperElectroConsumerSensoryOverload, inspiring new cases of epilepsy daily!

Knowing there would be plenty of time to really take all of this in, we walked the remaining half block to our hotel - near enough to the action, but remarkably quiet for being so close. Signs indicated that we were in Little Brazil, and I might be so bold as to suggest that owners, renters and the government should really explore that theme by converting the street to a sandy beach with plentiful bronzed bodies and easy access to fruity cocktails. Think about it, Mayor Bloomberg, and get back to me.

Our hotel was a member of the Comfort Inn brand, rated very highly on TripAdvisor, especially relative to its price. Rooms appear to have been updated in the last few years and ours sported this killer view:

Cozied up to an air shaft, our cell phone coverage wasn’t that great. But free wi-fi enabled us to task our Droids with all manner of touristy information gathering. Mike tore me away from dreamily gazing at the wonderland of brick outside our window so that we could search out dinner.

Our hotel was on 46th Street. Both a curse and a blessing, two blocks west of our hotel, the street donned the moniker, “Restaurant Row”. The blessing part is easy to understand, but why would such a thing be a curse? Anyone familiar with my indecisive nature, particularly when it comes to dining out, well understands that faced with a few dozen restaurants within a few hundred feet of each other, a Keeg is likely to go into temporary paralysis. Some lovely people were stationed outside of almost every restaurant, each hawking the goods inside. This gave an otherwise charming (and delicious smelling) street the air of a used car sales lot. I wanted to trust the lady in front of the Turkish restaurant, her thick accent laced with the mystique of Istanbul (no, Constantinople!), but in the end we turned to Yelp, to be guided by the community. Most restaurants had low Yelp star-power, with many reviewers deriding the tourist-oriented nature of Restaurant Row, geared toward visitors to the Theater District. Our phones actually shuddered in our hands at the magnitude of the collective eye rolling implied by the reviewers. Or we might have been receiving texts on vibrate. In any case, I am a proud tourist and I was visiting the Theater District - surely the whole lot of ‘em couldn’t be bad, right?!

We finally found a combo that worked - solid Yelp reviews, reasonable prices and a simple, classic Italian menu at Tramonti. We had already passed it once and had to walk an entire block to return. I am not complaining about walking itself, rather, the pain came in having to pass each of the restaurants along the way and breaking the heart of the Turkish woman and all of the other undoubtedly super-sensitive hawkers disappointed we wouldn’t be giving our business to them that evening. This vacation was starting on a very sobering note.

Tramonti in brief: Mike had good lasagna, I had a very good linguine with clams, and via our waiter, we had our first experience with the Guido hairstyle made famous in Jersey Shore. This was not to be an isolated incident, as we saw plentiful (read “too many”) examples the rest of the trip. They really exist, people, they really exist!

SRSLY, PEOPLE, THEY ARE EVERYWHERE IN NY:

Oh, this is brutal…but I had to do it to fit in…

Then we walked. Our favorite thing to do on vacations is simply to exist in the places we’re visiting - see the street life, scout out good coffee, admire or turn our noses up at architecture and public art. As cool an experience as standing underneath the Statue of Liberty was (future blog entry), trying to look up her robe, what I think about most fondly of is just wandering aimlessly throughout the city. That night, we headed south, seeing Chelsea and Greenwich Village, passing just a *few* things of interest along the way:

What’s that, peeking out?

Sure looks familiar, but dunno where I would’ve seen it before…

Each night, Mike scouted out a new coffee shop to try; the first was Roasting Plant Coffee, the coolest part of which was their awesome display of column after column of coffee beans, several feet high. These were actually integrated into an onsite roasting system. When it comes to espresso, my standard drink order is generally some form of mocha. This was on the less sweet side of the spectrum - while I love the sugary versions I’m used to, it’s nice to be served a beverage where you can really taste the complex flavors of the espresso and high quality, slightly bitter chocolate, unmolested by sweeteners and a Mt. Everest of whipped cream.

photo obtained from roastingplant.com/tour

The beauty of walking through a city without much of a plan is stumbling upon random delights. Even more beautiful is stumbling upon something, wondering what the heck it is, and then upon further inspection realizing it was one of the things you actually did put on your list of stuff to do. We had begun walking west, toward the Hudson, when we saw an elevated structure crossing the street carrying a ton of pedestrians. It took a second for it to click, but as we approached a stairway, I began to realize that we had happened upon the Highline.

As someone with a lust for urban planning, this was a treat. You’re just gonna have to trust me on this, though anyone can appreciate this space. The Highline is the repurposing of an old elevated freight rail line built on the west side of Manhattan in the 1930s. The last trains rolled through in the early 80s and the top of the structure was slowly claimed by nature, with wild grass and vegetation indigenous to the area covering the deck. In the 1990s, developers began clamoring for the structure to be demolished, so that new construction could take its place. Local residents banded together with a different vision - repurpose the structure as public space, an elevated park that would provide a unique perspective on the city and much needed green space in a part of Manhattan without much to speak of. The first section opened in 2009, with a second section opening just before we arrived and a third in progress.

Because we visited at dusk, the following picture is from Flickr so you have a clearer concept of the space:

Photo by Flickr user Ed Yourdon

And our pix:

A seating area was carved into the structure directly over one of the streets that crosses the Highline’s path, allowing a unique vantage point to observe the city from.

Benches spring from the deck’s planks, with subtle illumination making the park usable well into the evening hours.

More pictures from a return visit – a narrow portion of the park simply feels like a sidewalk in the air…

In some spots, the old rail line pierced through existing buildings, and in others, buildings were constructed around it:

Left, right, up or down, literally views all around…

A depiction of the Highline prior to its conversion:

We followed the park north, eventually exiting to ground level again and winding our way back to our hotel’s ‘hood, but not before passing such little known landmarks as the Ed Sullivan Theater. Y’know, THAT old thing.

It was time for bed. Exhausted from travel, over-stimulated by New York’s myriad wonders and socks filling with blood (really, really stupid to break in a pair of brand new shoes on one of our walking intensive vacations), I was ready to call it a night.

Next post will find us visiting lower Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, visiting a good friend and finding ourselves in...dun dun dun...American Express Purgatory!

Palm Springs – July, 2010 (I know, I know…)

2011-06-28T20:26:00.001-07:00

Yes, to those of you who judge: This blog is being posted nearly a year after the trip. Hush! Now if you’ll quiet down, I can get started. Here goes…

One mistaken letter is all it takes to be sent to a tropical beach at Puerto Vallarta instead of your original destination, the painfully slow crematorium known as Palm Springs. I wish I could say this could happen to a passenger, except there are too many safeguards in place to ensure you are getting on your correct flight (one of them being that trifling bit about being able to read the giant screen at your gate that reminds you where you're going, whether you want to be reminded or not). Not being sentient (yet), luggage is subject to the whims of human error - like tagging something with the wrong airport code - and so it was that one of the folks also visiting Palm Springs learned his luggage was probably beach side in Puerto Vallarta, ordering daiquiris, while he was in Palm Springs (do tell, where are these 'springs' you speak of?) without any change of clothes or his swim trunks - a necessary article of clothing to do the one thing that makes Palm Springs in July remotely enjoyable: exist neck deep in a man-made body of water (we'll call it a pool).

So why were we in Palm Springs? The same police/fire/military organization that Mike is a member of that holds the New Orleans event also holds a yearly Palm Springs event. Inexplicably, it's the biggest draw of the year, and is one part membership meeting, twenty parts pool party. I'm just going to put it out there - I don't comprehend desert living and I just barely grasp desert vacationing. That said, it was still an entertaining trip where I got to meet some great people, see friends made in New Orleans earlier in the year, hang pool side with drinks from the open bar (a recurring theme at these events) and be placed in more than a couple of bizarre situations, which are recounted here. First, a few pics:

Episode 1 (Otherwise known as How Mike Reduced Keeg's Bar Tab to Nearly Nothing [le scandale!])

Ah, the oldest profession: prostitution. Which, as it turns out, has nothing to do with this story. Geez, you guys, for shame! Stripping, however? Oh, yes, that most certainly has everything to do with this story.

The first night of the trip found us at Elevation, a bar hidden on the second floor of a strip mall in nearby Cathedral City. Given that being on a second floor really does elevate you above most of the surrounding desert sprawl, the name is entirely appropriate. On this Thursday evening, it was pretty quiet, and most of the patrons were fellow event attendees. Quiet, that is, until the underwear contest!

Yes, an archetypal drag queen was trolling the club looking for anyone willing to shed some clothes and dignity for the grand prize of $30 off their bar tab. A couple of takers, with perhaps no dignity to begin with, volunteered early. They were made to wait until a full lineup could be assembled, which meant the rest of the bar had to suffer through an announcement about the damn contest every few minutes. This may just be a clever way to encourage patrons to shove anyone (ANYONE!) on stage.

A couple more people were duped to join the cause, and the drag queen needed just one more before the show could begin. One of the new acquisitions, a fellow organization member, asked Mike if he would participate. Before Mike could get out a laugh, another member shoved him toward the drag queen and it was all over. Once she had locked onto his coordinates, a cheer section arose from other members nearby, goading Mike to go onstage. He looked to me, and hopefully in my tipsy state, I didn’t miss it as a cue to somehow bail him out, perhaps with a spirited and possessive objection. I believe my response was limited to laughing and shrugging. Mike, ever the trooper, made his way for the stage. With this, the drag queen’s merciless quota had been satisfied.

So let’s just cut right to it. You should have already surmised from the title of this story, in conjunction with what you’ve read thus far, that Mike might have won. Well, my little Sherlocks, you are correct (to be precise, he co-won)! But just how did he do it? Elementary, my dear Watsons (yes, I’m switching roles. I’m writing this and I can do what I want) - simple boxers. Being covered not in the fussy, suggestive and expensive undergarments of most of his competitors, Mike won an appreciative murmur from the crowd when he bared his All American boy-next-door boxers. The co-winner was none other than the fellow member who asked him to participate. The way I interpret this is that Mike was the true winner, but the other guy had to be given a finder’s fee, as it were, so was given an honorary win as well.

And so it was that a $30 bar tab was procured by Mike, and then passed on to his drunk of a boyfriend. It was an absurdly excellent first night in Palm Springs.

Episode 2 (Otherwise known as How to Strand Oneself in the Desert [why do people live here?])

Not content to let the first day have all of the hijinks, we expanded our repertoire to the next day as well. The big event of the day was a trip to the Palm Springs Tram, which takes riders 8500 feet up a local mountain to deposit them, seemingly improbably, in a surreal, woodsy ecosystem, about 30 degrees cooler than the desert below.

First, we had to wait for a lone shuttle (read van) to transport folks back and forth from the hotel to the tram. Because dozens of people were headed up, this spelled out a potentially long wait. Suddenly, two cars pulled up with more members and available seats. Mike and I pounced, not thinking for a moment to conceal our gloating smirks at having been able to cut our wait short.

As we began our ascent up the hill to the tram station, we learned two things. The chariot we were in was very low on fuel. The chariot we were following was beginning to overheat. These will be important concepts to understand shortly. In the meantime, take a look at this view as we made our way up the hill!!

Cool, right? Let’s turn the camera, and take a look in the other direction.

Yup, the car ahead of us broke down. A haunting desperation quickly set in, as we realized how isolated we were: A mile to the tram station. A couple of miles from town. Full cell phone coverage. Cars passing by every few minutes. Truly, it was a test of will and perseverance. To be fair, if we had ventured off the road and overturned some rocks, we may have run into a rattler or a pit of scorpions. Knowing that is enough for me to declare that danger was imminent.

A nice guy stopped by to take a look at the car - unable to provide a fix, he left us with a giant jug of water that he kept on hand. This act helped distract me from longingly looking upon this sign:

The driver of the low-fuel car, not wanting to tempt fate further, decided to roll down the hill again and fill up the tank. And finally, the shuttle van passed by us, with a load of passengers that had been the targets of our gloating smirks earlier. There was something strangely malicious in the way they waved as they continued up the hill. After they were dropped off, the shuttle performed its rescue mission, taking the rest of us up to the tram station.

The tram is totally serious awesome-sauce. Not only does the tram car transport you several thousand feet up a mountain, but it also rotates!! On the way up:

Mike is not only very excited to be on this tram, but he is also delighting in the decidedly childlike screams coming from decidedly non-childlike, grown men (not me).

As already mentioned, once you reach the top, you enter a wooded landscape, cooled by nature’s own very efficient air conditioning system.

The quick elevation gain left me a little headachy, which finally built to a point that I, sickly, began to desire relief in the lower altitude desert. Twisted, I know. So we rotated our way back down on the tram. Pretty sure these are the claw marks of folks who jumped from the tram as it returned downward, while screaming that they didn’t want to return to the oven:

Episode 3 (Otherwise known as Faded Colorguard Dreams [please, good sir, put on a shirt])

The second night, the group ended up at Hunters, in downtown Palm Springs. From within its walls, the following text (perhaps an SOS of sorts) was sent by me to a dear friend:

I am in the gayest place imaginable. A club where 60 year old men are living out their colorguard fantasies, twirling flags while some pixie covers Alanis Morrisette’s ‘Uninvited’.

I don’t think much else needs to be said. I did look up the cover artist, and it was the Freemasons, featuring Bailey Tzuke. I don’t know how all of those words go together, but it wasn’t a bad clubby version of the song (which happens to be my favorite Alanis track).

Episode 4 (Otherwise known as The Pool of Horror [let us never speak of it again...except for right this moment])

Short story here. What happens when an event attended by 150+ people mostly centers around the pool? You end up with an environmental disaster only rivaled by the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. A sunscreen sheen coated the pool, reminiscent of swirling cappuccino foam (only by sight, I did not taste it). The upside? Incredible sun-defying powers that left me pleasantly bronzed but not burned for the return trip home.

The other pool horror was a night dedicated to country music, where an unnerving percentage of attendees (many come from southern states) erupted into a sing-along to country lyrics and had impromptu jam sessions with banjos they pulled out of thin air. When Sweet Home Alabama came on, it struck me: Home...Home! There’s no place like home! I backed away slowly and clicked my heels three times, to no discernible effect.

*****

That’s it for the really interesting tidbits. There were no stand-outs on the dining scene to speak of, though you can read about the life-sapping slow service we received at the Old Creek House in my Yelp review. We tried In-N-Out for the first time and, while perfectly good (and cheap), we don’t really get what the fuss is about. Any devotees willing to try and convince me?

And my final take on Palm Springs: On the plus side, it is host to many exemplary mid-century modernist structures (mostly seen by way of automobile, so I am lacking photos), set in a searing, starkly beautiful landscape, which makes it a peculiar place to visit. Desert sunsets really are beautiful:

But, my webbed feet yearn for moister, greener climes, and when it comes right down to it, there is little to do in Palm Springs in the summer but enjoy air-conditioned environments or sit in a pool all day, which is exciting for only so long. All that said, maybe I should be keeping it in mind for a mid-winter break from the relentless wet-season gray of the Pacific NW. The people made this trip fantastic - had a blast either seeing you again or meeting you! We traveled with our buddies, Brandon and Miles, again – here’s a fun group photo of the Oregonian contingent:

What does the future hold for my oft-abandoned blog? Well, I still have a San Francisco/San Luis Obispo blog to write, from a trip we made last September. And we took a second trip to New Orleans earlier this year. Don’t be surprised if those never see the light of day, as we just hit New York City (my first time there) and Rochester this month, and they may capture my blogging attention. Maybe you can expect those in the next year.

Thanks for reading!

Victoria – September 16-19 2009 (Part Three)

2010-09-25T15:06:00.001-07:00

Shoe manufacturers send us regular thank you notes for our walking-intensive vacations that ensure super frequent purchases of new footwear. Rough calcs show that our entire trip was probably in the 30 mile range, and about half of that was accomplished on this day (our last full one in Victoria) alone.

Fuel for this healthy showing of bipedal excellence was consumed at a spot called the James Bay Tea Room, not too far from the hotel. Our route took us by the sexy backside of the Parliament building. Architecture-geek catcalls ensued. Work it!

The Tea Room.

Yelp reviews aren’t the kindest to the JBTR, implying that its excessively British decor and abundance of pictures of the royal family are kitschy. As a tourist, I thought it was all quaint and cosy (that spelling’s for you, Anglophiles!). Food was fine, though my memory a year later does not serve to tell me what I had. I wrote down “omelet” on the receipt (yes, which I’ve kept. Because I do that sort of thing). I didn’t add any modifiers like “disgusting” or “inedible”, so it had to have worked out for me. Mike had the bangers, and both meals were served with the best scones I’ve had. It was at this breakfast that we discovered packets of peanut butter next to the usual jellies. Neither of us recall ever seeing that at a breakfast spot in the states. We saw it at a different restaurant the next morning, too, and I declare the practice very approvable.

We let our breakfasts digest with a leisurely stroll through Beacon Hill Park, which stretches from downtown to the south coast of the peninsula. The park is lush and beautifully green. Impossibly green.

No, seriously, too much green.

Seriously, when you can hardly tell where the grass ends and the water begins, you’ve overdone the green.

The view across the strait was gorgeous. And not so green!

We rounded back up to the center of the city with the intention of strolling along the north side of the Inner Harbo(u)r. Passing Parliament, we struck some poses.

We crossed the Johnson Street Bridge to the north side of the harbor.

The waterfront trail is beautiful, and a must-do for those who also like to perambulate on their vacations.

This was taken shortly after Mike planted a flag and claimed the land for King Brutus.

Back in the states, Brutus took a celebratory frolic through the ocean over the new acquisition.

I think that’s pretty customary for kings in these situations.

We ended our journey in the suburb next door to Victoria called Esquimalt. I think that’s what the Eskimos call a whale blubber milkshake! Ha! Am I right? Anybody? I’ll send that one back to my writers.

We made our way back to the center of the city, and needed a little mid-day replenishment to set us up for round 2. At a charming plaza called Bastion Square, we encountered Paradiso Di Stelle, where I refreshed with some amaretto gelato and a tall glass of ice tea, while Mike drank an “iced chocolate”. First pic is Bastion Square – and then you can see us being actively refreshed below that.

We toodled through Chinatown. While it certainly won’t be mistaken for Vancouver’s, it was a very boisterous few blocks that really puts Portland’s version to shame.

This is Fan Tan Alley, which doesn’t look like much from here, but is actually home to several little shops, with the added intrigue of feeling like someone could jump out and knife you at any moment.

We ventured from here up to our next leg of our long walk. There are some excellent multiuse trails in Victoria that actually stretch out for several miles beyond the city limits. If we had had one more day, we would have liked to have rented bicycles and taken one of the routes that either steers you toward the eastern side of the island or the southwestern side. As it was, time was limited, so we made our way as far as our feet would take us on the Galloping Goose trail, which heads north out of downtown.

We then made our way (a long way) back to the hotel to rest a little and do some important research. What restaurant would we bless with our presence on our last evening in Vic? The winner was John’s Place, but really, the winners were us.

I had honey sesame braised ribs off the special menu, and Mike had ravioli of some sort, though I can’t recall if it was off the specials also. Both dishes were great, and prices here are better than moderate. But, the crescendo came with dessert, when we ordered THIS sour cream apple pie.

Oh have mercy – thankfully we ordered just the one slice for the two of us to share. I guess the portion size is dictated by the local sasquatch population that drops in on a regular basis.

We toured the harbor area one more time. If I look red in this picture, it’s because I am. Vic had left me with a sunburn.

The next morning, we prepared for departure. We had another solid breakfast at a place called Smitty’s, where we delighted once more in finding peanut butter packets. I’m sure I’ll get people telling me they see these all the time in restaurants here, and it’s just been the case that I’ve been too dense to notice them before.

Speaking of density, walking around Victoria was sometimes a bland experience due to the existence of block after block of very dull, 3 to 5 story apartment blocks from the mid-century period (not my personal fave). But, this density resulted in fabulously thriving neighborhood nodes and fairly lively street activity for what is, in all honesty, a pretty small city. It was definitely a “whole is more than the sum of its parts” experience at times.

Whew! I just had to get that boring urban planning/architecture note out of the way. How many people closed their browser? To those still with me, thanks…

We took a quick opportunity to check out the Fairmont Empress up close.

We were kindly let back on the ferry to return to Port Angeles, and it was yet another beautiful day at sea.

What was great about Victoria was how it wasn’t such an intense, big, cosmopolitan spectacle that it was too overwhelming to figure out what to do with a couple of days’ time. As we said before, we could have used one more day to do some bike riding on their trails, but we really had a relaxing, and fun time exploring in the two full days we had.

Next for the blog? Well, I’m still woefully behind. We had our Palm Springs trip at the end of July and then just went down to San Francisco for a few nights before attending a wedding in San Luis Obispo. Classes begin this coming week, but I will still try to catch up before the new year clocks in. No one make any bets or anything…

Thanks for reading!

Victoria – September 16-19 2009 (Part Two)

2010-09-12T15:16:00.001-07:00

Our first full day in Victoria began at the Royal BC Museum, which was practically next door to the hotel. If you find yourself in Victoria, this is really a must see – I have nothing but great things to say about the exhibits and the volunteers we encountered.

The exhibits are impressive life-size recreations of everything from the various ecological zones in British Columbia (historic and present) to an entire 19th century townscape, sawmill, ship and Native American village. The volunteers eagerly engaged us as we wandered, pointing out information in exhibits we may have otherwise missed and, in one case, giving us some practice panning for gold (yes, a gold mine is recreated here as well, and why not?).

The recreated ecological zones were convenient since they allowed us to skip the hassle of traipsing through nature ourselves, what with its insects, and dirt, and lack of coffee shops.

Saved us a time machine rental, too:

Some more contemporary critters:

And just why is Mike so terrified?

Two words: giant beetle. This monster is singlehandedly responsible for the devastation of thousands upon thousands of acres of forest. And is that a surprise, since it is big enough to eat a chihuahua? Keegan pauses to read the fine print. Oh. I see. Unlike everything else in this museum, which is built to the scale of real life, this is apparently a magnification. I refuse to be embarrassed.

It’s easy to lose hours in the museum, but once in awhile we were granted windows to peer upon the outside world. And we saw this…

It was gorgeous outside. It was time to move on and enjoy the outdoors for awhile.

It was also time for lunch. Strolling along the harbo(u)r, we ran into this man. He looked like he had been around awhile, so we asked him where some good eats might be.

The man went by ‘Cook’ (which led us to think that he might have some good instincts on where to dine), but then blabbered on and on about how he was the first European to set foot in what was now British Columbia and how, just before that, he had been the first European to discover the Hawaiian islands. Tried to sell us a timeshare there too. Luckily, in spite of all of this bull…pucky…his lunch suggestion was the real deal.

Meet Red Fish Blue Fish:

The fact that it is a little shack should not deter you. In fact, never let that deter you since some of the most fantastic cuisine is happening in food carts these-a-days (for more on Portland’s burgeoning food cart culture, click here).

You can read my Yelp review on this place here. All I’ll say on this blog is YOU MUST EAT AT RED FISH BLUE FISH IF YOU ARE IN VICTORIA.

Behold:

As brilliantly golden as the sun above was this perfect batter. You may think it audacious of me to be comparing the batter to the maintainer of warmth and life on this planet. I care not. That day we ate fresh, flaky halibut encased in crispy sun batter. There is no other truth.

We wandered about and began to make our way to the east, to visit one of the premiere attractions in Victoria, Craigdarroch Castle.

En route, this bird opened up its rear hatch with a projectile that missed my shoulder by less than a foot. In return, I shot it. With my camera.

Now lower your voice two octaves and very slowly say it with me. Craaaaigdarrrroccccch….

Cue maniacal laughing and a bolt of lightning.

I said lightning! Cue the damn lightning! Forget the lovely blue skies - soon enough you will see that true terror lurks within.

As castles go, this is a young’n, completed by 1890. I get the distinct impression that it was not a castle built for defensive purposes, though with crazy girls running around crying and screaming and prattling on about polka dotted tea kettles (see Part 1), I could be mistaken. I might bar myself in and send my best knights out to collect fish and chips from Red Fish Blue Fish.

Within the walls is a mass of opulent opulence.

The best views of the city, but of course…

This sign is so unerringly polite. So Victoria.

A visitor did plop themselves down and play beautifully for a minute or two. No, it was not me with a rendition of the Turkish March (famous among my friends as the only song Keegan taught himself [poorly] how to play on a piano). I do know her name was Haley, because her companion shouted at her once he realized she was sitting down and playing. She nodded toward the sign, he realized he was enjoying the music after all and backed down.

I promised terror, didn’t I?

It is a common conceit in horror films that what you don’t see is much scarier than what you do see. Some of the best films will keep the monsters locked up in your imagination, where they will morph into something much more dreadful than what could ever be seen on the screen.

After seeing the mannequins in Craigdarroch Castle, I submit that this is, in fact, not true.

“Shall we play some billiards, love?”

“Why, yes – we could use my head as the cue ball.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it - let’s use mine, as it’s rounder…”

Just. Wrong.

Craigdarroch is already almost halfway across the peninsula, so once we exited (thankfully without our souls being stolen by headless mannequins), we pushed further east.

We happened upon a cute little street fair in the Oak Bay n’hood.

And eventually made it to the eastern shore, which looks out toward Washington state’s San Juan Islands and Mount Baker on the mainland. This side of the peninsula was where we found the beach mentioned in Part 1.

We headed back toward the center of town – we had a date with an old man named John Adams who walked around with a skull-capped cane. Adams leads folks through his ‘Ghostly Walks’ tour which ended up being about three parts history to one part chills. Adams’ knowledge and enthusiasm made this ratio acceptable, though someone with a skull-cap cane should, by default, be a little bit more of a character.

Neatly representing the battle of skeptic v. non-skeptic was an incident in front of an old office building. As we stood outside the glass doorway, Adams described some grizzly deaths via the old elevators, which reputedly have a life of their own (if I’m getting any of this wrong, Mike will be here to correct me). Anyway, as we stood there, the glass doors, which were locked, would occasionally move as if being pushed, with a thud as it encountered the lock.

Mike observed this excitedly, while I conjectured that it was air pressure, or wind, or even some kind of programming Adams was able to control. I actually am not a complete skeptic, but I’m still pretty positive one of my explanations fits this incident. Oh, as an aside, Mike and I haven’t spoken since.

Dinner was had at a pub called Swans. While nothing groundbreaking, it was a fine place to get some on-site brewed beer and good grub. The glass enclosed patio was wonderful, too. Once more, you may read my yelp review here.

This closed the night – part three, to come, will close out the trip. Thanks for reading!

Victoria – September 16-19, 2009 (Part One)

2010-09-04T17:02:00.001-07:00

Well, I figured this would happen. As soon as I hit school for Fall term last year, the inundation of reading and writing (no arithmetic!) pretty much killed my desire to work on my next blog installment. And once on winter break, I essentially avoid using my brain as much as possible. Excuses, excuses annnnnd…suddenly, it’s almost a year later. Without further ado, let me present Victoria, BC…

Ah, Victoria! Land of sun, palm trees and sandy beaches. No, really – as evidence, I present to you Exhibit A:

Victoria likes to think of itself as the banana belt of Canada, and for good reason – its location on the Pacific keeps winters mild, while the mountain ranges nearby shield it from excessive rain (half the precipitation of Vancouver). Summer days, though, rarely peak above 75 degrees, and when we were visiting, temps were mostly in the upper 60s. This must be considered a heat wave to Victorians, as an unusually high proportion of people were walking around shirtless, baring their pasty Canadian flesh. I now wonder if the same thing happens up in Barrow, AK, on those rare summer days when the temperature eclipses 50 degrees.

Being the tropical island escape that it is, there are only a couple of different ways to reach Victoria – ferry or plane. When Victoria was founded, it was voted “Most Likely to Become the Preeminent City of Western Canada” by its classmates. When Vancouver stole the title after the transcontinental railroad reached it, Victorian officials were surely flummoxed by the unwillingness of the railroad to build a 20+ mile long bridge to the island.

There are multiple ferry routes to Victoria from Washington state, and we chose to drive the scenic four hours to Port Angeles, a town that is beautifully framed by the Olympic Mountains, but is otherwise unremarkable. So much so, that the Visitor Center is plastered with posters of what to do…in Victoria. Travel tip: We had parked our car in the Budget garage across the street from the ferry terminals. It was $11/day, which is pretty reasonable considering the cost of transporting a car on the ferry and having to pay for parking at a hotel in Victoria. On the ferry, we were told by a frequent traveler that there is another lot just a few blocks further down that only charges $6/day. D’oh!

It had been chilly and drizzly on the way up to Port Angeles, but after the ferry departed, the clouds began to break, leading to this series of beautiful shots (100% nature’s talent, not mine). I cannot attribute the cup of hot chocolate to the breaking clouds, but it too is a beautiful shot.

Not quite halfway across the strait, Mike excitedly noted a small boat speedily trailing us (below). More fearsome than those notorious Somali pirates are the pirates of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, who usually target ferries carrying hot chocolate (pun regretfully intended). Mike clapping with delight all the while, our brave captain took evasive maneuvers and we quickly shook off the scourge of the strait (pun this time completely unintended).

The entire trip is not much more than an hour or hour and a half, so not long after the cup of hot chocolate was empty, we were rounding into the harbor, which bustled with boats and float planes.

The inner harbo(u)r is like the Canada pavilion at Epcot took over the entire World Showcase lagoon. It’s so perfectly contained, so well-stocked with quaint architecture on all sides.

Really, you’d think there was going to be a nightly fireworks spectacular, just like at a Disney park. Victoria didn’t fail to meet expectations, as we later would see a sign in the window of the visitor’s center advertising weekly fireworks. Now, I could have sworn that was for the lagoon…uh…harbour, but research after the fact only shows a weekly firework display at Butchart Gardens, which is not in the city.

It was a zippy stroll from the dock to our hotel, the Helm’s Inn – maybe just five minutes. The property is not impressive on the outside – you could call it vintage if you believe late ‘40s to ‘60s architecture deserves that designation. We had chosen this spot due to its excellent TripAdvisor reviews that reflected recent remodeling of the rooms, and a truly unbeatable price. Whereas most properties in the central city still considered the time frame we visited as part of the high season, Helm’s Inn’s rates had dropped to off-season the week prior.

The lady checking into the hotel in front of us thoughtfully asked the front desk clerk, “Where is the street with the shops?” It struck us that we had not prepared ourselves by locating this street ahead of time, so we awaited the answer breathlessly, pencil in hand to jot down the directions. It says a lot about the state of customer service these days that the clerk was completely clueless, dimly repeating “The street with the shops?” I mean, come ON, do we need to spell this out for you? T-H-E street with T-H-E shops. We’re on an island, this can’t be that difficult! The lady checking in patiently tried to help trigger the clerk’s memory, saying, “There’s supposed to be a street, with these shops…” I thought that this would do it, as you cannot be any more clear. The clerk had the nerve to then suggest “Well, there’s lots of shopping here in several different places.” Oh, no, no, no, no, no. There’s no need to complicate this, madam clerk. You now have a line of people (okay, the lady in front of us and then us) whose entire trips hinge on finding this damn street. It ended with the clerk pointing uselessly at a couple of spots on a map to the lady, who was surely already penning her TripAdvisor.com review of the hotel in her head.

As we moved up to check in, I wondered if a dose of Keeg charm might do the trick. I batted my baby browns and said, lustily, “So, where’s the street with the shops?” I even arched my brows a couple of times. Winked. Rested my chin on my knuckles and pursed my lips. Still, nothing. Utter incompetence, or so we thought. As we came to discover, there were multiple streets with multiple shops after all. I hope you were sitting when you read that, because it blew our minds.

Here’s the exterior of the building we were in. Such a forced cuteness. Bored.

But hey, the rooms were plenty nice, with separate living area and bedroom. Keep this place in mind if you plan to stay for a longer period of time and want to cook, as the rooms had a pretty significant kitchen space:

‘twas dinner time. I had already done a little research on a couple of places I wanted to hit. There aren’t a ton of reviews to go off of up there, but one nearby Chinese place, J & J Wonton Noodle House, had gotten some good write-ups. I don’t think I can describe how incredibly good this place smelled when we walked in. We ended up being disappointed, and you can read my yelp review here.

We wandered through town for a little bit that evening, getting our first view of the Parliament Building all lit up:

As we wandered, we passed a girl who was clearly not having a great night. She was on her phone, loudly and dramatically going through what was probably the breakup of a relationship. This would not be worth mentioning had we not passed another girl two nights later who was similarly in histrionics on the phone. She was in a party dress, and I get the impression she had either been ditched or was given some compelling reasons to do the ditching. Such drama in this little old British port!

We also passed a conversation that was clearly staged for our benefit (not unlike the galloping moose in the Anchorage blog). We were walking toward a girl, probably not out of her early 20s and her friend, who were quite animated over what must have been a fascinating conversation. As we passed, I picked up on the words “pink polka dotted tea kettle”. I tell you, folks, how former-British-Colony-Victoria is THAT? In all my years, I’ve never passed anyone having a spirited conversation about a tea kettle, but here, it was done.

Part two to come – thanks for reading!

New Orleans – Part 3

2010-08-16T21:14:00.001-07:00

"Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say gonna beat dem Saints?"

It is a fact that if one were to have worn an Indianapolis Colts shirt in New Orleans during the time we visited, there is a 100% chance that they would have been beaten down mercilessly by a bunch of guys in drag. Surely, New Orleans is the type of place where even the manliest of men wouldn’t need an excuse to wear a dress if they felt like it. But an excuse presented itself nonetheless when the Saints advanced to the Super Bowl. In honor of a late sportscaster who promised his listeners that he would parade through town in a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl, men throughout the city dug through the closets of their wives, or through the bins at local thrift stores to find the perfect fit for an impromptu parade that clogged city streets Sunday morning. Larger men sported loose, floral muumuus while the men with shapelier legs (who knew very well how shapely they were) decked themselves out in short sheath dresses.

Prior to wading through the throngs at the parade, we attended a group breakfast at the Oceana Restaurant, where this guy greeted us. In spite of everything I said above, I make no guarantees that he doesn’t dress like this everyday (I’m pretty sure the sportscaster never made any promises about handbags).

Mike contends that it ain’t N’awlins cookin’ unless everything’s had a good bath in some lard (or lard substitute). This was not disproven by the super greasy (ohhh, but scrumptious) plate of eggs benedict I was served.

The last official event of the weekend was a house party at the organizer’s loft just on the other side of Canal from the French Quarter. To get there we had to steel ourselves to bravely face a Bourbon Street that was wall to wall with Saints fans, the aforementioned men in dresses and the ceaseless shouts of “Who dat?!”, the two word affirmation derived from the chant that began this post (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F). Striking me as annoying at first, the phrase became alarmingly endearing in just three days time. Anyway, back to bravely barging through this crowd of fanatics: this lasted a block or so before we remembered that there were other streets besides Bourbon and we took a parallel route to our destination. Not very epic, I know.

The house party was just that, a party in a house. Nice times, nice people, nice barbeque (sadly, I do not recall what fine establishment it was brought from). We bid farewell to many people at this event, but the saddest of all was saying goodbye to the bartender who had served the group so well. Oh, scarecrow, I think I’ll miss you most of all. Sniff.

The sun was out and temps were rocketing (into the 50s – a vast improvement), so we ambled through the more clean cut touristy parts of the Quarter, following the banks of the mighty Miss’ and into the Jackson Square vicinity.

That thar’ is the river:

And a riverboat…

And a riverboat queen…

Oh, don’t rush to his defense. Even he’s laughing at that one. Right, Mike? Mike? Uh oh…

Mike did an admirable job playing tour guide, leading a rag tag group of us site to site. We did not consider it a problem that he had neither visited New Orleans before nor was particularly well read on the city. He just looked so in command of the situation…

Now on to the public art portion of our walk – an installation called “Old Man River” – please take a moment and read the inscription at its base, first:

And now, the piece itself:

Mm hm. Mm hm. So…I dare say he’s “empty-handed” because HE HAS NO HANDS! And we can all see he’s a man with a past – worse than crabs, he clearly has a nasty case of river-barnacle crotch.

Yes, the doctor is in, and that is most certainly river-barnacle crotch. Oh, but hey, I see you’ve been working on your abs!

Onward, onward…loving this building: I’ve decided that personal success will have been achieved when I have myself a rooftop palm tree garden:

Have I mentioned that they reaaaaally like their team?

More structural loveliness…

And then we were delivered upon the historic Jackson Square & Saint Louis Cathedral…

Jackson Square is the historical epicenter of the city, with all three structures in the top picture built or partially built by the late 1700s. The sculpture is of Andrew Jackson and this picture adds to what I guess has become an unintentional collection of dude-on-horse sculpture photos (see Boston and Richmond blogs).

But, as always with me, even architectural splendor must soon give way to culinary delights. And so we found ourselves at the French Market, home of Cafe du Monde and their famous beignets.

What is a beignet? (I just said they were famous – you’re making me look ill-informed) My friends, these are beignets:

It is exactly what it looks like: fried dough and powdered sugar. As you might expect, they are delectable.

Okay, back to structural splendor for a few:

We wrapped up our tour shortly after, with one evening left in town. In lazy fashion, I’m going to sum up the rest of our excursions in short, digestible (like a beignet) bits:

Dinner @ Felix’s. Pro: I am not a fan of oysters, and yet I stole more than one delicious char-grilled oyster off of Brandon’s plate. Con: all of the ambiance of a junior high cafeteria.

Post-dinner drinks at the Carousel Bar in the (venerable, I am sure) Hotel Monteleone. Pro: the novelty of sitting at a rotating bar with a view of…well, nothing in particular. Con: Oh come on, you tell me Carousel Bar and I’m expecting I’ll be able to plop my butt on a horse that is jumping up and down while we rotate. I would never leave! As it was, the noted novelty wore off in about five minutes.

Post-drinks drinks at the Oz Bar. Same place we went the night before – no pros, only cons as we had to say goodbye to even more people here. Aww.

*Sleep*

Breakfast at the Clover Grill, whose motto is “We Love to Fry and it Shows”. Pro: did you read the motto?! Con: simply, you eat too much of this and it will start to show. Tasty tasties, though.

And that was it – shortly, we were off to the airport and en route home. I have since been on another trip to Palm Springs that was hosted by the same organization that Mike is a member of, so I got to see a lot of the new friends once more. That blog will straggle along someday, I think, but my next mission is to finish and publish the dusty, moldering Victoria blog that I began not long after we took the trip last September. Maybe I can get it posted a year to the day after we returned and pretend that it was intentional and not me being a listless sloth.

Until next time!

New Orleans (Part 2)

2010-05-02T16:38:00.001-07:00

We still had an entire weekend left in New Orleans, and the city threw everything it had at us. Voodoo queens! Po’ Boys! Hurricanes (the kind that go into your mouth sugary sweet and boozy)! Parades chock full of straight (maybe?) dudes in dresses! Beignettes! Holy monkeys, there’s a lot to cover.

New Orleans did take southern hospitality one step too far the Saturday we were there. Some muckity-muck in the city(or parish?) apparently decided that we wouldn’t feel at home without a little northwestern chill. The day started in the low 40s and dropped into the 30s by the afternoon. ON THE GULF OF FREAKING MEXICO. North American French influenced cities where this is acceptable: Montreal, Quebec City. North American French influenced cities where this is unacceptable: I don’t even need to finish this sentence.

We bundled up to prepare for a cemetery tour (Haunted History Tours) we had reservations for. Cursing palm trees for their mockery (exuded just by existing while our teeth chattered), we made our way to the meeting spot, noting very readily the distinct lack of coffee shops in our part of the quarter. Of course, coffee is a poor substitute for the warming effects of hard alcohol at ten in the morning, and there were plenty of bars open willing to convince us of that.

Our tour guide was the ever affable Ernest, who gave us so many belly laughs, we warmed up quicker than anticipated. Although the focal point of the tour was the oldest existing cemetery in the city (St. Louis #1, established in 1789), half of the trip consisted of walking to the site through the Quarter, so much was learned along the way.

Per Wikipedia, which can do no wrong, St. Louis #1 is home to 100,000 buried in a footprint the size of a city block. Popular legend for the above ground tombs derives from the simple fact that much of the city is below sea level. However, tombs have a long French and Spanish lineage, so the origin is rather muddy (hardy har). How do so many of the dead fit into one spot? After a specified internment period, tombs can be reused, with the previous occupant’s remains (respectfully, we’re told) placed into a bag (is there a respectable way of shoving remains into a bag?), occupying a fraction of the space they once did. Because of this method, there is actually still space available to be buried in this Manhattan of cemeteries, over two centuries later.

I guess the big draw is the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, who is supposedly buried here (this is debatable). As much as I usually thrill to having the hair on my neck stand up in response to supernatural stuff, this was kind of a yawn for me. Her famed longevity is explained by her daughter assuming her role, and her mystical powers of knowledge were likely due to the fact that she was a hairdresser (ladies, think about what you tell your hairdressers in the utmost of confidence). But, the presumed tomb is quite the attraction, with folks constantly leaving offerings of every sort and marking upon it:

Per Ernest, this is a rather tame set of offerings, as contributions have consisted of beheaded animals in the past, and sometimes are so plentiful they need to be waded through to get past the tomb. You will note that there are beads laying on the ground here, and I fought every animalistic urge to claim them my own. Marie Leveau would probably not approve, and would quickly make her presence known. Still, I’m not scared. If you want scary, scroll to the bottom of this post. Now that’s effed up.

By the way, the markings on the tomb in triplicate are made by folks hoping the Voodoo Queen will grant them a wish and are not advertisements for adult entertainment. Granted, it is New Orleans, and it’s possible they serve both purposes.

After the tour, we met back up with Brandon and Miles so that Brandon could lead us to another local institution – Mother’s. As evidenced by the photo below, this is a hot spot to grab lunch – specifically po’ boy sandwiches.

Yes, the line was long, but with near military precision, customers roll through the ordering process and a table is not hard to find in this high-turnover joint. Keeping the machine running is a group of magnificently sassy, no-nonsense counter ladies that are not afraid to dress you down loudly if you take too long or otherwise offend their sensibilities. The service credo here is reversed: the customer is (most likely) always wrong, providing entertainment for the rest of us when an offender gets the smack down.

Below, Mike enjoys the shrimp po’ boy that we split, along with the “Ralph” po’ boy which has turkey, choice of ham or roast beef, cheese and “debris”, a savory melange of drippings, broth and beef that Mother roasts.

Brandon and Miles below the iconic sign. Brandon refuses to acknowledge the reality of the weather. Dammit, he’s in New Orleans and there shall be no coat!

Mike and I take our turn.

From here, it was back to the hotel for a membership meeting of the organization. While dull, raffle prizes were handed out and I scored myself a sweet little wine bottle tote complete with opener and bottle stopper. Since Mike is not a wine drinker, I’ll plan on treating Brutus to a picnic soon enough where we’ll share a bottle.

Oh look, he’s already picked one out. His look kind of says “Screw the picnic, open this sucker NOW.”

More than mitigating the dull meeting, we were about to encounter another priceless and musical New Orleans moment. As we stood in the hotel lobby, we noticed the sound of a band growing ever louder outside. Poking our heads out the doors, we saw a giant procession marching toward us. I was happy just to have the opportunity to see this random spectacle pass, but they then actually began to march into the hotel!

Turns out this was what’s called a “second line” for a wedding party. If you click the link, you’ll get the more traditional definition of the second line, but it’s now more loosely used for these types of processions as well. The lobby quickly filled with dozens of band members, wedding guests and of course, in the middle of it all, the dancing bride and groom. My camera was, regrettably, upstairs with the battery charging, but our buddy Justin captured this clip (thanks again!):

It wasn’t long before we were getting changed for the large group dinner at the Palace Cafe, which advertises its “contemporary Creole” food.

Mike, in the hotel lobby beforehand – doesn’t he look like he’s preparing to narrate some educational documentary?

The menu we were presented – très promising!

Unfortunately, just about everything was très disappointing. Perhaps their regular dinner service is fine, but they did not appear to handle a large group event well at all. Every single course took an unreasonable amount of time to serve and nearly everything missed the mark. After having such good gumbo the day before at Eat, this came across as a too-thick comparatively tasteless paste (certainly, gumbo is one of those dishes where thickness is more a matter of taste … but again, this assumes there is taste involved at all). Salad: meh. Entree: I had the chicken dish, which turned out much better than everything else. I don’t know that you can go wrong with what is essentially a hash of potatoes, chicken, ham and veggies. Unfortunately, the catfish gained nothing from the colorful assortment of modifiers listed in the menu – fresh, touched, fire cracker, popcorn – these are all very exciting words which apparently translate to Filet O’ Soggy-Crusted Fish. And damn, if that dessert description didn’t sound like it could save the entire meal. Yet, once more, we faced disappointment (amplified by a poor coffee service, which, as we’ve covered in previous blogs, failed Mike’s mandate that coffee MUST be in the cups BEFORE the dessert arrives).

Most disappointing was that the slow service made us miss one of the events of the night – the Krewe du Vieux parade, one of the first parades before Mardis Gras season fully kicks in. We were informed by multiple sources that it had already passed through the Quarter by the time we were finished with dinner.

However, Marie Laveau smiled upon me for not taking her beads, and as we made our way back to the hospitality suite balcony, we saw the tail end of the parade go through. This is mysterious to me, since upon entering the hotel there had been no parade in sight. For all we know, this was just a merry band of rabble rousers, dancing through the streets as a splinter group from the main parade:

On the list next was a trip to Pat O’Brien’s for their Hurricane drink. They say it is world famous and I can’t refute that since we were told many, many times to try one before the trip. And who are we to ignore the suggestions of our friends?

I like sweet drinks, but this was sweet on the order of liquid cotton candy and I’m just glad Mike and I decided to split one.

As you see, “one” is like having two drinks anyway (okay, there is a lot of ice). Yes, we brought the glass home because we are tourist chumps like that. Although, if my hazy memory serves me correctly, this drink and vessel may have been bought for us (uh…to whichever fine friend that may have been, thanks!), so I think that makes us opportunistic tourist chumps.

Brandon and Miles did NOT split one and Brandon appears wary of Miles’ rapid progress through his:

Pat O’Brien’s featured at least two fountains of water and fire:

Because, yes, people need to be confronted with illusions of fire and water mingling while they’re soused out of their minds.

Capping this night off was a trip to the Oz Bar for yet more dancing and general merriment. Consider it a theme.

Part three, which will wrap this up with lots of photos, is to come. Thanks for reading!

New Orleans – Jan 28 – Feb 1, 2010 (Part 1)

2010-03-14T17:14:00.001-07:00

Dear Las Vegas,

Please, give it up. You’ve fabricated this whole “Sin City” persona, but that’s all it is, a fabrication. You tout your live entertainment, your world-class food, endless supply of booze and your gaming. But I’ve now met a city that has all of that, and a heaping dose of soul mixed in for good measure. This sometimes classy, mostly brassy little lady of the south was around long before you were a twinkle in some prospector’s eye. Oh, I’ll still visit you – you’re cheap, close, and endlessly morphing into your newest fabrication. But understand that you have nothing on the original Sin City: the incomparable New Orleans.

***

Look, I’m not about to say New Orleans doesn’t have its problems. I viewed it through the lens of a tourist, spending time in districts that are well-policed and well maintained. The French Quarter, being on higher ground, was comparatively unscathed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Outside this core area is a city notorious for its crime and still limping through the recovery process after the disaster. Our last morning, we saw an ad for a mayoral candidate, who promised to cut the homicide rate 40% or he wouldn’t run for reelection. There’s a bit of guilt associated with being a tourist in this situation, and I can only hope the dollars we and others are spending truly go toward helping bring up the entire city.

But with that out of the way, I can honestly say I started to fall in love with the spirit of this musical city. I admit some bias in the form of being tipsy nearly the entire trip and having such a good time meeting new people. Mike is a member of a gay police/fire/military organization that sponsors various events throughout the year, this being one of them. Let’s just say it’s hard to not have a good time meeting new friends over a lot of free booze the organization was able to round up.

We traveled with our good buddies, Brandon and Miles, and while traveling with good buddies is always a pleasure, this was made even more so since Brandon has visited New Orleans before, and had some delicious dining suggestions during our stay. If you’ve spent any time reading other blog entries, you well know that Keeg + delicious dining suggestions = happy traveler.

The group booked a block of rooms at the Bourbon Orleans, which did not require a gym since the layout led to us walking the equivalent of nearly three city blocks from our elevator to the room. We were, however, directly across from the service elevator, which the staff we ran into kept urging us to use. This all came to a screeching halt when we shared the elevator one day with the lady in blue, some mid-level manager who didn't think it was a very good idea for us to be in an elevator and possibly...I hope you're seated...share it with laundry and other such housecleaning horrors. Scared me straight. Well, you know. Anyway, we avoided the service elevator thereafter, more in an effort to avoid sharing it with her again.

We had this lovely courtyard view.

Let's just say that the day we arrived would have been the only one remotely conducive to swimming, had we desired to. It was in the 60s and cloudy. Contrast this with thunderstorms the following day, temperatures around 40 degrees the day after that, warming only into the 50s afterward.

The sponsoring organization had booked a huge corner suite to serve as a hospitality suite over the course of the weekend. It afforded members a balcony directly on Bourbon Street by which to shout and heckle at passersby (and peg them with beads) as well as an Open Bar. The capitalization of those words has nothing to do with my poor grammar. Merely, I would like to call attention to this very, very important concept.

After acquainting ourselves with the hospitality suite (you may correctly read that as “quickly taking advantage of a free drink”), we wandered out for dinner, plastic to-go cups in hand. If you didn’t already know, it’s legal to drink on New Orleans streets, so long as it’s not via glass, bottle or can. Perhaps the reason behind my favorable bias toward this city is now becoming clear.

Brandon led us to his first recommendation, Napoleon House, which reminded me a little of a local favorite, Le Bistro Montage with its (slightly indifferent) wait staff playing dress-up in crisp white button up shirts, completely at odds with an economical but delicious menu. It wasn’t long before we were eating jambalaya and muffuletta, a sandwich originating in New Orleans thick with meat and a concoction known as olive salad. A quarter sandwich was four dollars and, along with munching on a cheese board appetizer, was plenty to satisfy even me, the human garbage disposal.

This was followed by a sequence of events that would repeat itself many times this weekend: Return to Hospitality Suite. Visit the bartender for refreshment refills multiple times. Enjoy the street scene from the balcony and marvel at how effective the oh-so enchanting phrase “Let’s see some titties!” really is on any gender, if beads are the reward. Like magpies with their shiny object fetish, the flocks of Bourbon Street drunks relentlessly seek these cheap plastic baubles, which are often the only remaining physical evidence of a successful night of debauchery. The only logical remaining step after all of the above is to of course cap off the night visiting an actual bar/dance club, and so we ventured to the Bourbon Pub, though not for too long before we were both ready to crash.

*Sleep…oh, blissful sleep…*

I woke up. Rubbed my eyes.

*Hangover…oh damned hangover*

So there IS a downside to the Open Bar. Luckily, the headache did not stick with me most of the day, and suffering through it that morning magically granted me immunity for the rest of the weekend.

We started the day off with breakfa…err…lunch at Eat, which resulted in some inevitable confusion when we later told people we “went to Eat.” Yes, but WHERE?! We knocked gumbo off our list here – a delicious bowl with chicken and andouille sausage.

Mike and I then wandered a bit, offering our first real chance to see the Quarter outside of Bourbon Street.

Save for a few areas (closer to the water and Jackson Square), it’s a pretty gritty place. Many of the buildings look like they’ve seen better days (or centuries), but if you want a squeaky clean version, visit the New Orleans Square theme area in Disneyland. There, you will be able to pose with Mickey in a jaunty pirate hat for a picture. In the real New Orleans, you can pose with a giant hand grenade mascot pimping drinks of the same name.

But in Disneyland, paid actors barrage your senses with carefully crafted “magical” moments. In New Orleans, wandering around, moments must be stumbled upon, and are richly rewarding when they are. To wit, the following scene we walked into:

I don’t even know if this kind of musical skit has a name. Parasol man (right side of the screen near the end) has forever earned a nostalgic little spot in my heart. As we walked away, the skit became a bit more lurid, when the young dapper couple began to kiss, uh, rather romantically. What is in the water in this city? Besides gators and the holy trinity, of course.

We were making our way to Harrah’s Casino, which sits near the river at the start of Canal Street, when the cloudy and slightly muggy day finally made good on its threat and a drenching rain began. To be fair, we had kindly been given an umbrella from one of the organization members who lived in town. But, with an Oregonian reputation to uphold, we left it behind. End result – a couple of very soggy critters straggling into Harrah’s.

We met up with another friend here and wandered the casino for a bit. Nothing much to report in that regard, since any modern casino follows a tried and true interior design formula that mostly shuns the concept of natural light. It was a nice facility, though, and we learned from Brandon later that he hit upon a lucky streak that turned Harrah’s into more of a personal ATM than a casino for him.

It was time to head back to the hotel for the official organization event registration (name tags! gift bags with party favors, including that vital aforementioned currency of Bourbon Street, beads!) and the rain slackened off a bit as we made our way up Canal. Turning onto Bourbon though, we were treated to a full on thunderstorm and took periodic refuge underneath the ubiquitous balconies. We made a final bolt for the hotel, which led to my proudest moment of the trip. Here, I plagiarize myself – this is a status update I posted on Facebook after returning:

“Funniest unfunny moment from N'awlins -- picture me, lithely leaping over a thunderstorm-spawned rain puddle. Now picture me, foot slipping as it makes contact with the sidewalk, sending me crashing onto my left side. On Bourbon Street. SOBER. Medicine was prescribed in the form of innumerable vodka-crans for the remainder of the trip.”

Pride (and hip) bruised and sopping wet, I bravely hobbled back the rest of the way.

After registration, we hopped in a cab with Brandon and Miles to visit a well known restaurant called Jacques-Imo’s, well outside of the French Quarter in Uptown.

The wait was lengthy and it was a spendier joint than, say, Napoleon House, but it was well worth the time and cash. Meals begin with rich buttery browned corn muffins that I would be content to also eat for breakfast (drizzled with maple syrup), lunch (drizzled with honey) and dessert (surrounded by vanilla ice cream). However, they are plenty good enough to not require any of those accoutrements. The rest of the meal consisted of crab stuffed shrimp, calamari, shrimp creole and the unlikely star of the show … a savory alligator sausage cheesecake. Every last bite was mouthwatering. The scene is boisterous, with a crowded dining room you can only access by walking through the kitchen itself. We only caught a glimpse of the owner, who was not up to any antics (that we knew of), but Brandon told us of his previous visit where the owner set up a round of beer bowling for patrons – yes, using a real bowling ball and real bottles of beer for pins.

The night ended back at the Bourbon Pub, where the organization had set up a fundraiser for a local AIDS charity. Members sold raffle tickets (for fabulous prizes, of course), and this led to some creative marketing on the part of Mike, whose belt became a leash around his neck. No prospective ticket buyers walked Mike around with it, but it served as a quirky icebreaker nonetheless and tickets were sold. I mean, after all, who doesn’t wish they had their own pet Mike? Turns out the group ended up raising well over a thousand dollars (after fabulous gifts accounted for) for the charity.

Part Two will follow, with many more pictures. Since this post was not so photogenic, a teaser below:

Part 7 – Monticello, Oh, hi, Ohio!, a return home…

2009-09-26T19:37:00.001-07:00

Like seeing a brilliant ray of sunshine piercing through slate gray clouds, let your emotions lift skyward as you relish the fact that this is finally the last blog covering our June vacation. Through seven excruciating segments, all three (this is a generous estimate) of you have stuck with me to the end of this trip. It was my longest vacation in years, and it felt only right to drag this blog out as long as I possibly could. For a moment, ponder the fact that this very paragraph has nothing to do with what we did those last, fleeting hours of the trip, and shake your fist in the air as you realize I’ve just wasted another minute of your life blathering on about nothing. You’re welcome!

Our final hurrah was to be Jefferson’s Monticello, which sits above the university town of Charlottesville, Virginia. We left Richmond’s Carytown at an awkward time for dinner. We weren’t quite hungry yet (read that sentence a couple of times and let it sink in…I scarcely believe these words are mine) and Charlottesville was only an hour away, so we figured it would be easy to find something tasty in a university town. Carytown did make one last effort to retain us, sending plumes of delectable smoke from a barbeque joint out to envelop us and massage our nostrils with its tendrils of sweet, smoky succulence. I was ready to give in, but Mike had great hopes for Charlottesville.

Oh, poor Charlottesville. You do not know the monster you awakened. Mike had gotten it in his head that tonight was a good night for pizza. If you know Mike well, you know he loves his pizza. While he will technically eat any disc of starch topped with cheeses and meats put in front of him, if he’s scouting out the ideal pizza, it will have thick crust. The local standard is Nonna Emilia’s in Aloha, whose thick, pillowy crust is topped with an equally thick strata of toppings – the slices are square, lending each piece an appearance more like an open face sandwich of melty goodness.

So, we pull into Charlottesville, check into our hotel (more on that later) and head for the center of town to see what our options were. At this point, our stomachs had undergone a complete turnaround and we were both quite prepared to eat.

Strike one, Charlottesville – due to incredibly tight parking downtown, and a pedestrian mall that blocked a significant amount of access from one side of downtown to another, we spent about twenty minutes looping around to find a place to park. This was an extra twenty minutes without pizza that we just didn’t have to spare.

Strike two – for a college town, there was an alarming shortage of pizza joints in the heart of the city (call FEMA?). For all intents and purposes, the pedestrian mall was nice to stroll along, with plenty of restaurants on either side and tons of outdoor seating situated in the center of the walk. But pizza delirium had fully ravaged Mike’s senses. Where I saw bicycles deftly weaving amongst the pedestrian throngs, Mike saw two spinning pizzas on a bike frame. Manhole cover in the street? To Mike, a pizza he carefully stepped around so as not to track his shoes in gooey cheese.

Finally! One thoroughbred pizza joint was spotted. It still had to be vetted for its crust size, easily accomplished since it was a counter service establishment. The crust was decidedly not the thinnest we had ever seen, but sadly was not the level of thickness Mike had been seeking. Thus, the spirit of the pizza hunter had been broken for the evening.

We went back to a promising looking restaurant closer to the car and walked in, only to find they were closing up for the night. This was Charlottesville’s strike three and we drove toward our hotel, stopping at the Wild Wing Cafe, a regional buffalo wing chain not to be confused with Buffalo Wild Wings. Tensions eased and Mike’s delirium abated as he discovered the “Garlic! Garlic! Garlic!” wings. As an aside, buffalo wings require that perfect balance of crisp and sauce – too many restaurant wings are soggy from the sauce. WWC gets thumbs up for striking the balance, and I’d give them an edge over my few experiences at BWW.

Now a quick blurb on our hotel, before I take you to Monticello. We stayed at the English Inn, wooed by the price and the comments about the breakfast included. The rooms are nothing remarkable and are actually rather dated. While the room was clean, the AC and toilet would have been cutting edge sometime in the 1960s (how cutting edge does a toilet need to be? Well, for starters it would be considered a “plus” to have the water drain in less than 30 seconds upon flushing), and there was some deferred maintenance in the form of large ceiling cracks above the shower.

Completely making up for this was the rest of the hotel. There was this grand elegance, circa 1970, in the decor of the lobby, 2nd story sitting area and other common areas. I should have taken pictures, but for a motor-inn, the lobby was surprisingly evocative of what would have passed as fine accommodations a generation ago. Thus, it was retro-charming. And then there was the breakfast. This is why I read reviews before I choose places – our best hotel breakfast experience was here. English Inn breakfast, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy, grits, cinnamon apples (cinnamon apples!), waffles, assorted bread and fruit, and the best coffee of the trip. Even now, I feel a little dreamy about it all.

Okay, Jefferson’s Monticello. Having never been before, there was a bit of legend built up in my head about this place. I had seen pictures, but for some reason I had this idea that the building was much larger than it really is. Certainly, there are houses in our Forest Heights that dwarf it, but the magnitude of the building was not where its greatness lay.

The scale of the house gives deference to the rolling estate it sits within, and it was this land that Thomas Jefferson so loved:

"And our own dear Monticello, where has nature spread so rich a mantel under the eye? mountains, forests, rocks, rivers. With what majesty do we there ride above the storms! How sublime to look down into the workhouse of nature, to see her clouds, hail, snow, rain, thunder, all fabricated at our feet! And the glorious Sun, when rising as if out of a distant water, just gilding the tops of the mountains, and giving life to all nature!" (TJ to Maria Cosway, 12 October, B.10.447) – from monticello.org

The architecture of Monticello echoed centuries old European insights into proportion and scale, the objects within reflecting an almost restless obsession with innovative technology (a partial list here), and the surrounding land is a reminder of the power the idea of land acquisition and expansion had and still holds over this country. Monticello is a quintessentially American place.

Nothing so tugged at my heartstrings as much as this loving description of the smokehouse onsite:

The Richmond blog will provide insight if you haven’t read it yet – but I was immediately entranced by the word “hams”…

A tobacco plant, trying to look innocent…

The remainder of our journey consisted of the long haul through Virginia, West Virginia, and half of Ohio so that we could fly back out of Columbus the next day.

Entering West Virginia (cue banjos – actually, let me be the first to say this is one of the greenest, prettiest drives around. The banjos are just bonus)

The state capitol building in Charleston, WV.

It was in Charleston that Mike had his pizza prayers answered. This was Brenda the GPS’ last favor to us – she led us to Mama Rosa’s. Mama made a nice pie for us, and we sipped sweet tea while reveling in the drawling accents all around us.

Here we cross the mighty Ohio River…

And, coming full circle…

We drove back through Lancaster on the way to our hotel in Columbus. For all the crap I gave it in this blog, Ohio was actually a great place to explore, and I know we only skimmed the surface.

Holy crud, that’s it!

Um.

*Ahem*

(Not really sure what to do with myself now).

Oh, who am I kidding? Classes start on Monday & Mike and I just went to Victoria BC, too, so you just know I’m going to have to post some nonsense about that sooner or later. Stay tuned!

Part 6 – Richmond VA

2009-09-20T12:03:00.001-07:00

Richmond was a big question mark to me. We had dedicated the better part of a day to check out its museums and historical sites, but you never really hear anything about Richmond, at least on this coast. Would it be very walkable? What was its urban fabric like? Most importantly, where would I be able to satisfy the craving for Virginia ham that had been festering inside of me since we crossed the state line?

These weighty questions would be answered, but before we talk Richmond, let’s wrap up our Comfort Suites review. Coffee was simply getting better and better at each property we stayed at.

Mr. Cynic walks in.

Me: Oh, hi Mr. Cynic! Lovely day, no?

Mr. C: Your lovely day is trash. By the way, did you ever think that the coffee tasted better because you were becoming accustomed to crap?

Me: I…

Mr. Cynic walks out.

I just think it’s so nice when you all get to meet my friends.

Anyway, breakfast options were also worthwhile. Sure, the sausage was probably straight out of a Jimmy Dean box from the frozen foods aisle, but so what? That stuff is tasty. There were eggs, fruit, breads, and a waffle maker, so this is one continental breakfast I really recommend. Comfort Suites, you pleaseth me!

We made our way into central Richmond, following signs to the visitor’s center in the hopes of getting a good walking map. Instead, we were swept into an inexpensive guided walking tour that was set to depart in just a few minutes. Our inclusion tripled the amount of people on the tour – the other participant was a Richmond native who had never taken the time before to explore her own city.

A brief historical primer: Though settlement had been occurring in the area for nearly a century before, Richmond was more formally laid out in the mid 1700s. In Revolutionary history, it’s known as the site of Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death” speech, and in modern history as the site of the similarly stirring “Give me ham or give me something else” speech by yours truly. In 1780, the capital of Virginia was moved to Richmond, but it took its true star turn during the Civil War, when it became the capital of the Confederate States of America. For an urban planning geek, it’s worthwhile to note that the first successful electric trolley system in the world began here. Choo choo!

(the 90’s never looked so bad)

Picture time!

The Richmond Armory…

Gorgeous theater building under renovation…

Window detail…

The Virginia State Capitol Building, designed by Jefferson…

Across from the capitol building is the former customs house (now a courthouse), which was one of the few buildings in this district that survived the burning of Richmond during the Confederate retreat…

This ahhhh-maaaaay-zing building to the right is the former City Hall, still used for many government offices…

Interior of the former City Hall…

Quiz time: During what era do you think this next building was built? If you are like me, you might have placed its construction during the Art Deco period that lasted from the 1920s through the 1940s. You would also be nearly a century off. Well before Art Deco adopted some Egyptian motifs, there had been an Egyptian revival in architecture from the 1700s through the 1800s. Richmond’s Egyptian Building was built in 1845.

This is the old Confederate White House. Click the link for better pix. I apologize for the super cruddy shot, but a gang of no-good trees kept jumping in my way….

The tour deposited us at the Valentine Richmond History Center, where we received free admission as part of our tour. Well done exhibits included civil rights topics and even some more urban planning geekery in the form of a series of historic urban renewal plans and maps.

Nestled next to the museum and a tree covered courtyard was the Cafe Richmond, offering typical lunch fare in the form of sandwiches and salads. While I’m sure there are more inspired spots to eat at than a museum cafe, hunger and convenience conspired to send our business their way.

And you know what? I got my Virginia Ham!! I had it via sandwich, and while I’m happy to be able to say I ate Virginia Ham in Virginia, unlike my other geographical food conquests, this was unremarkable. It was a good sandwich, but that could have been North Dakota ham for all I knew. Perhaps VH is best served in slab form.

The museum Mike really wanted to hit was the Museum of the Confederacy. Questions swirled ‘round my head again. For example, would we be able to locate it based on pickup trucks parked out front, flying the Dixie flag? The museum is fantastic, in fact, and presents its material not as a glorification of slavery or perpetuation of anti-north sentiment. Slavery aside, there were numerous cultural and economic differences between the regions that fed the hostility and desire for secession and this museum does a fine job depicting the period and the people behind it.

144 years after the war’s end, us Yanks nearly sparked its continuation by flagrantly disobeying the “no photo” rule at the museum – this is a display of Robert E. Lee’s actual belongings, as they might be arranged in a tent during the war.

After the museum, we wandered around the waterfront area along the James River. We stumbled upon the old Tredegar Iron Works site (below). It was a primary source of war munitions, making it one of the reasons why the Confederacy made Richmond the capital.

Adjacent to downtown was “The Fan” district, an elegant neighborhood housing a campus of the Virginia Commonwealth University. The backbone of the neighborhood is Monument Avenue. Every several blocks along the avenue is a roundabout containing a Civil War military hero. Blocks and blocks of gorgeously preserved houses and apartments were surprisingly reminiscent of Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. I wish I had taken more pictures, but as I told Mike, I would have ran out of digital space if I took a picture of everything I liked. I didn’t know where to start.

Statue of Robert E. Lee…

Jefferson Davis Monument…

In tribute to my photo on my Boston blog where I have a picture of Paul Revere and his horse’s ass, here is Stonewall Jackson and his horse’s ass…

Before leaving Richmond, we strolled along Cary Street in the heart of Carytown, south of The Fan. It’s a hip little stretch not unlike a mix of our Hawthorne and 23rd Avenue ‘hoods and is probably a hot spot on weekend nights.

All in all, Richmond was an incredible surprise. I didn’t know what to expect coming in, but left with a great appreciation for the preservation of the past this city has embraced. While I’m sure not everything is cheery cannons and sweet tea in Richmond, as a tourist that’s just not my problem. Visit, it’s beautiful!

I think you’ll only have to suffer through one more post (that is, for this trip).

Part 5 – Ever Further Beyond Ohio

2009-09-12T18:29:00.001-07:00

Every other morning of the trip, we put ourselves at the mercy of our lodging choices for breakfast, with varying results. Within a block of the Gettysburg Travelodge we had spotted a diner (The Avenue Restaurant) that began business in 1958, and we eschewed the continental breakfast routine for a down-home, hearty meal, complete with a server whose name was probably Madge.

With good vittles in our bellies, we began our day-long battlefield tour. With all due respect to the gravity of the events that took place on these grounds, let me report that once you’ve seen one battlefield, you really have seen them all. Components for a Civil War battlefield: Rolling fields. Rocks. Stone monuments. Cannons. If a site is feeling particularly randy, it may be sprinkled with some historic buildings.

But, if you visit just one battlefield, please make sure to visit Gettysburg. I doubt that was as reassuring a slogan in 1863, when the site became the deadliest of the war. Not a lot needs to be said here, so have some pix:

I had no idea how rocky the terrain was. Although weathering has surely changed the surface of the rocks since the war, nature’s stone monuments were more interesting to me than the man-made ones – it was sobering realizing the actions carried out over and through the exact same stones and boulders we were amongst.

The landscape is also so green! The frequent summer storms in the east appear to keep things verdant. I love our dry summers, but it’s definitely a contrast to the usual Oregon brown summer grass. Below is an area known as “Devil’s Den.”

This is Little Round Top below…

And this is Super Little Round Top, toddling along the grounds…

It’s amazing just how much history is packed into short distances on this side of the country. Just about 35 miles to the southwest of Gettysburg, as the crow flies, is the Antietam Battlefield. This was our next destination, and we drove over rolling hills and through picture-perfect pastoral valleys into Maryland to reach it. Marking our southward journey was a steadily increasing, oppressive, humidity.

Antietam’s claim to fame is that it was the first major battle on northern soil (1862), and the bloodiest single day of the war occurred here.

Below is the Dunker Church. Read the link – it’s an interesting bit of history and gives an example of a brief truce in front of the church where both sides exchanged the wounded and buried the fallen.

We were next on our way to the site of the First Battle of Bull Run, but while our battlefield itinerary was tight, when I saw a sign for Harper’s Ferry I asked Mike to defy Brenda once more and turn toward the West Virginia town.

We crossed the Potomac…

And that’s about as close as you readers are going to get to Harper’s Ferry. The town looks Delightful, yes, capital D, but visitor parking is nearly non-existent. Disappointed, we exited the town, and a couple of miles out was a visitor parking lot with shuttles providing access to town. Would have been nice, but we had already spent too much time looping around. In the Battle for Harper’s Ferry, our Oregonian brigade turned away, defeated. Well played, West Virginia, well played.

So we turned back toward Bull Run/Manassas, Virginia, which is basically now an exurb of Washington DC. DC was our first contender for our post-Ohio trip in the early planning stages, but we realized we would both want much more time to take in the capital city. Instead, we would have to be content skirting around it and admiring the fields where McMansions bloomed. I love you, PDX urban growth boundary!

The First Battle of Bull Run occurred in 1861 and is called the first major land battle of the war. This is impressive, but unfortunately for the site, we were already beginning to understand my above stated rule – once you’ve seen one battlefield…

This one had a cool old stone house that served as a hospital site during the battle.

With Richmond as our end-of-day destination, we had planned to hit the Chancellorsville Battle site to close our tour. This is in between DC and Richmond. When we arrived, the visitor center was closed. As we drove around, we saw the familiar fields, stone monuments, old houses. Even Mike, ever the Civil War history buff, joined me in proclaiming that our tour was very, very over.

Fredericksburg is a nice university town nearby, and we chose to try and find dinner here. We consulted the local ghosts in a cemetery established in 1784, and they pointed us to the Capital Ale House. Mere seconds after walking inside, I asked Mike if he wanted to leave. The front room was done up like some glitzy, gaudy club. A dress code that barely included my shorts and t-shirt was posted on the door. Comfortable ale house this was not. We stuck with it, though, and were escorted to a back room, where they must stick the steerage class (and for this I am thankful). Everything was much cozier here – the lighting, the wood accents. Project Ale House was back on!

Considering the front looked like the type of place you’d have to pay a cover to get into, the prices were reasonable. The food was definitely solid ale-house fare. I saw a dish of Kielbasa and Pierogis and fell in love. Potato dumplings get me every time…

As for the ale part of the equation, the server plopped an encyclopedic tome of beers in front of us to choose from. If you are knowledgeable about beer in the first place, you might easily ply such material. I took one look and whimpered. I know, I’m a poor representative of Portland beer culture to be sending abroad. I asked what a good local beer was, and was referred to the Blue and Gray. It was refreshing and crisp. That’s about as complex as my palate can recognize. Does it help if I say I would order it again?

We motored our way to a Comfort Suites on the northern outskirts of Richmond. This place was crazy swank for a hotel brand in the price range of Comfort Suites. It is a new property and the furnishings/decorations are…surprising. That said, Mike and I both agreed that if you look close enough, you can see where corners were cut on the workmanship quality, and we predict that this place will be ghetto in just a couple years time. We had an embarrassing and teachable moment when we couldn’t get the AC to turn on. As Mike went to the front desk to inquire, I finally spotted a…ther…therm…uh…thermostat on the wall that controlled the unit. Marvelous technology, that.

Richmond and Monticello remain!

Part 4 – Beyond Ohio!

2009-09-06T01:05:00.001-07:00

Well, folks, we’re headed to Victoria BC for a few nights later this month (a first for both of us) and yet I still can’t finish narrating this damn trip. I gots to get crackalackin’!

Sadly, it was time to spend our tourist dollars in states other than Ohio. Sad, that is, for Ohio. I could give a damn. Though Cleveland tried to lure us with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Youngstown made its attempt with…um…abandoned houses (prototypical rust belt city which has lost over half of its population since 1960), we eventually escaped Ohio’s orbit and crossed over into the big PA.

Last Winter term, I took the class Geographical History of North America. Much focus was on the trans-Appalachian journey westward, the first push into what was the frontier. Our travels would take us first in reverse, and it was sincerely cool to experience these places after reading about them in depth. That is cool, right? Man, I’m emitting some unusually strong nerd signals right now. Yes, that’s unusual.

Brenda (to review, this was our sexy-voiced GPS) had us on a route to Gettysburg that skirted around Pittsburgh. Now, don’t get me wrong. We loved Brenda. But it was pretty evident up to that point who was wearing the pants in the relationship (I’m not the PC police, but just how archaic is this expression?). We wanted to teach Brenda that a relationship was about give and take. So we took control and gave her a “recalculating route” nightmare as we turned toward the Pitt. I’m thinking the denizens do not probably refer to it as the Pitt. And if they do, perhaps some new blood is needed in the city’s tourism agency and chamber of commerce.

For some reason over the years, I’ve oft heard comparisons between Portland and Pittsburgh. Since we didn’t have time to actually walk around Pittsburgh, I can only vouch for a few things. They both have hills. They both have bridges (that cross over water, which they both also have). Each of them have buildings that are tall and at the same time, they have buildings that are short. The sky was blue with some clouds as we drove through Pittsburgh, and it only adds to this astounding list that I have seen similar conditions in Portland. There’s that whole name-starts-with-a-P thing too.

The clencher is this, the “Birmingham Bridge”, aka the “We Want to Be Like Portland so We’re Building This Cheap Knockoff of the Fremont Bridge…Bridge”:

And here is our Fremont Bridge, conceived three years prior to the Birmingham Bridge:

Until this civic thievery ceases, these two cities will continue to be compared. In case you’re aching for knowledge, these are examples of tied arch bridges. In that link you’ll see Pittsburgh sports at least one other such bridge, the Fort Pitt. If you are bored enough to then click that link, you’ll read that it was built in 1959. Since this is B.F. (Before Fremont), this wikipedia text is either in error or its writers are intent upon provoking the wrath of the unseen yet very vengeful Fremont Bridge deity.

A couple of other Pitt shots:

We chased a thunderstorm eastward across the Appalachians and finally caught up with some flashin’ and thunderin’ as we arrived in Gettysburg. A more poetic person might be able to artfully compare the sounds of the storm with the thunderous booms of the cannons that fired here 146 years ago. Said person is probably off making money from their writing. I sit here typing a blog.

We checked into the Travelodge on the south side of town. Great property, great price, great location. Right across the street is a row of quaint (that word had to be used at some point on this trip) shops and restaurants that follow the main road straight into the heart of town. The following day was slated for the battlefield itself, so we spent the evening wandering about.

Gettysburg is basically a big, living, open-air museum. As you walk around, there are historical markers and placards on nearly every block describing the history of the buildings and what was going on in the town during the infamous battle. The only over-the-top touristy stuff were the multitudes of competing Ghost Tours in town, replete with guides in period-wear (or maybe there is a resurgence of trendy 1860s clothing in the fashion world I am oblivious to). If we had done research ahead of time to see which one was the best, we would have tagged along on one. Instead, you will see in a bit that we found our own haunted spots.

Charming Gettysburg street scene…

This was the rail station at the time of the battle, and since so much of the town’s history is framed with the context of what Abe Lincoln did while he was here, pains are made to educate the visitor that this is the station he arrived at to make his Gettysburg Address. I’m glad they told me.

The center of town. Any block that Lincoln did not actually stand on or traverse probably still has a placard saying “President Lincoln stood on the block across the street.”

I spy…Lincoln! The placard here says that this is the house he slept in before the Gettysburg Address. Your guess is as good as mine as to whether or not there is a placard in the adjacent alley telling us that this is where Lincoln’s chamber pot was dumped.

And yet for all of this information at every corner, nothing we saw indicated who the heck this gent is in the natty sweater. I know I’m not photogenic, but I’m a little frustrated that this mystery man looks more lifelike than I do in this picture. Is it just me, or does Abe’s hat look like it would fit completely OVER Mike’s head?

The building to the left is the Plaza Restaurant and Lounge, where we dined. The single reason they almost immediately captured our business was a sign advertising barbequed, bacon-wrapped scallops. As Emily knows (and as described in my Boston blog), this is like food gold to me.

We also split the fried chicken plate, which was a serviceable rendition.

As it became dusky, we walked to the south of our hotel, where the Gettysburg National Cemetery sits. Sure, we could have paid some bucks to hear far-fetched ghost stories, but our timing made for a subtly creepy experience. And it was free!

Brace yourselves…

Nothing you’ve seen so far will prepare you for this…

Are you ready?

DEMON BUNNY!!!

After an experience like that, the only remedy is, naturally, giant drippy ice cream cones. We made our way to Kilwin’s Chocolates and Ice Cream across the street from the Travelodge and indulged.

Only a few days of the trip remain to be etched into digital history – after this we have a day of battlefields, a day in Richmond and then a trip to Monticello. Thanks for sticking with me this far!

Ohio and Beyond! (part 3)

2009-08-05T17:10:00.001-07:00

Mike and I are not big fast food eaters. When we do go, we like to support local chains, like Burgerville. When we travel though, we cast off these schackles and try to check off chains that simply aren’t found back home.

This is how we came to find ourselves in one of the strangest places on our trip: a White Castle, for dinner en route to Cedar Point from Lancaster. We were told after returning that you only go to White Castle when you are drunk. That may only take care of the mediocre food. Even if you are drunk, please promise me you’ll never go INSIDE a White Castle.

The first thing that caught our eye was the vast expanse of bulletproof glass securing the White Castle serving wenches behind the counter. Let me tell you, we were not in any “ghetto” as would be defined by us. In fact, this location was nestled in what appeared to be a relatively new strip of pure American suburbia. Perhaps it is a White Castle standard: a sort of modern version of a drawbridge, in keeping with the theme. Next in line to baffle our senses was the track of mildly eerie Medieval court music piped into the dining room that perhaps comprised 30 seconds of music on continuous loop. I could probably hum a close enough approximation of it to this day. After all, I had plenty of time to memorize it since there must exist a correlation between the size of the burger (if you don’t know what a White Castle Burger is, click on the link) and the amount of time it takes to make it. Mystifying scientists everywhere, the smaller a burger is, the more prep time is needed. Every fast food joint will place their priority on drive-thru customers versus walk-in, I understand that. But while the line of cars steadily rounded the outside of the building, we were made to wait at least ten minutes for these square oddities.

As for the food itself…I would give it a resounding “meh”, yet that makes it sound like I care about it more than I do. The music may not have been forgettable, but the food sure was. Nothing was “bad” per se, but I now understand the utility it provides to drunk people – it’s cheap, it’s moderately greasy, and if you go through the drive-thru, it’s quick (wait, what are drunk people doing driving?). Having a small slider of a burger is totally fine. But, I don’t understand having a patty of meat so thin that a penny on its side would dwarf it. With great indifference, we checked White Castle off of our list. For good.

From this cheap American institution, we traveled a couple of hours to another: the Super 8 in Milan, about twenty minutes south of Sandusky. For the extra commute to Cedar Point, the per night price was half of what one would pay in Sandusky itself. The next time you talk to him, give Mike a hearty pat on the back for the trouble he went to in order to convince me to stay at a Super 8. I readily admit that I can be a total snob, especially when it comes to where I’m laying my head at night. I don’t require 1000-count sheets or marble floors (I won’t exactly turn those away, either). I would just rather not find out that the hotel room capacity has been exceeded due to a colony of bedbugs snuggling with me overnight. That said, I have no idea why I attached a preconceived stigma to Super 8, having never stayed at one. The Milan property received solid reviews on TripAdvisor.com and Hotels.com and between that reassurance, the price, and Mike’s insistence, I agreed to give it a try.

And of course, the property was perfectly fine - considering the price, the value was extraordinary. I did (sadly) run around the room trying to look for things to complain about, but came up pretty empty handed. The only significant complaint is that the quality of the towels definitely took a nosedive compared to other hotels, although you may disagree if you enjoy a towel that not only dries but exfoliates at the same time. The breakfast was nothing special, with coffee a notch or two better than the Holiday Inn Express, but less options for solid sustenance. Cereal was the best route to take. The breakfast room’s clientele was a half and half mix of amusement park thrill-seekers and what Mike and I deemed, “The Salt of the Earth” – rough and tumble types that growled over their coffee and effortlessly exuded the hardworking spirit of the American mid-west. Joe the Plumber is a cheap knock-off of the real thing.

This leads me to my new hotel/motel truism: Never Judge a Brand by Name Alone. Lodging properties are franchised and individually managed. If a property is managed by someone who cares about their business and their guests, even the cheapest of the name-brands will be a clean, comfortable experience. Based on online reviews, many top-tier hotels can often find themselves ranking lower in the pile due to poor management and upkeep. I believe the only thing that a brand name can guarantee is a set of standardized amenities throughout the brand’s properties. But there is not a fancy mattress in the world that will magically clean the sheets resting upon it, nor a rain-shower shower head that will wash away mold on its own.

Monday was Cedar Point day, so of course we woke up to rain. It was a light drip when I looked out the window the first time, turning into a downpour by the time Mike looked out the window. On the entire drive to Cedar Point, with wipers going full speed, I kept repeating to myself, “The forecast called for showers, this is only a shower…a really long shower…”. What if the park was closed? We’d have to detour to…Cleveland. I repeated my shower statement again. The park was open and everyone must have been repeating the mantra, since everyone was coatless and wearing shorts. C’mon, through the collective power of the crowd, we WILL beat the rain back!

This became harder to believe as we stood outside a souvenir booth, waiting for a poncho, so sopping wet that even my grey shirt had become see-through. Once we were both bedecked in gaudy blue tarps (only five bucks each, which impressed me as I expected some opportunistic price gouging), we could at least wander the park in comfort, if not style. All of the coasters were shut down, but lines were beginning to form at some of them regardless. The optimism of the people finally won the day as the rain lightened and then vanished.

By then, we were at the back of the park and in line for an already open roller-coaster, The Mean Streak, where we encountered Coaster Girl in line behind us. Coaster Girl was terrified. Her friend had dragged her into line and she spent the entire twenty minutes repeating how afraid she was. We played the part of Coaster Evangelicals, reassuring her that once she had tried it, there would be no going back, but she would never know if she didn’t make that leap. Post-coaster, we’re happy to report that she is now part of the flock! It was a day of miracles – we vanquished the rain, and witnessed a conversion. Our reward may not be heaven, but it must at least be a funnel cake. Hallelujah!

The next conquest was the Maverick, which is the newest coaster in the park. This was Mike’s favorite, and my second favorite. Ride it here, though it doesn’t really do it justice:

My favorite was probably the Millennium Force, which scored points simply for being really freaking tall. I think at the top of this thing I had just gotten out “Oh, the lake is really pret…” before my stomach was in my mouth for the drop. Isn’t this nice, no lines for you readers:

For lunch, we were able to put another check on our fast food chain list after eating at the in-park Chick-fil-A. If you ever end up in a situation where there is nothing to choose from save for a White Castle or a Chick-fil-A, first of all, what hell have you stumbled into?! And second of all, please choose the Chick-fil-A. It’s simple, quite tasty, and they have waffle fries. That alone would earn them the win.

The star of the park is undoubtedly the Top Thrill Dragster, the first coaster to ever break the 400 foot barrier. The stats you need to know – after the ride launches, you reach 120mph in 4 seconds, go up a 90 degree incline, twist, crest the top, twist again and come back down at 90 degrees before screeching to crawl. It is over in 17 seconds. Now for the shame: we did not ride it! Initially I did not think I had the nerve to take on the Dragster, but around mid-day we both were committed to riding it. By the time we rounded back to it in the early evening, however, the humidity and other rides had taken their collective toll on us. I had a headache (that actually would stay with me in varying intensity for the next week) and we were both just done.

Even if you don’t ride, one can revel in the terror of others. There is plenty of viewing space in front of where the coaster sits before launch. There was praying, heavy controlled breathing, shut eyes, wide eyes, nervous laughter and ivory knuckles. All reactions pretty much coalesced into a group “Oh *#@!” as the car launched, quickly followed by the severe contortion of flesh (I think some people’s lips ended up wrapped around their ears).

If the description of the ride hasn’t already triggered some in-boot quivering, then take a look at the video below. It depicts an infrequent “rollback” in which, due to various factors, the car does not crest the hill. Safety mechanisms are in place to bring it back to a secure stop, and some super-fans of the coaster actually *hope* for these rollbacks.

For dinner we were lazy and ate at the restaurant on the hotel property, called Four Monks, which specialized in Italian. Reasonable prices (made even more reasonable with a hotel discount) and a nice, no frills take on Italian. If you’re really curious, this review is a good write-up and reflects our experience rather well.

The days ahead will see us escape Ohio’s luster, for destinations east! Stay tuned!

Ohio and Beyond! (part 2)

2009-07-25T15:58:00.001-07:00

Sunday (June 7) was our last day in the Columbus area before moving on with our trip. Lisa, Scott and Jean were headed into downtown Columbus to eat at BD’s Mongolian Barbeque and Mike, Kathleen and I decided to tag along with the goal of hitting Columbus’ German Village afterward.

Here in Portland, we have Chang’s Mongolian Grill. I am now looking to play matchmaker and get these two restaurant chains canoodling, in the effort to produce a child: the perfect Mongolian restaurant. Here’s the scorecard on both:

	BD’s	Chang’s
Meat	Fresh, unfrozen … fish looks edible (plump shrimp!)	Discs of frozen meat, scary seafood (never stops me from getting shrimp anyway)
Noodles	thick, sauce absorbing	Downgraded in the last few years to thin and spaghetti-like
Veggies	Great selection	Slightly less than great selection
Sauce	Pre-mixed sauces, with additional spices. Spices allow creativity – not so much with the sauces.	at least a dozen vats of basic sauce components – easy to create your perfect combo
Cooking	Flying knives (on purpose)	Disgruntled looking cooks who have been there almost 20 years.
Ambiance	The kind of place you expect to see pieces of flair.	Dingy. Worn. Comfortable.

Before this lovechild is thrust upon the world, Chang’s would seriously do well to upgrade the meat in the meantime. And BD’s should liberate the sauce making process. But who am I to question BD’s, anyway? They are the only American chain restaurant with a franchise in … Mongolia! And, given Mongolian BBQ’s famous reputation as being distinctly un-Mongolian in nature, it is probably the only “Mongolian Grill” of any sort in Ulaanbaatar. But, at the same time BD’s destroys Mongolian cuisine from the inside, they divert profits to a feel-good non profit, so kudos to them for that.

After saying farewell to Lisa, Scott and Jean, we carted down to Columbus’ historic German Village, just south of downtown. Happily, this is not a 365 days-a-year lederhosen festival. It is not kitschy in the slightest. Instead, it’s simply an old immigrant neighborhood that has been well preserved, and is neat and tidy and done up almost entirely in brick (some streets included). There is really no single nucleus of shopping and eating in the neighborhood, as establishments are scattered about. This just made walking the lovely streets a little like a treasure hunt, stumbling across cool stores and galleries along the way (this cheesy sentiment belongs in some neighborhood-boosting literature). We capped off the visit with some treats from Schmidt’s Fudge Haus (okay, yeah, that is gimmicky sounding). The confection I picked was inventive – two ritz crackers, peanut butter sandwiched between them, completely coated in chocolate. A marvelous two bites…

Following are a few shots of the ‘hood.

We called Dad on the way back to Lancaster, to see where Jeff, Laura and crew were hanging out. Apparently a deck party had been underway for several hours by then, which meant intoxicated directions involving “once you pass the tree of freedom” and “park at the church and listen for the noise.” Was my phone being tapped? What were these code phrases we had to decipher? Well, in case you ever hear these instructions, this is how to translate - “Tree of Freedom” = the Lancaster Peace Tree, and “park at the church and listen for the noise” roughly translates to park at the church and hear nothing. Close enough – the directions got us there.

To the terror of tranquil Lancaster townsfolk, the party was soon mobilized, and a caravan of cars departed the Church-of-No-Noise and passed the Peace Tree, making its way to Party House #2. We followed, to say our goodbyes, and because we were told we had to see a bottle of what was dubbed “Longevity Wine.” And so you shall see it too. This is Longevity Wine. Thank you Vanna.

So, what is Longevity Wine? It’s an alcohol imported (uh, not through normal channels) from China. As you see, there are some delightful renderings of various scaly creatures on the label. So, you’re thinking, “Ooh, a big snake! I’ll bet they’re trying to tell you this alcohol is stroooong, huh?” Well…yes. But, how about we take a closer look, m’kay?

Well, what we have here is truth in advertising – what is on the label is actually in the bottle. From what I recall, we’ve got viper, cobra and even a gecko (or two) steeping in here. My first thought was, “Okay then! Show and tell is now over – let’s get out of here.” But, being the weak willed Oregon pacifists that we are, we succumbed to a round of peer pressure and each had a shot of the stuff. It poured out clear (if you don’t count the scales floating about), and in the end it just tasted like a strong sake. Or, in Mike’s view, “As bad as sake usually is.” What will I be doing with the extra time in life I earned by drinking longevity wine? Not drinking more longevity wine is one thing.

We said our farewells and with Smoky and Brenda, began the next leg of our trip, to Cedar Point! Stay tuned!

Intermission – A Keeg Dream

2009-07-12T00:33:00.001-07:00

Yes, Part II of our trip is in the works, but consider this a refreshing intermission piece.

My friends know that I have some pretty strange dreams sometimes. The only other person I know who has odder dreams and remembers them is my Mom, so this is one of those genetic quirks. This was the dream prepared for me Thursday night/Friday morning:

It was a dark and … well, it was just a dark night. Mike and I were at a large one-stop shopping center. For our purposes, let’s just go ahead and say it was a Fred Meyer. There was a palpable dread in the air, so at this point I knew it was going to be a kickass dream.

Everyone was aware of a terrible threat, hence the dread (oh…so…palpable). This is the point where, if this were a screenplay I were presenting to a movie exec, they would laugh and call security to escort me out. What was the terrible threat? Well, seems that there were horses running around in packs across the country, biting folks. Annnnnnnnd, the bite turned you into a zombie. So, 28 Days Later, please meet the swine (or any other livestock) flu. And yet, this doesn’t embarrass me enough that I’ll refrain from posting this. Remember! Palpable dread!

So, we had just made it inside Freddy’s and whaddya know? The lights go out and there is a blood curdling scream (or two). Clearly, the horses were here and we were in imminent danger. How they got into the power grid remains a mystery.

At this point, in the dream, I see nothing but pitch black as we try to make our way outside of the store. We emerge and start running across the parking lot to the car. As we approach it, we find that there are two men holding guns between us and the car. Good gads, they then proceed to shoot us both! But I don’t wake up screaming from my dream-death, because they didn’t shoot us with bullets. It was some sort of liquid, which they explained would help ward off any horses. Hey, thanks, scary gun toting people. We resume our run to the car where (of course) my door wouldn’t open, but we both squeeze in through the passenger door.

Whew! Take a breath.

We drive down the highway – perhaps home, or perhaps to go out Thelma and Louise style with the last laugh, and not let those wicked little horses get us (which, by the way, I have seen not a single one in the entire dream – nor a single zombie).

As we drive, we see someone dressed up as Tigger (yes…THE Tigger…the one and only) trying to wave us down. We slow down to see what they need, and as we do, I am able to look more closely at the costume…

where I see the shape of a horse’s head start to rear up from within it…

*End Dream*

Ohio & Beyond! Or, "Oh...another cannon..." June 4 - June 13, 2009 Part 1

2009-06-26T23:05:00.001-07:00

When my brother Jeff, and his then fiancé, Laura were trying to convince us to come to Ohio for their wedding, we were told that Columbus was “the San Francisco of the Midwest.” After visiting, I can understand why San Francisco is still demanding a written apology, but this isn’t to say that Columbus and its environs don’t have their charm. In fact, of the three main “C” cities in Ohio, Columbus is the only one that is actually growing, so something must be going right. Or things are really that bad in the 'natti and "the mistake by the lake" and Columbus is only thriving by compare. Once we decided to go, we spent countless hours strategizing how to expand on our trip east – charming or not, heaven knows we weren’t going to plop down hundreds of dollars for tickets to spend a vacation only in Ohio. We decided that after the wedding we would loop north to Cedar Point Amusement Park, then east to PA, MD and VA to take in some Civil War history. And so, the trip that resulted follows thusly…

I can continue to say that Continental is a solidly good airline. A free meal is still provided (bonus points for transporting me back to fond memories of my elementary school cafeteria – BBQ turkey-product roll on the way there, gray-beef cheeseburger on the way back, with a bowl of iceberg lettuce accompanying both), and leg room can be rated as humane. Both directions took us through Houston George Bush Intercontinental (International doesn’t cut it for Texans), and save for one detail, it’s a nice facility. Said detail: Out of deference to its namesake, Pappy Bush, there is a statue we stumbled across of George HW in one of the concourses, with his tie molded to appear as if it were flapping heroically in the wind. I’m sure a statue of HW vomiting on the Japanese Prime Minister only lost the bid by a few votes.

Once in Columbus, we were partnered with our superhero sidekicks - Wolverine has nothing on Smoky and Brenda. Picture a dark gray Ford Focus speedily hugging hairpin turns in the Appalachian foothills...that's Smoky, our trusty steed whose only fault was fickle air conditioning. Brenda was a sexy-voiced GPS unit who, while pushy, got us where we needed to go without fail. Side note ... try to refrain from anthropomorphizing inanimate objects. It leads to such heartrending scenes as me telling Mike "I miss Smoky and Brenda" multiple times after coming home.

Though it was past midnight by the time we got into Lancaster (about half an hour to the southeast of Columbus), there was drunk partying afoot at the Jeff 'n' Laura house, which we decided to crash, so as to keep Mike's officer skills fresh. J'n'L keep a goodly crew of friends and meeting a small group of them while hanging out with the stars of the show was an early highlight of the trip. Oregonians - it may be hard to realize when we're already nested in this state, but that mystical allure of Oregon quality of life really does exist outside. The mere mention of the O word and, without prodding, these folks would carry on about how they wanted to go for their first time, or return if they had been there before. Maybe Governor McCall was on to something after all...

After extended hours of merriment, we finally got to our hotel around 4am. Hey, that's only 1am Pacific time! We then proceeded to get up at 8...Ohio time. But sleep is a secondary concern when there are limited vacation hours. Which is why most vacations aren't really "relaxing" per se. For that, go to a spa. For adventure, go to...Ohio!

We started with a light sampling of the Holiday Inn Express' continental breakfast. The same vendor that supplies Continental with its meat product must also supply HIE with their "bacon." There aren't enough quotation marks in the world for the """""""coffee"""""" they served (over the course of our stay, the HIE breakfast highlight was fresh fruit and their cinnamon rolls, as dutifully lauded by my Aunt Lori's husband, who is also named Jeff). We meeted and greeted with my Dad and Kathleen and headed over to my brother's house where he had perfected the maximization of services performed by a best man - his best man was cooking Monte Cristo sandwiches for brunch for nearly a dozen people.

Our intent was to tour Lancaster, an Ohio boomtown in the era of canal building, with a well-preserved historic core. Kathleen was on board as well, so the three of us tromped through downtown, visited shops and cooled down with iced coffee drinks at what is apparently the only coffee outpost in town, Four Reasons. While tasty, my mocha cup had clearly been the site of a gruesome battle between those cantankerous caffeine contenders, coffee and chocolate, with the overwhelming winner being the thick, syrupy chocolate. I managed to whisper to the long suffering coffee that it would probably have a winning case in seeking refugee status somewhere more welcoming, like Seattle or Portland. It was afraid, but I think I gave it hope.

And here are just a few pictures of lovely Lancaster, which is heavily churched:

Church!

Not a church!

Double church!!

Annnnnnd....

Our first encounter with a cannon. While at the taking of this picture it is still a novel sight, we came to discover that cannons are the pink flamingo yard decorations of the part of the country we traveled. Onward...

The William T. Sherman house (and another cannon!). We had planned our Civil War trip well before finding out that Lancaster was the site of Sherman’s early residence, so to learn this after the fact only made us pat ourselves on the back and think what a good job we did on our themed vacation.

We took the tour, which was conducted by a crusty old codger, balding and short, with a bumbling, gasping delivery that constantly made me wonder if I was witnessing the last tour he would ever give (and possibly not finish). When the tour wrapped up, we chatted with him and the receptionist about the fact that we were there for a wedding which was to be on the bride’s parent’s land. Codger asked where their land was. Now, the fact of the matter is, Laura’s parents live on a little lane called “Coonpath” – debate was spirited during our visit as to whether this referenced those crafty little bandit faced mammals or…that other reference. So, we told Codger, and without missing a beat he offers “Well, you know what that’s named after, don’t you?” Oh, Codger, please dispel all legend and say Meeko, that adorable little raccoon from Pocahontas…please. “It’s named that because the colored people (the what?) had to clear a path around the town early on…” The receptionist shook her head and tried to insist that it was “the animal”, but folks, that tour guide was so old he was probably there when it happened, so I’m going to have to put dollars on his version.

That night was the rehearsal dinner, and boy did we have a good gig. We got to partake in the dinner (with free beer and wine) without the requirement of having participated in the rehearsal itself. Mike and I are happy to offer this service to any wedding in need – if you have empty tables to fill, we can be there on short notice. We'll look something like the picture below, perfectly respectable. Email me.

The dinner was held at Shaw’s in downtown Lancaster and the choices for dinner were a pork chop or a chicken dish. Mike and I decided to each try one so as to share. The first highlight was the super-moist cinnamon/maple rolls served just before bread was rolled out. In fact, this dessert-before-dinner was so delicious that I am having trouble remembering what dessert actually was. Mike? Anyone? It doesn’t stop there, though. The main course was brought out and my pork chop was placed in front of me. Shaw's was a nice joint, so I was expecting a medallion of pork framed by a white expanse of plate, perhaps with some Jackson Pollock inspired sauce drizzled around it (Ooh, I've been watching too much Top Chef). Instead, what I had before me was a mammoth hunk of pork no less than three inches high and covering half of the plate. The only thing more impressive would have been if the pig had trotted out, introduced itself, handed me a basting brush and then flopped on my plate. But size really isn't all that matters - this smoked chop was also tender through and through.

The chicken never had a chance when put side by side with the circus show that was the pork. Pork was having none of that "the other white meat" crap, towering over the tepid, defeated looking cuts of chicken displayed on Mike's plate. It'd be like asking Jessica Simpson to sing right after Aretha Franklin finished owning the stage. Not even worth comparing.

Post dinner was another party at Jeff and Laura's house characterized by more drunken revelry and another person with Oregon lust. A bunch of Jeff's old frat(ernity) brothers had made the trip and they were partying like it was the 90s again which probably hurts a lot more now that it's almost the 2010's (oh god), but all were having a great time.

The next day was the big event. To pass the hours until the wedding, we went with family to a mini-golf course just a few blocks from our motel. It was easily one of the best mini-golf courses I've played, full of water obstacles, multi-level strategizing and then, on the 17th and 18th holes, the buuumper booooats of doooooom! Said lifeless bumper boats were next to the course - boats that have not bumpered in what could be years, given the stank water befouling the air. Side note - I try to throw people off with my slight frame, but my putting style gave it away: I'm a natural born hockey player. Apparently my club grip was more appropriate for ice sports than the green, and after some quick tips from Dad, I improved my game. Not enough to keep from tying for last.

Finally, it was time to make the trip up to (Ra)coonpath Lane via a complimentary shuttle arranged to pick guests up at the hotel. Our family caught the early shuttle not because we prize punctuality. Instead, we were told that the open bar promised for the wedding would be open before the ceremony. That's incentive! The grounds were beautiful, rolling and green and the ceremony was blissfully short, though given that readings came from such authors as Plato instead of the typical sources, a longer ceremony might have remained interesting anyway.

Let's dial up some pix, shall we?

The grounds

Pre-wedding – that’s my Aunt Lori fussing with a beverage while her husband Jeff fusses with my step-Grandma Jean’s flowers.

Jeff succeeded with the flowers, but Lori’s drink still vexes her while I pose with Grandma Jean.

My Aunt Lisa and her husband Scott – you see, Lori, they are at peace with their drinks. What is the problem?

My Aunt Lonnie and cousin Tanya

Oh look, Dad’s found the open bar. Good call.

Let’s just cut to the chase here – Jeff & Laura at the end of the ceremony.

Awww… cut the damn cake!

But I’m getting slightly ahead of myself here. Of course I must mention the food at the wedding. My brother’s buddy owns a popular local restaurant, Billy Crickets, and they catered the event. The centerpieces were prime rib, cornish game hen, and a lamb risotto, and guests didn’t have to just choose one. Yes, in two nights I had had a pork chop the size of a frisbee, and then this upscale buffet. Somehow I returned to Portland roughly the same size as I was when I left, but certainly not for a lack of trying.

The night was wonderful, just hanging with family and listening to a very talented musician (also a friend of Jeff and Laura’s) sing and play his guitar through the evening. A little more uptempo dance music would have been fun (the dance party was definitely Lori’s wedding last year), but it was still a pleasure to listen to.

Most amazing was when the sun went down – I saw my first fireflies ever. We wandered just a little beyond the activity of the tents and the countryside was lit up with hundreds, maybe thousands of fireflies sparkling against the darkness. Mike proved himself to be the most valuable asset of the evening by catching a few fireflies to send home with Lisa and Scott for a science project one of my cousins was doing. In addition to this, he found the coffee and started serving it when the cake was served, taking coffee orders from tables of people we didn’t know at all. Granted, the wait staff on hand weren’t too fond of this, but for those of us who believe cake and coffee are never to be far apart, he is a hero. I have a feeling if my family has any other functions in the future, our invites will come addressed to “Mike and…guest”.

I’ll stop here for now to give everyone a much needed break. The operating theory here is I’ll post again with our other adventures, including exploring Columbus’ German Village, Cedar Point, and then onward to Gettysburg, Richmond and Monticello. In the meantime, leave comments if you’d like – for those who don’t have accounts with any of the services listed, choose “Name/URL” and that will allow unregistered people to leave comments. You will have to decipher one of those “captchas”, though, which I hate, but it cuts down on spam.

I’ll close with more pix!

Dad and Kathleen

The lovely bride, my new sister-in-law!

Scott’s face, Lisa, Laura, Jean, Jeff

Mike busy charming Lonnie and Tanya

Anchorage - Part 2 - June 2007 (originally posted on MySpace)

2009-06-20T17:19:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY

A week after Portland's usual crush of queers that throng to the pride parade and festival and literally take over the streets of PDX for hours afterward, we were to be treated to a much quieter, humbler version of Pride. The word we decided on was "quaint", but said only in the most positive way.

Walking the parade route minutes before it was to begin, I had to go with my gut that we were actually on the correct street, as nary a swish nor sashay could be seen. Finally, within two blocks of where the parade would step off, a small congregation of rainbow-hued folk were gathered. The obligatory drag queen played MC to the event, announcing all (23) floats and entries that passed. A rough count suggested that half of Anchorage's LGBT community was actually in the parade, and the other hundred people were watching. I joke of course. Barely.

And of course, though it was only about 60 degrees, it's never too chilly for a group of gay guys to strip to their skivvies and dance around with great abandon.

Post parade we grabbed coffee at the highly esteemed Kaladi Brothers - a local coffeehouse chain. Factoid: Anchorage has the highest number of coffee outlets per capita in the country. Indeed - in the middle of winter when you've missed the five hours of daylight while you were stuck inside at work, you may need that extra stimulant to keep your motivation up.

We were given the tip to eat halibut sandwiches at the F Street Station. We did this, and they were certainly delicious. However, the showstopper at this place was a giant block of Tillamook Sharp sitting on the counter. The disclaimer above this holy Alter of Cheese says "For Display Only - Do Not Eat." But the handily placed cheese-slicer suggests quite the opposite. The picture's blurriness is indicative of the fact that I was near fainting over the sight of so much cheese.

We made a brief stop at the festival in the park strip (think the South Park Blocks. Now take out all of the trees - ta da! The Anchorage Park Strip!) where we made the arrogant determination that we were nearly the upper crust of good looks in the Anchorage gay community (that's really saying something) but that the quotient of gorgeous dogs was on a level not experienced back here in orygun. This really was a cute little festival though. Though it is a fraction the size of the event that Portland puts on every year, here you could actually sense a feeling of community. Woot! I just filled my quota of heartfelt sincerity - no need for anymore the rest of this blog!

We strolled through downtown Anchorage and visited the very large market that runs Saturdays and Sundays. We also visited the Alaska State Troopers Law Enforcement Museum, drawn by their free admissions policy. Great exhibits and we gave them our money anyway by purchasing a mug and a coffee thermos.

Truth be told, Anchorage is kind of an ugly city. The natural areas that permeate it are what is magical about the place. But when you take a city that is so young (founded in 1914), kick its ass with the most powerful recorded earthquake on the continent (1964) and then provide the fuel for a population boom during some of the ugliest years of architecture (the oil boom from the 70s through early 80s), you don't get the greatest results. Anyway - the remnants of historical Anchorage are scarce:

Yeah there's not much to this building, but given that Anchorage was literally a tent city in 1914, this is a great example of some of the first buildings that brought permanence to the settlement:

I love this block! This pair of buildings could almost be plopped onto NW 23^rd without passerby even batting an eye. The statue is of Balto. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balto

There is also a statue of "Balto" in NYC at Central Park. The true Balto is none too pleased with this pretender to the throne:

4^th Avenue Theater - Anchorage's one example of art deco.

And the old city hall.

Anchorage's current city hall is mostly non-descript, with a whiff of ugly. But it did not inspire complete revulsion (and thereby, fascination) in me as Boston's did, so there is no picture.

We headed out, grabbed some grocery supplies, saw where I used to live until age six & then with a little time to spare before dinner, we trekked to the viewpoint at Flattop. The original plan was to do the hike from the viewpoint up to the top of the mountain at some point, but time was running out on this trip. We went for the photo-ops instead.

There's Mikey!

There's Keegy!

And then some very nice lady who was zoom-illiterate offered to take a picture of both of us.

We journeyed back to the house for a royal feast of leg of lamb (rotisseried on the grill!), savory zucchini pudding and a dessert of fruit tart. Our appetizer combined three of my favorite things in the world: Shrimp. Wrapped in bacon. Rolled in Romano cheese. Broil. Devour. These little miracles are known as Knik River Shrimp - click here for the recipe (side note: the Jim Morgan referenced is the very Jim Morgan that came over that night - my Dad's friend and captain of the boat that took me halibut fishing every summer I visited).

SUNDAY

It rained all day. But again, Mr. Weather was generally in tune with our trip as we had planned to visit the Alaska Native Heritage Center & the Anchorage Museum of History and Art this day.

The Native Heritage Center gets a big thumbs up, overall. The only problem is their ticket pricing - $23 for non-Alaskans, and $9 for Alaskan residents. You know, I think with the thousand plus dollars each Alaskan gets every year from the ravaging of their state (Permanent Dividend Fund), they could pay a little more to close that gap. The upshot is that for the combo price of $24 you get admission to both the Heritage Center and the Museum downtown which normally retails for $8 a head.

Tons of knowledge is ensconced in both institutions. The Heritage Center has a lake about which the various tribes are situated in representations of their traditional villages. In each of the houses you can see demonstrations of handicraft and day-to-day life.

We only got through the history part of the Anchorage Museum of History and Art and the exhibits were superbly detailed. I won't say much else as it's all best seen in person.

Our final dinner was pork tacos. To contribute, Mike provided his famous cookie salad, which was gulped down very readily by the locals. After all the dinners described, you may ask what my contribution to any given meal during this trip was. I'll tell you what it was. A pouch of powdered Bernaise Sauce mix. I opened the pouch. Heated it with butter. And milk. And I stirred. Stirred with more fervor and passion than any of those schmucks displayed with their fancy cookie salads, schmancy linguines, snobbish buffalo wings. And NO, if you were to ask the people present the night this was made if I actually completed the sauce to a successful thickness, they would NOT tell you that I failed (got that Mike?).

MONDAY - June 25^th

Our last day, already? (Blog readers may alternately find this to be an eternity later)

Our final dining adventure was to a home style breakfast joint called Gwennies. Mike and I shared Reindeer Sausage and Eggs & then shared this walrus.

Brutus is very jealous of this picture.

And finally, I was able to pose the old folks & snap a picture. There's my Dad and stepmom, Kathleen.

Glancing at me an' my Dad, do you see a resemblance? Neither do we. The current popular theories are that my Mom was either having a dalliance with the postman or Jay Leno, thus explaining the chin. Though it means I must acknowledge my "fortunate" chin, I will gladly claim my share of Mr. Leno's wealth. Ante up, Daddy.

And so it was, that two wayward Oregonians ventured through the Alaskan hinterland of strip malls, freeways and squat skyscrapers. And we still saw a moose! Success!

A shout-out of thanks to Ms. Lizzy for providing companionship to BruBru & for providing a free shuttle service back and forth from the airport!

Anchorage - Part 1 - June 2007 (originally posted on MySpace)

2009-06-20T17:13:00.000-07:00

Last month Mike and I visited the final frontier. It's my longest blog yet, so I'm splitting it into two parts for all y'all's sake.

WEDNESDAY - June 20^th

I was pleased to find that Alaska Airlines did not subscribe to United's sardine-can philosophy of airline seating. I was also thrilled (after having the last two plane trips be cross-country) that our journey would be just a single hop of about 3.5 hours.

This was the view from the plane of the icy landscape that awaited us. A frozen, barren wasteland upon which we would survive by harpooning whales and making endless sno-cones with the Torani syrups I had brought with me.

Buuuuuut….in the hour between me taking the picture and landing in Anchorage, global warming reached its tipping point and the surface temperature had escalated to about 75 degrees. The landscape awoke from its long chilly slumber and out sprung grass, trees and townhouses (this being the view from the camper that was our bedroom).

No kidding, my friends, the first two days in Anchorage brought sunshine and mid to upper 70s. I even returned with a tan I did not have before (insert a "Baked Alaska" comment here - I am too sophisticated to make such a joke).

Our arrival was trumpeted by the ritual making of Buffalo Wings by my Dad - a favorite of mine every summer I would visit as a youthful sprite. The late afternoon and evening were spent catching up after four years since the last visit (and seven years since my Dad and stepmother had first met Mike). During the chat (which involved the ever-present neighbors - you know how sitcom neighbors drop in all the time? This was the same thing, only without being funny in the slightest), it was discovered that there were four-- FOUR -- gay couples living within a block in the townhouse complex. We had unwittingly stumbled upon the gay district of Anchorage. The fact that my Dad lives in this gay recruitment zone and has a bichon frise for a dog are not the least bit interesting compared to the story that was told of him and Kathleen visiting "Mad Myrna's" (Anchorage gay-friendly bar) and my Dad attempting to solicit another man to dance with him. After several attempts the guy finally says "Sorry, but I'm straight." To which my Dad responds "No shit? So am I - that's my wife over there."

Sacked from the day of travel, we stayed up only late enough to see the literal "midnight sun" but not late enough to watch the sun flirt with the horizon, dive down for just an hour or two and pop right back up.

THURSDAY

Our first full day in Alaska dawned warm and sunny. Mike visited the Anchorage Police Department just to see what their recruiting spiel might be (don't fret, folks - it was a distant, distant, DISTANT notion to begin with that we'd ever pick up and move that far away - this was basically for entertainment value only) and was not given a very good song and dance, it seems.

We chose this gorgeous day to make our excursion an hour to the south to Portage Glacier. Well. Portage Lake, rather. There used to be a glacier that covered the whole lake. Then there used to be a lake with a whole lot of glacier in it. Now it is basically a lake with a glacier on the horizon that occasionally dispatches chunks of ice toward the visitor center so that tourists (us) may "ooh" and "ahh" appropriately. When we visited, there was one (singular, one) lovely chunk-o'-ice sitting picture-perfect by the visitors center. I am thoroughly convinced that at this point they are sending some unlucky schlump up to the glacier to knock off a piece of ice now and then, so as to provide pictures like the following. In ten years they will be importing large blocks of ice from some factory in China while tourists (us again) sip Mai Tais on the newly famous Portage Sand Dunes.

The visitors center was free and had a few nifty exhibits, including this bear:

But, Mike is afraid of bears. So he paddled away quickly.

Post-Portage, we made our way to Alyeska: ski-resort in winter and apparently paragliders' paradise in the summer. This is a notable ski-resort in that base elevation is all of 250 feet, with the view from the top (where the tram deposits you) at about 2500 feet. Air temperature was somewhere in the 60s, so it was of course a fun photo-op to show shorts 'n' sandals in the snow that remained on top.

But who cares about my stinky feet when there are views like this to consider?

We watched as a paraglider set herself up and we captured this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcYLR6PP-A4

We made our way back to town - it was finally time for us to go a huntin'. The game? A Moose. A Moose's Tooth, that is - Anchorage's best pizza joint. However, we were sidelined and forced to go to the Bear's Tooth instead, as Matisyahu was playing an outdoor concert at the Moose's Tooth and the place was packed. The Bear's Tooth would fit right in here in P-Town as the complex was reminiscent of a McMenamin's. One portion was a café where pizza and other casual fare was offered, another part of the complex was a slightly more upscale southwestern grill & the crown jewel was the theater-pub. It must be the only one in town as it was gushed about like it was just the cat's pajamas. "A theater!" they said…"A theater with tables!" they continued… "A theater with tables where you can order real food … and watch a real movie!" In spite of my mockery of the locals, I will say that the pizza was quite good. It is very Schmizza-like, which is a positive thing in my eyes - but with a better crust.

FRIDAY

This day was our day of redemption for the endless gluttony that defined our trip (take note that this is a running theme in my vacations). This was the day we had chosen to bike the Anchorage trail system. In spite of Anchorage largely being an auto-oriented wasteland (the fine folks of Fairbanks call the city "Los Anchorage" - in return, Fairbanks is called "Squarebanks."), there is a beautiful and comprehensive bike trail system. Very few actual bike lanes can be found in the city, but a lot of trails parallel the major roads and two notable greenways cross the city with numerous tunnels or overpasses at most roads.

The weather decided to commend us for working on our fitness by cooling the temp to about 60 for the day. The downside being that it was cloudy and the mountains weren't out. My Dad drove us to pick up the bikes from his gracious friends that were lending them to us and we took off from the southwest corner of the city down the Campbell Creek Trail. These are all paved trails, mind you, we were not out to test our extreme skills (that we don't have) in the mountain wilderness. But Anchorage had other things in mind for us…

We reached a point in the trail that was to be the site of a "future crossing." To continue the trail we were forced down to the creek itself to traverse its slippery rocks. Here it was everyone! This was our true Alaskan experience - we were offroading it, baby, with four lanes of freeway and four lanes of frontage road above us!

Back to the paved trail we looped up to the university/hospital district. Every time Mike and I walk down 23^rd Avenue in Portland Mike insists on pointing to Legacy Good Samaritan and proclaiming that this is the site at which he was birthed. Finally, proudly, we biked up to Providence Hospital in Anchorage and I was able to say the exact same thing! Yes, it was as anticlimactic as it sounds.

We were now on the Chester Creek Trail, which was a much busier bicycling/jogging thoroughfare. Possibly because there aren't huge creek-fording gaps to navigate like the Campbell Creek Trail. But, just because this was more peopled and going through a more urban part of town doesn't mean that we didn't continue our Alaskan experience. Off ahead of us a moose galloped across the trail and into the brush. He then stopped in the trees and posed for the full 30 seconds it took me to get my camera out and snap the picture and he promptly disappeared afterward. Should I be worried that the Anchorage Visitor's Bureau is sending out slave moose in cleverly timed intervals to delight the visitors? That or an expertly crafted audio-animatronic. You decide:

This trail hooked up to the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail, which takes users from downtown Anchorage, past the International Airport (VERY close to a runway) and on to a large system of trails in Kincaid Park. We first went north toward downtown Anchorage. Again, the mountains weren't out to play, so it's not the prettiest picture of Anchorage.

We then went back south and made it to the International Airport before making the decision to get back to the house - which was on the far side of town. Thus began our pure in-city biking experience. Generally pretty good - bike corridors in town are basically just wider sidewalks posing as "multi-use trails." In the end we had biked at least 25 miles. To celebrate our healthiness we gorged on homemade Linguine with Clam Sauce.

Stay tuned: Saturday through Monday to come soon! Comments welcome in the meantime!

Boston - April 2007 (originally posted on MySpace)

2009-06-20T16:58:00.000-07:00

Three weeks after my valiant return, I finally sit down to write of my Boston trip with Miss Emily. She is going to law school starting this fall and was looking for companionship to tour the city. Boy, she drew the short stick and somehow ended up with me. You may think there is no worse fate, and you may be correct. But let's move on from such unpleasantries...

We flew United with a layover in Denver. I honestly do not believe I've experienced seats as close together as these. Seats so close that when the person in front of you reclined their seat, they were suddenly in your lap as if expecting a head rub. Ask Emily - again, drawing the short stick with the worse seat neighbors in front of her. Between this and the screaming children, we were only a few squawking chickens and spitting llamas from being on some bus in Central America taking a couple of gringos up to a jungle-ridden mountain village in a crappy adventure flick.

You know that obnoxious person who feels compelled to imitate the stereotypical accent of the places they visit? I am that person. Emily was probably regretting her choice of travel mates halfway through the first flight after I had uttered "chow-dah" for the umpteenth time. I was rewarded, however, with genuine instances of the Boston accent when a lady behind us at the baggage claim kept repeating "Take the kids to the 'keah'" and our waitress the next day at lunch humored me with several reps of "chow-dah."

When we arrived, our baggage (along with the few other Portlanders' baggage who had also transferred in Denver) did not arrive with us. Panic did not quite set in before we were told that it was on the next flight in - only an hour and a half out. For our inconvenience we were given forty dollars worth of vouchers to Legals Seafood - a Boston institution. So, within an hour of setting foot in (a very rainy and cold) Boston, I was having clam chowder. One checkmark on my culinary "to-do" list was placed.

A cab whisked us away to the hotel via Big-Dig tunnels. I, for one, am glad they spent 14 billion dollars on it. Falling ceiling panels killing motorists be damned, it was worth it!

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/12/us/12tunnel.html?ex=1310356800&en=f19f993722c72777&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss

The next day dawned dry and cloudy. And windy and freakin' cold. But the pouring rain had stopped and this made it decent walking weather. First on the list was a school visit for Emily - directly across the street from the hotel. Afterward we began our first walking tour of Boston (known as America's Walking City - probably because motorists aren't particularly fond of tunnel pieces falling on them). We were only a couple of blocks from Boston Common, which is the start of the "Freedom Trail." The Freedom Trail is a red line (mostly in brick) that leads you from one historical site to another in Central Boston.

So we start here (Massachusetts State House)

Through this old cemetery (founded 1660)

By this awesome building that houses Baptists - I will convert if I get to worship here.

Past the old City Hall.

Then the Old Corner Bookstore, built in 1718

Oh look! The old State House!

Oh look! Faneuil Hall!

Oh look! Wait, what THE *@!!$#*?!

This, my friends, is the Boston City Hall - aka Headquarters of the Evil Empire. If ever a name for an architectural style was apt, it is this: Brutalism. This building scares the crap out of me - like it's not only going to tax me, but it's going to suck me in, grind me up and then use me as part of its asphalt mix for street paving. Maybe this accurately reflects what Bostonians really feel about their city government.

Balancing the horror of the City Hall, the Quincy Market across the way was a wonderland for a person like me. That is, someone who really, really, REALLY likes food. I felt as I understood where Templeton the rat was coming from when he sang in the animated version of Charlotte's Web "The faiiiir is a veritable smorgasbord-orgasbord-orgasbord!" (Yes, I did just reference that) Tons of food stalls - and nary a chain that I could recognize. This was not just another food court stuffed with a McDonalds and a Sbarro's, no, this was the food court mecca. We already had our plan for lunch, but I am already figuring out where in my schedule I can plan a month around a Quincy Market Pilgrimage.

Lunch was had at Durgin Park, another local institution. Great chowder and scallops wrapped in bacon were ingested by me. They are more than happy to tell you how long they've been around too:

Onward to the oldest part of Boston, happily populated by a large Italian population whose efforts have resulted in every single storefront you see in the following picture being an Italian restaurant. I have just upped my culinary pilgrimage to two months because of this.

Here is Paul Revere and his horse's ass.

About this time there were actually little snow pellets coming down. What a weird coast this was.

I demand this ridiculously adorable row-house to be deeded to me. As in NOW.

As it was getting later into the afternoon, we turned our sights back to the hotel and *oops*, just happened upon an H&M Store. Now, Emily had previously sung the praises of this Swedish chain (those Swedes! They think of everything - anyone else about to wet their pants over IKEA opening this year in town?) and Kami put in an equally good word as well. For those who like buying clothes and accessories, I totally get it - tons of great stuff and designs for great prices. To me it's like what the clothing department at Target has been attempting to do via being trendy at rock-bottom prices. This is a couple of notches above and absolutely huge. I'd like to see one in PDX.

Emily needed some recovery time as her stomach was not feeling up to par, so I struck out on my own to Beacon Hill. Yawn. Not *another* historic and elegant east-coast neighborhood. Boooooring. Or not…it was great. Think NW Portland charm and multiply it by some number (arbitrarily I will suggest "ten"). Yeah, that's Beacon Hill. In the second pic, note the font of the 7-11 signage. Obviously strict rules apply in this 'hood - the Starbucks was the same way. Plus, there are no "For Sale" signs - there were multiple brokerage businesses along the main drag with boards in the window with the current listings. In spite of this signage crackdown, note the good-natured posting on the fence in the third picture.

The setting sun cast the Boston skyline in a most flattering light.

Dinner and Guinness were had at MJ O'Connor's Irish Pub, just a couple blocks from the hotel. Culinary checkmark number two - Irish food in Boston. And a guy with a real Irish accent! Or at least a fabulous fake one! http://www.mjoconnorsboston.com

The next day our main goal was to visit the Museum of Fine Arts, approximately a 30 minute walk away nestled amidst several university campuses and parks. We took the scenic route down Newbury Street & Commonwealth Avenue. These neighborhoods are as close as this American has yet come to Europe. Commonwealth is a residential street marked by rows of (expensive) homes flanking a park full of dead trees. Dead because for some reason it is still winter in April in Boston. Newbury is the premier shopping avenue in the city, which meant that for us, the primary shopping would be of the window variety. The local Nike-Town is on this street, inexplicably prompting me to start singing (and not stop in a timely manner) "Won't you take me to…Nike-town?" At this point Emily threw a shiny nickel out into the middle of the street, hoping for me to jump into traffic to chase after it. Sadly for her, I was distracted thinking about Quincy Market and would suggest that in the future she try throwing out scallops wrapped in bacon if she would like her plan to succeed.

You know all those modest Christian Science reading rooms scattered about the country? Well, all of their funds are funneled into this:

Holy mother of pearl! This is called the "Mother Church" and is the headquarters for the Christian Science folk. The focal point is the original church building built in 1894 and surrounded by a complex designed by I.M. Pei in the late 60s and early 70s. The newer stuff is not my bag, but the overall whole is pretty impressive.

The Museum was splendid - Portland Art Museum is quite impressive for its size, but this was my first "big(ger) city" museum trip and I was properly put in my place. Unfortunately, due to expansion, whole exhibits were missing - in fact, according to this museum, 20^th century American Art did not happen at all. They had a great innovation for tickets - after purchasing your ticket, you could utilize it again for free within 10 days.

We decided to do Italian for dinner and a spiffy looking place, Maggiano's, was just a block away from our hotel. Sadly, authenticity did not win the day as it turns out this was a chain of restaurants owned by the same company that owns Romano's Macaroni Grill. Not so sadly, the food was great. The concept is supposed to be more upscale than Romano's and I had a perfect Linguine with Clams - it was just loaded with savory broth. The nearest location for now is in Bellevue, so if you're up there it is a chain I'd happily recommend.

This dining experience marked what I called the completion of my Boston Culinary Trifecta. I had the chowder and fresh seafood. I had the Irish food. And I had the Italian food. I felt whole.

The next day the Boston adventure was to end. We boarded two more crappy United flights (oh golly, I can pay 45 bucks for an extra couple of inches of legroom in Economy Plus) and any dozing I did constituted swirling images of old 60s and 70s ads for commercial airline service where the meals were divine and the comfort sublime.

So I hit Philly last year, Boston this year…is the big NYC going to get scheduled anytime soon? I keep skirting it, but it's only a matter of time. More immediately, Mike and I are traveling to Alaska in June for five days. My Dad still lives up there and we will have full utilization of a vehicle so there will be a lot of great sight-seeing, visiting, and some beautiful hiking/biking (Anchorage has a very comprehensive trail system). Plus, we'll be there on the longest day of the year - which means about 20 hours of daylight up there.

Take care, y'all!

(PS - it is no joke that they are crazy about their Red Sox. An ad for a furniture store was played several times instructing customers to come in and buy just about anything and if the Red Sox are victorious at season's end, the price of the furniture is refunded completely via insurance the store takes out. That's Bwa-ston for you!)

Philly - August 2006 (originally posted on MySpace)

2009-06-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

*Grab a coffee, my longest blog *with pix* lies ahead...

What to say about Philly... Wawa? Yuengling? Schuykill? Pick a crazy word, any crazy word, and you can find it in Philly. But, let's start at the very beginning...

My direct flight into Philly is best remembered as one of restless sleep, a guy kicking back two shots of vodka (not the pilot...oh, and not me) and a little girl kicking my left leg. Valerie and her mother, Shera (like She-ra, Princess of Power, only not at all like that), introduced themselves at the beginning of the flight, clearly looking to gain favor by saying how delightful the northwest was and how uninspiring living in Buffalo was. Good, you get points for that. They cashed in all of the points when Shera coaxed Valerie to sleep with her head on her lap and her little child-legs stretched across the center seat, her feet just barely touching the delineation between our two seats. I accepted that I may be the proud recipient of a couple of toe-pokes when the girl needed to stretch and change position. Along with toe-pokes, I also got kicks and prods to my thigh and knee and risked a sudden heel drive to my crotch that was thankfully thwarted. The more aggressive attacks aside, I stayed pretty sympathetic to the plight of a kid needing sleep. What started to bug me more was that her socks had a patina of yellowish grunge on them. And they were touching me. Kicks to the crotch? C'est la vie. Grungy yellow kid's socks? Ew. Reason #588 that I shouldn't have children yet.

The world's slowest baggage claim gave me time to soak in the day's attacks between Hezbollah and Israel on the giant monitors above the baggage carousel. Yeah! Current events really put me in that vacation spirit! Can't they switch it to Animal Planet or something?

Morgan dutifully picked me up to spirit me away to the northern 'burbs of Philly. I remarked that I was hungry and was given the choice between McDonalds or "Wawa". I eagerly went with the unknown. "Wawa", a word that conjures images of a shrieking toddler demanding a glass of liquid sustenance, is a ubiquitous chain market a la 7-11, but bigger. Inside its magic walls exists a full deli, an array of "Wawa Wraps", everything a convenience market should carry, and a central hub of no less than four checkers. For breakfast I had a Buffalo Blue Chicken Wrap. Beats a "muffin" with eggs and sausage sitting under a heat lamp, and it earned Wawa a thumbs-up. Below is a Wawa billboard, for proof of its existence.

Arrived at the Morgan/Adam residence, met Adam who was barbequing brisket in a smoker on the balcony, and felt immediately at home - the giant sectional that used to be in Morgan's Mom's house was lording over the living room. I love that thing! It loves me back, as it gave me permission to open it up ("gently", it whispered), to unfold the hide-a-bed.

A remark was made that the air conditioner was working fine, but probably needed a good cleaning (it was in the upper 90s with heat index 'round 105). Not five minutes later, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the apartment maintenance men, apparently fresh out of a newly opened can of "Pre-made East Coast Handyman." I had never heard so many utterances of the words "youz" and "howz" as they bumbled over to the AC unit to fix it. Apparently it had been leaking on the outside, but within the hour they had it set up with a new filter and had it functioning perfectly. Just don't cross them, they'll call Guido, and then it's bedtime with the fishies.

Napping commenced, followed by what I call "A day in the life of Morgan and Adam." A great opportunity just to chill and catch up, we stopped at pet stores, Best Buy, the mall, Baskin Robbins (they are paired in the same building as Dunkin' Donuts over there - Sugar Rush! Getcher Sugar Rush!). I got to go onto the military base and see big fast planes, utilitarian buildings, and was given a neck-rest pillow for my return flight by Morgan, purchased at the NEX - Navy Exchange. We finished the day at a themed shopping area known as "Peddler's Village", in the rolling pastureland to the north of Morgan's place. Adorable - but one must pose the question why a whole new "village" needs to be built when there is a cute existing village just 'round every curve in the road. Oh yeah, probably because those villages don't have a restaurant that makes KILLER mozerella sticks - the cheese is sheltered by a thin garlic-bread encasement, crusted with parmesan. Eat that, historic villages! We kicked back Yuenglings - the local favorite beer. In fact, it is the default beer if one orders a lager. It is made in America's oldest brewery and I don't know if it's just the law of scarcity kicking in, but I am just jonesing for another one. And I'm not even a big beer drinker! Needless to say, they don't distribute past a region that basically comprises most of the original colonies.

Sleep came quickly for me that night...a surprise, since I was sharing the room with a snake named Slick who has reportedly escaped his cage twice in the past.

The next day was our big day out. We were to hit the historic sights of Philly, eat cheesesteaks, and see a concert by the best band in antiquity. If there was any doubt that this could all be accomplished in a day's time, let the naysayers be silenced.

We were given a tip that we should try to ride the train into town versus parking in "Center City." I was given stories of at least two instances that Morgan knew about where friends had parked downtown on the narrow roads only to come back and find the sides of their cars facing the streets mutilated by passing traffic. We would later find that we were complicit with the culprit (How's that for foreshadowing?). So, we go to the nearest train station for SEPTA, the local transit agency, only to be greeted by a sign claiming that the station closed after 11am. The only activity would be the commuters coming back on trains during rush hour later in the day. So we hop further down to a bigger station. Didn't see a sign before we noticed that there was no way to purchase tickets. Maybe you get the tix on the train itself. They sure as heck don't care to let you know. SEPTA ain't no Tri-Met, I'll just say that.

So we take the plunge and drive to Center City, parking in the heart of the quirky South Street neighborhood. Just a few blocks from our spot was Jim's Steaks - one of the more prominent cheesesteak assembly lines. Authentic cheesesteak uses cheese-whiz folks, so I technically cheated by getting provolone instead. Regardless, I continued my city-specific eating streak (Buffalo Wings in Buffalo in 2004) with my sandwich in Philly. I have a disgusting looking picture of it, but damn did it go down nice! Below is the restaurant, with Philadelphia's disaffected youth being very cool.

Liberty Bell? Check. Independence Hall? Check. Benji Franklin in a toga? Grrrrrowl! I can't speak for the rest of you, but that's how I like my founding fathers. Moving on...

To hit the high points in a quick fashion, we settled on taking a tour in a vehicle called a "duck." It was vaguely boat shaped and themed with life jackets. We were given little duck-bill quacker kazoo thingies (that's the technical term) to announce our good intentions as we paraded down the street in this oddball vehicle. Philadelphians were described as friendly and we were told they would greet us in kind if we quacked and waved. A wry smile between Morgan, Adam and myself indicated that we knew that the response we would get would be the one with the single finger. Let me admit this very moment that we were wrong. I was wrong. But just about that, nothing else, ever again (or ever before). We only got a couple of the one finger salutes, but the majority of the time we really were greeted with waves and smiles. Unbelievable! I didn't come to the east coast for sincerity and kindness! Bah. But we realized why people's cars rarely remained unscathed after parking in Philly. The Duck made contact with vehicles at least twice, if not more. Bang! Scraaaape!

An interesting sight on the tour was a tree in a park, with a little iron fence around it. Said tree is a space traveler - as a sapling, it was carried on a shuttle mission to the moon and then brought back to earth for its planting. That's cool, tree, but have you ever been to a Muse concert? Thought not. Just keep growing your rings and stop gloating.

Other highlights included the oldest post office in the country, still operable, and the only one without a flag flying over it. This commemorates that it was built before there was even a US of A to speak of. The Ghostbusters tower resides in Philly, as does a very literal memorial statue to the great Irish immigration. On one end is a bunch of Irish folk dying in thier potato-barren fields. In the middle they are packing up what they have to leave for a new life. In the end they are arriving in America, where they will suffer years of being a bullied minority until the day that people realize that a culture that drinks that much can't be all bad and, in fact, deserve a big green holiday.

So, those decorative life jackets? Not so decorative. What once seemed a gimmick became reality as our vehicle rolled down a ramp into the Delaware River, the driver traded out with a captain, and our amphibious craft navigated the shoreline. Truly cool. Why doesn't Portland have a similar Duck tour? Okay, settle down folks, I understand that the bottoms of the vehicles would corrode too rapidly in our river's contaminated muck. Good point, case settled.

Adam very proficiently hailed us a taxi upon our return to visit a bar Morgan's been keen on, Monk's Cafe. Sadly, this hole in the wall was packed with the Friday post-work crowd. Adam used his skills again to get us our cab to the territory around the venue that would bring me Muse. We found our way to a bar called Finnigan's Wake, very Irish, very union, where a somewhat rotund and very hairy man in his 40s was wearing a half-shirt and a diaper. You can't make this stuff up!

Finally it was showtime. A serviceable band called Cloud Room opened for Muse. No one knew who they were in the little group around us, but upon seeing a wildly dancing girl a few feet away, we came to the conclusion that we should ask her. They were good, especially paired with Yuengling. After they departed, a good hour separated us from Muse.

What...a...show.

I have not been to enough concerts to really say, but I'm fairly certain the only thing that could top that show would be another Muse concert. Every last bit was a pulsating spectacle of epic wonderment. I am SO thrilled to announce that they WILL be coming to Portland in OCTOBER.

The next morning we spent time back at Peddler's Village and I had another east coast fave, the Crab Cake Sandwich.

The whirlwind was about to end - I found myself next to another mother-daughter combo on the way to my layover in Phoenix. Near the end of the flight, as the daughter wasn't quite comprehending why we couldn't get off the plane at 30,000 feet, the mother explained to her that we were as high off the ground as the distance it took to drive from "home" to "GiggleKids" (presumably a repository for slobbering half-pints). I had never thought about it that way! Dear gum, how high were we?! GiggleKids? With great fortune, we made it to the ground safely where that family would catch their connecting flight to Flaggle-Staff and dance with the merry munchkins living in the mountains of Northern Arizona. Yeesh.

And here I've been, for a few days now, wrestling with the great debate - To Blog or not to Blog. Many thanks to Morgan and Adam - what fine hosts. So great to visit on your turf! Hope you are having a good time in Merry ol' England!