Has it been that long? Things have been a little weird.
The house: the screening is still to come for the front porch. All the wood involved has been painted, but the work is still to be done. The heating ductwork is all done, and it makes for a low ceiling in some places in the basement but it's really shiny and it isn't filled with dust and mouse turds. And we don't have TV cable, electrical cords, and whatnot running through ripped-out corners of the old ducts. One outdoor water spigot needs to be replaced, but the plumber, HVAC guy and electrician are all done otherwise, and we're only out $12,000 above our contractor's bid - which failed to mention any of this stuff.
The yard: after the contractor brought us "lots of good dirt," we had to go out and get 24 yards of black dirt and regrade the whole yard (OK, 3/4 of it) just to restore some flow away from the house. Then we laid patio block under the drip line, as much of the house doesn't have gutter. Then, on Sept. 7th, we began seeding. We actually have some lawn, and along with the return of some garden plants and the gift from friends of others, the yard is beginning to look semi-normal. We may actually have to mow a time or two before the end of the season.
The exchange student: Lena is still with us. She's a sweetheart, eminently self-regulated, finishing the tennis season, playing violin in orchestra and percussion in band. We think she'll move to an actual host family soon, but she wouldn't be the worst person we've had live here.
The world: oh, for God's sake. You name it: Teapot Dome, Saving & Loan in the 80's, any sports book. Some crazies invented a new way to bet on money, and the first few got out before it blew up. Remember the mergers & acquisitions madness of the 80's? Buyers would acquire a company which had a little debt but was paying its way. But the acquirer would rack up so much new debt to make the buy that the acquired couldn't pay both its old debt and the new debt. So the acquirer would go belly-up, and take the solid acquired company with it. Same stuff with the mortgages: a gamble, too many layers of debt on re-packaged "securities," and we're all in the shitter. Doesn't anybody ever learn? If any package involving my tax dollars is created, any company taking part had better pay their CEOs no more than I make... all right, no more than the President makes. Anybody makes $10 million off my taxes, I might reconsider my position on guns.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Let's See, Where Were We?
It's been awhile. Things have been happening, some too fast, some not fast enough.
Our friend Hasan has come and gone. You need to have a Turkish farmer as a friend: he didn't want to sit around doing nothing, so he rebuilt our brick front sidewalk, helped with some of our painting, and painted his friend (and ours) Beth's front porch. He and I visited his friends on a farm near Woodville where he worked nearly thirty years ago - this was to be a one hour visit, but it lasted five and a half hours. Other friends came to visit him. We dined out, we had dinner guests, we had picnics, I managed to not gain weight. Today the three of us took him to the Mall of America and then to the airport.
Three of us? Meet Yelena Chikulaeva, Lena (Lee-ehna) for short, 15 years old, from Petrozavodsk, Russia. That's several hours' drive north of St. Petersburg, so she'll be ready for the cold weather. She is in an exchange program, and we volunteered to be a "paper" host family, and the paper has taken human form. We don't know how long she'll be with us before the program can place her with a family with school-age kids, but we're getting her set up for school as if she's here for the year. She has been here for a week. It turns out that she and I have similar tastes in music. We had to pry her out of the Mall of America. Seems like a great normal kid.
We still have no furnace or air conditioner, but we have some shiny sheet metal and some hope. The laundry is going great. Most of the exterior paint is done, but we have some stain to apply on the porch deck and steps. Someday we hope to get some more dirt, and get it leveled for proper drainage, and start some grass, and replant the garden. And, just maybe, the contractor will show up and put up acceptable screening on our front porch.
It's all too much. I tend to shut down a little bit when too much is happening all at once, and if I'm in the middle of something I've been told is important, like painting, I might keep doing that or go back to it too soon instead of visiting with friends or family. Now, give me one thing to do, and one person to go have a beer with instead of doing it, and my priorities straighten out right away. But two or more things and two or more people, and forget it. Gimme the brush.
Our friend Hasan has come and gone. You need to have a Turkish farmer as a friend: he didn't want to sit around doing nothing, so he rebuilt our brick front sidewalk, helped with some of our painting, and painted his friend (and ours) Beth's front porch. He and I visited his friends on a farm near Woodville where he worked nearly thirty years ago - this was to be a one hour visit, but it lasted five and a half hours. Other friends came to visit him. We dined out, we had dinner guests, we had picnics, I managed to not gain weight. Today the three of us took him to the Mall of America and then to the airport.
Three of us? Meet Yelena Chikulaeva, Lena (Lee-ehna) for short, 15 years old, from Petrozavodsk, Russia. That's several hours' drive north of St. Petersburg, so she'll be ready for the cold weather. She is in an exchange program, and we volunteered to be a "paper" host family, and the paper has taken human form. We don't know how long she'll be with us before the program can place her with a family with school-age kids, but we're getting her set up for school as if she's here for the year. She has been here for a week. It turns out that she and I have similar tastes in music. We had to pry her out of the Mall of America. Seems like a great normal kid.
We still have no furnace or air conditioner, but we have some shiny sheet metal and some hope. The laundry is going great. Most of the exterior paint is done, but we have some stain to apply on the porch deck and steps. Someday we hope to get some more dirt, and get it leveled for proper drainage, and start some grass, and replant the garden. And, just maybe, the contractor will show up and put up acceptable screening on our front porch.
It's all too much. I tend to shut down a little bit when too much is happening all at once, and if I'm in the middle of something I've been told is important, like painting, I might keep doing that or go back to it too soon instead of visiting with friends or family. Now, give me one thing to do, and one person to go have a beer with instead of doing it, and my priorities straighten out right away. But two or more things and two or more people, and forget it. Gimme the brush.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Wednesday, Wednesday
It's a slow news day, except it's not all that slow. Big news: Ross popped the question. He and Laura are now officially and for real engaged! Wendy and I like how he managed it: it wasn't exactly a surprise, since both of them were in on the making of the ring, from a stone from his grandmother, and this had been ready since early summer. But he found a nice setting with meaning for them, and Laura could hardly talk when she called.
Our friend Hasan, from Turkey, will be here this weekend and stay for about 9 days. His elder daughter, Canan (pronounced "Janahn"), is enrolled in Ann Arbor at the Ross Graduate School of Business, University of Michigan, and they are getting her settled there. Getting a Ceylan ("Jaylahn") daughter settled is a little more of a project that it might be for some other families, but Canan has a week of activities so Hasan can come visit. I'm a little surprised that Hasan's wife, Ayse ("I-sheh"), isn't here. Hasan is the wise man who taught me to drink Raki ("Rockeh"), the anise-flavored drink, very Turkish, and live to tell the tale. I have taken a couple of days off to enjoy his visit.
We may or may not be at least a welcome host family for a young lady from Russia. If she comes to us at all, it will be next week, for a period of time not yet determined. Lena is from a city north of St. Petersburg, plays the violin (our contact was Laura's Suzuki violin teacher), and does a pretty good job corresponding via e-mail in English.
It's Dunn County Fair week, the only week that our neighborhood worries about closing the garages, locking the houses, and keeping the carnies out of the shrubbery. We live near the fairgrounds, and the walk to the downtown taverns goes right past our house. It's a small county, under 40,000 population, so the fair does what it can but isn't as exciting as it was when we had a small child in the house. We'll go down one evening for fair food.
We keep finding out more about how our contractor didn't do a good job for us. We had to have some repair to several floor joists; not that Larry broke them, but they were just hanging there and he didn't even mention them, much less try to address the problem. I think the problem was hidden when the house was held up by crappy old walls, but those were removed and this was a remediation that should have been done but wasn't. There's also a bit of a problem involving the treated lumber boards between the old sill and the new block foundation: the treated lumber is considerably too narrow to do its intended job. This also means that the contractor straight out lied to me when I asked him about the apparent poor fit. The accumulation of flaws and problems is reaching the point that lawyers may have a chance to make some money.
The electrician is done. We have power and lighting in the basement, and some other additions and corrections that, hey, as long as he was here... and the heating guy isn't done, but he got our dryer vented, and we can do laundry at home. Now, if the washer will work properly (may have some issues with the spin cycle), we'll be happy about something.
So: some up, some down, but the engagement news is the big story, and it makes my daughter happy and makes my wife cry (joy, of course..?..).
Our friend Hasan, from Turkey, will be here this weekend and stay for about 9 days. His elder daughter, Canan (pronounced "Janahn"), is enrolled in Ann Arbor at the Ross Graduate School of Business, University of Michigan, and they are getting her settled there. Getting a Ceylan ("Jaylahn") daughter settled is a little more of a project that it might be for some other families, but Canan has a week of activities so Hasan can come visit. I'm a little surprised that Hasan's wife, Ayse ("I-sheh"), isn't here. Hasan is the wise man who taught me to drink Raki ("Rockeh"), the anise-flavored drink, very Turkish, and live to tell the tale. I have taken a couple of days off to enjoy his visit.
We may or may not be at least a welcome host family for a young lady from Russia. If she comes to us at all, it will be next week, for a period of time not yet determined. Lena is from a city north of St. Petersburg, plays the violin (our contact was Laura's Suzuki violin teacher), and does a pretty good job corresponding via e-mail in English.
It's Dunn County Fair week, the only week that our neighborhood worries about closing the garages, locking the houses, and keeping the carnies out of the shrubbery. We live near the fairgrounds, and the walk to the downtown taverns goes right past our house. It's a small county, under 40,000 population, so the fair does what it can but isn't as exciting as it was when we had a small child in the house. We'll go down one evening for fair food.
We keep finding out more about how our contractor didn't do a good job for us. We had to have some repair to several floor joists; not that Larry broke them, but they were just hanging there and he didn't even mention them, much less try to address the problem. I think the problem was hidden when the house was held up by crappy old walls, but those were removed and this was a remediation that should have been done but wasn't. There's also a bit of a problem involving the treated lumber boards between the old sill and the new block foundation: the treated lumber is considerably too narrow to do its intended job. This also means that the contractor straight out lied to me when I asked him about the apparent poor fit. The accumulation of flaws and problems is reaching the point that lawyers may have a chance to make some money.
The electrician is done. We have power and lighting in the basement, and some other additions and corrections that, hey, as long as he was here... and the heating guy isn't done, but he got our dryer vented, and we can do laundry at home. Now, if the washer will work properly (may have some issues with the spin cycle), we'll be happy about something.
So: some up, some down, but the engagement news is the big story, and it makes my daughter happy and makes my wife cry (joy, of course..?..).
Monday, August 4, 2008
Up In The Air, Part 12
I was going to start with a few reflections about our New York trip. But my fingers are so numb that I have to get this out before they seize up.
It has to do with dirt. 12 yards of black dirt, plus some sand for a base for the brick walkway, and the black dirt appears to be several yards short of what's needed. That came today, and the guy who delivered it helped spread some of it out in the general areas where it is needed. He used a Bobcat or something. We have several days ahead of us involving rakes, shovels, wheelbarows and cussing.
The numb fingers, and the aches in hands, arms, shoulders, neck, back, abdominal muscles, hips, and legs come not from the dirt but from the painting we got done before the dirt showed up.
The front of the house has a new porch, and all the rest of the house has new wood around where the house met the new foundation. Even considering the poor restoration of grade done by the contractor, much of that wood was about a foot or less off the ground. All this new wood needed primer, and all of it needed exterior latex in the house color. We wanted to get all this paint on the house before the dirt showed up, so we wouldn't have to screw around with that issue later.
The net result is that I did two 3/4-laps of our house on my back, trying to paint the underside and the new sill trim. Laying on sand, clay and the odd rock, doing situps to dip the brush, trying to hold a ten-inch-long brush so it could get under an eight-inch-high board, holding my head up with my off hand, pounding in the paint with the brush so the rough-cut cedar would be entirely covered, all done twice in two days (all right, Wendy did one side one day, but I did a lot of both coats of the lower portion of the porch skirting), all of this has stressed muscles and joints that haven't been called upon in decades. Sunday in particular threatened rain, so I kept after the painting as long as I could. Do you know how you sometimes get stupid, dogged in the pursuit of something - in my case, completion of this task - beyond reason or comfort? Rain finally came in the night, after the paint had set up.
The soil we had gotten from the contractor, and what was left of our yard, is clay and sand. Everybody says, "oh, that'll grow a lawn, that'll hold the moisture," but we need some black dirt and some organic material if we hope to restore a garden area. We ended up with many yards less of dirt and yard than we began with; there was no effort to restore original grade, much less to deal with the fact that our house is now a foot and a half higher than it was. The clay and sand kick up in the rain, leaving quite a coating on the lower reaches of our house. The gray block of the new foundation now appears tan, which helps it match the paint (Benjamin Moore's "Waynesboro Taupe"). The mess today reflects the success of my weekend efforts, as the paint appears to be holding up, and justifies the extra ibuprofen. Once we get the black dirt around, and some vegetation established, the amount of dirt kicking up will be reduced by a gazillion per cent. We'll also work with drip rails and, eventually, with gutters and downspouts. The way this project gobbles up money, we should consider gargoyles.
We have much painting to do, including our back entryway, parts of the porch skirting more than 12 inches above the ground, and the porch itself, including way too many railing spindles. Some of this already has primer, but we have a ways to go. We have to put stain on the porch decking and the steps, and decide whether to paint the risers (the vertical part behind the step) in the taupe or stain it to match the treads. Then we have to choose how much, if any, of our trim color to use: pillars only, pillars and handrails, or none at all. We have selected a green stain for the stair treads and the deck, and our trim is a cranberry red, so we could accidentally find ourselves in a Christmas house.
This must all be done before somebody screens off half of our porch. Our contractor has this in his bid, but we don't think we'll ever see him again, so we may have some time to rethink the screen issue. The porch looks fine now without screens, but the dog and the cat enjoy being on the porch during the day when we're gone, and this can't happen without the screened area. Hey, I also enjoy the reduced bug traffic in the screened area, as anyone who recalls my blog of a couple years ago will recall.
Good news: last night's significant rain did not put any moisture into our basement. This was one of the points of the whole exercise: a dry basement. More good news: running two dehumidifiers, we are getting the new-concrete moisture out of the basement. Better yet: the washer is hooked up to its plumbing, and the dryer is vented.
Bad news: although the dryer 220 outlet is still around, the cord to it is almost completely severed. The washer needs about a 20-foot extension cord to reach a working electrical outlet. There's a crack in the exterior of one concrete block, which we can say was the doing of the contractor, even after the original and best concrete guy (not the ass-clowns brought in by the contractor, because the original guy wouldn't come because he wasn't getting paid, who made a hash of pouring the concrete floor and did sloppy work of putting in the last blocks) fixed the interior cracks in his work, which may have been caused by the contractor's early and sloppy backfilling of dirt against the new foundation. And we have several stringers, holding up our dining room (or not, as it appears) that seem to be floating free rather than supporting the house by resting on a beam.
While I was crawling around my house on my back, I noticed a great many areas which seem to me to be waiting for a whole bunch of foam insulation at the least, if not the tender care of a quality contractor who might have done some repair during the construction. Our old house has varying degrees of wood integrity around the lower edges, and it looks like some more help is needed. Then there's the issue of "code." The contractor wielded the word like a magic cape, which was more like a screen behind which he got by with a whole bunch of inferior work. "Code says..." and, you know what? Code says something different, if not opposite. My main questions: did he not know, or did he lie like a rug?
I'm putting the whiskey down now, as I have to go to work early tomorrow, but I have a vague sensation that it's a handy thing that we know some attorneys through church. Shopping list: some George Dickel (#12 Tennessee Sippin' Whisky), some Anisette (unless Hasan manages to bring more Raki than is permitted; ouzo is also good but don't tell that to a Turk), and some Capzaicin rub.
It has to do with dirt. 12 yards of black dirt, plus some sand for a base for the brick walkway, and the black dirt appears to be several yards short of what's needed. That came today, and the guy who delivered it helped spread some of it out in the general areas where it is needed. He used a Bobcat or something. We have several days ahead of us involving rakes, shovels, wheelbarows and cussing.
The numb fingers, and the aches in hands, arms, shoulders, neck, back, abdominal muscles, hips, and legs come not from the dirt but from the painting we got done before the dirt showed up.
The front of the house has a new porch, and all the rest of the house has new wood around where the house met the new foundation. Even considering the poor restoration of grade done by the contractor, much of that wood was about a foot or less off the ground. All this new wood needed primer, and all of it needed exterior latex in the house color. We wanted to get all this paint on the house before the dirt showed up, so we wouldn't have to screw around with that issue later.
The net result is that I did two 3/4-laps of our house on my back, trying to paint the underside and the new sill trim. Laying on sand, clay and the odd rock, doing situps to dip the brush, trying to hold a ten-inch-long brush so it could get under an eight-inch-high board, holding my head up with my off hand, pounding in the paint with the brush so the rough-cut cedar would be entirely covered, all done twice in two days (all right, Wendy did one side one day, but I did a lot of both coats of the lower portion of the porch skirting), all of this has stressed muscles and joints that haven't been called upon in decades. Sunday in particular threatened rain, so I kept after the painting as long as I could. Do you know how you sometimes get stupid, dogged in the pursuit of something - in my case, completion of this task - beyond reason or comfort? Rain finally came in the night, after the paint had set up.
The soil we had gotten from the contractor, and what was left of our yard, is clay and sand. Everybody says, "oh, that'll grow a lawn, that'll hold the moisture," but we need some black dirt and some organic material if we hope to restore a garden area. We ended up with many yards less of dirt and yard than we began with; there was no effort to restore original grade, much less to deal with the fact that our house is now a foot and a half higher than it was. The clay and sand kick up in the rain, leaving quite a coating on the lower reaches of our house. The gray block of the new foundation now appears tan, which helps it match the paint (Benjamin Moore's "Waynesboro Taupe"). The mess today reflects the success of my weekend efforts, as the paint appears to be holding up, and justifies the extra ibuprofen. Once we get the black dirt around, and some vegetation established, the amount of dirt kicking up will be reduced by a gazillion per cent. We'll also work with drip rails and, eventually, with gutters and downspouts. The way this project gobbles up money, we should consider gargoyles.
We have much painting to do, including our back entryway, parts of the porch skirting more than 12 inches above the ground, and the porch itself, including way too many railing spindles. Some of this already has primer, but we have a ways to go. We have to put stain on the porch decking and the steps, and decide whether to paint the risers (the vertical part behind the step) in the taupe or stain it to match the treads. Then we have to choose how much, if any, of our trim color to use: pillars only, pillars and handrails, or none at all. We have selected a green stain for the stair treads and the deck, and our trim is a cranberry red, so we could accidentally find ourselves in a Christmas house.
This must all be done before somebody screens off half of our porch. Our contractor has this in his bid, but we don't think we'll ever see him again, so we may have some time to rethink the screen issue. The porch looks fine now without screens, but the dog and the cat enjoy being on the porch during the day when we're gone, and this can't happen without the screened area. Hey, I also enjoy the reduced bug traffic in the screened area, as anyone who recalls my blog of a couple years ago will recall.
Good news: last night's significant rain did not put any moisture into our basement. This was one of the points of the whole exercise: a dry basement. More good news: running two dehumidifiers, we are getting the new-concrete moisture out of the basement. Better yet: the washer is hooked up to its plumbing, and the dryer is vented.
Bad news: although the dryer 220 outlet is still around, the cord to it is almost completely severed. The washer needs about a 20-foot extension cord to reach a working electrical outlet. There's a crack in the exterior of one concrete block, which we can say was the doing of the contractor, even after the original and best concrete guy (not the ass-clowns brought in by the contractor, because the original guy wouldn't come because he wasn't getting paid, who made a hash of pouring the concrete floor and did sloppy work of putting in the last blocks) fixed the interior cracks in his work, which may have been caused by the contractor's early and sloppy backfilling of dirt against the new foundation. And we have several stringers, holding up our dining room (or not, as it appears) that seem to be floating free rather than supporting the house by resting on a beam.
While I was crawling around my house on my back, I noticed a great many areas which seem to me to be waiting for a whole bunch of foam insulation at the least, if not the tender care of a quality contractor who might have done some repair during the construction. Our old house has varying degrees of wood integrity around the lower edges, and it looks like some more help is needed. Then there's the issue of "code." The contractor wielded the word like a magic cape, which was more like a screen behind which he got by with a whole bunch of inferior work. "Code says..." and, you know what? Code says something different, if not opposite. My main questions: did he not know, or did he lie like a rug?
I'm putting the whiskey down now, as I have to go to work early tomorrow, but I have a vague sensation that it's a handy thing that we know some attorneys through church. Shopping list: some George Dickel (#12 Tennessee Sippin' Whisky), some Anisette (unless Hasan manages to bring more Raki than is permitted; ouzo is also good but don't tell that to a Turk), and some Capzaicin rub.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Up In The Air, Part 11
Let's see, where were we? Oh, yes, beginning to have doubts about the ability and integrity of our contractor. It's been a little over two weeks since the last round, and since then, he billed us as if he had completed the work except for porch screening that should wait until wood can dry and we can paint. We have not finished paying, as we believe and can show that he has left some things unfinished and has sadly underperformed on some others.
The plumber (oops! a separate bid, contract and payment) has completed his work. We have all new piping in the basement, new sewage pipes, a new toilet in our back room, a new water heater, two faucets outside (up from one), a basement washroom roughed in so one can be added later, and laundry hookups. We could, if needed, run the washing machine. This all seems to work well and we are satisfied with the plumber.
The same can't be said for the dryer, as neither the heating guy nor the electrician (golly! two more separate bids and contracts!) have come yet. The dryer needs to be vented out the basement wall, probably through the sill, and the 220 receptacle needs to be reset. That may come next week or the week after. The heating guy (yes, it's a guy; we got a bid from our contractor's choice, but then got and accepted a bid from the guy who's taken care of us for about twenty years and who installed our current, and continuing, furnace and air conditioner) will begin his tasks next week; this includes almost all new ductwork as well as resetting the appliances.
We have not heard from the electrician about a quote or a start date, but this is a guy recommended by both our plumber and our heat guy; the contractor apparently hadn't considered the need for electrical work. We need exterior outlets, redone porch lighting front and back, new outlets and lighting in the basement, plus a couple repairs in the house that we might as well get done as long as the guy is here.
What is galling is that the contractor gave us a bid, didn't mention these needs or that additional cost might come up, and then sets us up for well over 30% in added expense.
It is also time to begin re-establishing our yard. We have to re-lay our brick sidewalk, redistribute some of the dirt the contracor brought, pitiful in both quality and quantity, and spread a great deal of additional dirt (even more added expense). Then we get to move back some of our garden plants, and begin growing lawn in about 2/3 of our yard. Most of the hedge and all of our trees survived, or so it seems, but we had a large hydrangea, drying out but still alive, that had been dug up and was waiting to be replanted, possibly split. This got hauled away with construction rubble. Worse, we still have some construction crap that was not hauled away, and that will go on our checkoff list if and when we get to walk the project with the contractor.
We're half hoping at this point that he settles for the short payment and disappears.
Now for today's good news. When we stopped at Trader Joe's in Woodbury, MN, on the way home from New York, I bought a six-pack of Vienna lager from Trader Joe's Brewing Co., San Jose, CA. As it happens, Gordon Biersch, the brewpub operators who make one of my all-time favorite beers, Gordon Biersch Marzen, have their growing bottling operation in San Jose, CA, and I had some hope that Trader Joe's beers were coming out of that plant. I finally cracked a chilled one tonight, and a visual from the cap and the bottle rang a bell. The letters T and J in the logo surround a shock of barley drawn a certain way. Damn, that looked familiar...and sure enough, the G and B surround the same shock of barley. Oh, yeah. Gordon Biersch. I had an email from Gordon Biersch today (mostly restaurant coupons; the closest so far is in suburban Chicago), so confirmation was too easy. Better yet, the Trader Joe's Vienna Lager, an amber beer, offers a malty, slightly caramel taste and enough hops to balance it out. $5.99 the six pack; $1 beer isn't cheap for home, but it's cheaper than most of the super-premiums. I did run into a special on Colorado Kool-Aid (Coor's Original Banquet Beer): a case of 24 16-oz cans for $15.99. This, ice-cold, will be perfect on a weekend of painting and yard work in 90-degree temperatures.
The plumber (oops! a separate bid, contract and payment) has completed his work. We have all new piping in the basement, new sewage pipes, a new toilet in our back room, a new water heater, two faucets outside (up from one), a basement washroom roughed in so one can be added later, and laundry hookups. We could, if needed, run the washing machine. This all seems to work well and we are satisfied with the plumber.
The same can't be said for the dryer, as neither the heating guy nor the electrician (golly! two more separate bids and contracts!) have come yet. The dryer needs to be vented out the basement wall, probably through the sill, and the 220 receptacle needs to be reset. That may come next week or the week after. The heating guy (yes, it's a guy; we got a bid from our contractor's choice, but then got and accepted a bid from the guy who's taken care of us for about twenty years and who installed our current, and continuing, furnace and air conditioner) will begin his tasks next week; this includes almost all new ductwork as well as resetting the appliances.
We have not heard from the electrician about a quote or a start date, but this is a guy recommended by both our plumber and our heat guy; the contractor apparently hadn't considered the need for electrical work. We need exterior outlets, redone porch lighting front and back, new outlets and lighting in the basement, plus a couple repairs in the house that we might as well get done as long as the guy is here.
What is galling is that the contractor gave us a bid, didn't mention these needs or that additional cost might come up, and then sets us up for well over 30% in added expense.
It is also time to begin re-establishing our yard. We have to re-lay our brick sidewalk, redistribute some of the dirt the contracor brought, pitiful in both quality and quantity, and spread a great deal of additional dirt (even more added expense). Then we get to move back some of our garden plants, and begin growing lawn in about 2/3 of our yard. Most of the hedge and all of our trees survived, or so it seems, but we had a large hydrangea, drying out but still alive, that had been dug up and was waiting to be replanted, possibly split. This got hauled away with construction rubble. Worse, we still have some construction crap that was not hauled away, and that will go on our checkoff list if and when we get to walk the project with the contractor.
We're half hoping at this point that he settles for the short payment and disappears.
Now for today's good news. When we stopped at Trader Joe's in Woodbury, MN, on the way home from New York, I bought a six-pack of Vienna lager from Trader Joe's Brewing Co., San Jose, CA. As it happens, Gordon Biersch, the brewpub operators who make one of my all-time favorite beers, Gordon Biersch Marzen, have their growing bottling operation in San Jose, CA, and I had some hope that Trader Joe's beers were coming out of that plant. I finally cracked a chilled one tonight, and a visual from the cap and the bottle rang a bell. The letters T and J in the logo surround a shock of barley drawn a certain way. Damn, that looked familiar...and sure enough, the G and B surround the same shock of barley. Oh, yeah. Gordon Biersch. I had an email from Gordon Biersch today (mostly restaurant coupons; the closest so far is in suburban Chicago), so confirmation was too easy. Better yet, the Trader Joe's Vienna Lager, an amber beer, offers a malty, slightly caramel taste and enough hops to balance it out. $5.99 the six pack; $1 beer isn't cheap for home, but it's cheaper than most of the super-premiums. I did run into a special on Colorado Kool-Aid (Coor's Original Banquet Beer): a case of 24 16-oz cans for $15.99. This, ice-cold, will be perfect on a weekend of painting and yard work in 90-degree temperatures.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Home Again
Thursday morning, we went separate ways for last meals. Laura and Ross went back to Katz's, an easy choice since they knew the subway route, and had themselves a serious pastrami sandwich. Wendy and I went back to Junior's, and I had the "Something different:" brisket with potato pancakes, more like latkes than like Perkins' potato pancakes, served as a sandwich. Wendy had soup. No cheesecake, and I forgot to have an egg cream; this looks like an old-fashioned ice cream soda, and no longer has raw egg in it. You have to be of a certain age to remember ice cream sodas, once served in many places, and last served well at Beerntsen's, the candy shop and ice cream parlor in Manitowoc; my preference, as was my father's, is the double chocolate. I need to get some club soda in the house, and chocolate ice cream and syrup. That's all there is to it.
Then back to the hotel to gather our luggage, which we'd packed and checked earlier, and to get ourselves out to La Guardia. All went well, we flew home, shuttled to our car at the off-airport parking, and we dropped the kids off in Minneapolis, shopped at Trader Joe's in the eastern suburbs ("Two-buck Chuck," Charles Shaw wines, are now $2.97 but still a decent value), and got home about 8:30 p.m.
TIP: we used a car service to get from the airport to the hotel and back in NYC, and would do that again. We found "Carmel," which I think is Mel with a car; the trip for the four of us cost $40 each way. Mel has several cars, an online presence with coupons, a patient and courteous phone operator, and drivers who show up on time and don't scare you.
The Fox Sports bar at La Guardia's Delta/Northwest terminal had good beer at a fair price, considering it's an airport. The various buildings, and the airport in general, are compact and manageable. The BF (an acronym meaning really big) jets can't get in and out, so they go to JFK. La Guardia is also closer to midtown Manhattan. Newark is the third New York choice, but since Wendy spent a night there last summer, on the floor, we had no love for going through there.
Our dear friend Susan had rescued Lucy the dog from camp (the kennel) and left her at our house, so we were greeted by dog kisses. Cathie had looked in on Sparky the cat, and she (Sparky) was also glad to see us.
Sadly, the next entry will be about the house. Happily, we had a great time in New York City. I'm ready to go again.
Then back to the hotel to gather our luggage, which we'd packed and checked earlier, and to get ourselves out to La Guardia. All went well, we flew home, shuttled to our car at the off-airport parking, and we dropped the kids off in Minneapolis, shopped at Trader Joe's in the eastern suburbs ("Two-buck Chuck," Charles Shaw wines, are now $2.97 but still a decent value), and got home about 8:30 p.m.
TIP: we used a car service to get from the airport to the hotel and back in NYC, and would do that again. We found "Carmel," which I think is Mel with a car; the trip for the four of us cost $40 each way. Mel has several cars, an online presence with coupons, a patient and courteous phone operator, and drivers who show up on time and don't scare you.
The Fox Sports bar at La Guardia's Delta/Northwest terminal had good beer at a fair price, considering it's an airport. The various buildings, and the airport in general, are compact and manageable. The BF (an acronym meaning really big) jets can't get in and out, so they go to JFK. La Guardia is also closer to midtown Manhattan. Newark is the third New York choice, but since Wendy spent a night there last summer, on the floor, we had no love for going through there.
Our dear friend Susan had rescued Lucy the dog from camp (the kennel) and left her at our house, so we were greeted by dog kisses. Cathie had looked in on Sparky the cat, and she (Sparky) was also glad to see us.
Sadly, the next entry will be about the house. Happily, we had a great time in New York City. I'm ready to go again.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
More NYC
Wednesday morning, the four of us headed to the Lower East Side, with a loose goal of seeing Chinatown and Little Italy and a plan to get our admission time for the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. The subway stop was in Chinatown, so we got a bit of a look as we walked to the Museum's headquarters, a storefront. We got tickets for a tour about 90 minutes off, so we had some time for lunch.
The Museum includes on its Website a list of restaurants and stores in its area, and we agreed to try one before the tour and one or more after, and to taste several things. Our pre-tour lunch was at El Castillo del Jagua, a couple of blocks away. This Cuban/Dominican/etc. restaurant served up a garlicky fried pork chop, and a dish including fried pork pieces, both with one or another form of rice and beans, a good Cubano sandwich, and Presidente beer, the all-inclusive resort staple from the Dominican Republic. Wendy sampled her way through the plates of the rest of us. All very good, and quite reasonably priced. This was probably my favorite meal of the trip, and I would happily go there again, except that there are probably thousands of other places to try.
The Tenement Museum offers a fun little gift shop, a small room that shows various videos relating to the tenement experience, rest rooms and water for sale. Its treasure, and the place where most of its tours go, is a five-story brick tenement building down the street, which was found in the 1980's in its 1930's worn condition. I mean worn: metal ceilings and soot-darkened wallpaper hanging, windows broken, etc. Nobody had lived in the building for 50 years, although the first-floor storefronts had been in use. The Museum has restored several of the apartments to display the stories of the actual tenant families; our tour looked at the 1870's rooms of the German Jewish family, and we learned the story of those hard times, and the 1930's apartment of one of the last families to live there, an Italian family. The Museum lucked into a wonderful situation: a woman coming through the neighborhood asked "what are you doing to my building?" and they discovered that she had lived there as a child. She gave them details for setting the exhibit of "her" apartment, some excellent recorded oral history, and even gave tours for a few years prior to her death. The tour was called "Getting By," and indeed some attention was given to how the families struggled to find jobs and struggled even more when the jobs weren't there. But the building, and the settings, were the star, as the small rooms , worn hallways, and the closeness of the day made the living conditions seem more real.
TIP: this is an excellent set of tours and exhibits. It's small, but well worth finding and visiting. And check the Website for more restaurants and stores.
After the tour, we went to Vanessa's Dumpling House and ordered a sampling of their wares. We had one type of dumpling, some fried balls stuffed with meat, and a sesame pancake, also filled with meat. All excellent, and all cheap! The fellow at the table next to us had his dumplings in soup, and the low price for the large container made it clear that you could eat there often without breaking the bank. It looked as good as our food was.
On the way to the subway stop (a different one), we walked past Katz's Deli and stepped inside for a peek. If you recall the scene from "When Harry Met Sally" in which Meg Ryan fakes the orgasm and the other lady says, "I'll have what she's having," Katz's is where that was filmed.
We got on the train and returned to the hotel for a breather and a change. We never did get to Little Italy, so there's something for the next visit.
Then through Times Square, through as much foot traffic and hubbub as we saw anywhere, to the 7 train out to Queens, Shea Stadium and a Mets' game. Once under the East River, this train also runs above ground, and we got looks at the Manhattan skyline, industry and warehouse areas, and the neighborhoods of Queens that are near the line. The stop puts you right at Shea on one side, and at the tennis complex for the US Open on the other. Both Yankee Stadium and Shea are in their last year of use; both new stadiums are nearly done; Citi Field is just over the center field fence of Shea. This was a much nicer place to see a ball game, as it's only 45 years old, not 85, and the general feel of the crowd also seemed more lively and attuned to not only the game but each other. And the beers were $1 to $2 cheaper! The Mets won.
The rains came about 30 seconds after we boarded the train to back to Manhattan. They must have covered much of the city, as it was still pouring when we emerged at Times Square and had five blocks to go back to the hotel. Thousands of people were still out, and umbrella usage is higher in New York than in Menomonie, but I tried to rely on my hat and I got thoroughly drenched. The rest of us did a little better. As long as I was wet, I ran (all right, with my knees I haven't run a single step in ten years) over to the deli grocery for a little something for our last night; we all promptly fell asleep.
The Museum includes on its Website a list of restaurants and stores in its area, and we agreed to try one before the tour and one or more after, and to taste several things. Our pre-tour lunch was at El Castillo del Jagua, a couple of blocks away. This Cuban/Dominican/etc. restaurant served up a garlicky fried pork chop, and a dish including fried pork pieces, both with one or another form of rice and beans, a good Cubano sandwich, and Presidente beer, the all-inclusive resort staple from the Dominican Republic. Wendy sampled her way through the plates of the rest of us. All very good, and quite reasonably priced. This was probably my favorite meal of the trip, and I would happily go there again, except that there are probably thousands of other places to try.
The Tenement Museum offers a fun little gift shop, a small room that shows various videos relating to the tenement experience, rest rooms and water for sale. Its treasure, and the place where most of its tours go, is a five-story brick tenement building down the street, which was found in the 1980's in its 1930's worn condition. I mean worn: metal ceilings and soot-darkened wallpaper hanging, windows broken, etc. Nobody had lived in the building for 50 years, although the first-floor storefronts had been in use. The Museum has restored several of the apartments to display the stories of the actual tenant families; our tour looked at the 1870's rooms of the German Jewish family, and we learned the story of those hard times, and the 1930's apartment of one of the last families to live there, an Italian family. The Museum lucked into a wonderful situation: a woman coming through the neighborhood asked "what are you doing to my building?" and they discovered that she had lived there as a child. She gave them details for setting the exhibit of "her" apartment, some excellent recorded oral history, and even gave tours for a few years prior to her death. The tour was called "Getting By," and indeed some attention was given to how the families struggled to find jobs and struggled even more when the jobs weren't there. But the building, and the settings, were the star, as the small rooms , worn hallways, and the closeness of the day made the living conditions seem more real.
TIP: this is an excellent set of tours and exhibits. It's small, but well worth finding and visiting. And check the Website for more restaurants and stores.
After the tour, we went to Vanessa's Dumpling House and ordered a sampling of their wares. We had one type of dumpling, some fried balls stuffed with meat, and a sesame pancake, also filled with meat. All excellent, and all cheap! The fellow at the table next to us had his dumplings in soup, and the low price for the large container made it clear that you could eat there often without breaking the bank. It looked as good as our food was.
On the way to the subway stop (a different one), we walked past Katz's Deli and stepped inside for a peek. If you recall the scene from "When Harry Met Sally" in which Meg Ryan fakes the orgasm and the other lady says, "I'll have what she's having," Katz's is where that was filmed.
We got on the train and returned to the hotel for a breather and a change. We never did get to Little Italy, so there's something for the next visit.
Then through Times Square, through as much foot traffic and hubbub as we saw anywhere, to the 7 train out to Queens, Shea Stadium and a Mets' game. Once under the East River, this train also runs above ground, and we got looks at the Manhattan skyline, industry and warehouse areas, and the neighborhoods of Queens that are near the line. The stop puts you right at Shea on one side, and at the tennis complex for the US Open on the other. Both Yankee Stadium and Shea are in their last year of use; both new stadiums are nearly done; Citi Field is just over the center field fence of Shea. This was a much nicer place to see a ball game, as it's only 45 years old, not 85, and the general feel of the crowd also seemed more lively and attuned to not only the game but each other. And the beers were $1 to $2 cheaper! The Mets won.
The rains came about 30 seconds after we boarded the train to back to Manhattan. They must have covered much of the city, as it was still pouring when we emerged at Times Square and had five blocks to go back to the hotel. Thousands of people were still out, and umbrella usage is higher in New York than in Menomonie, but I tried to rely on my hat and I got thoroughly drenched. The rest of us did a little better. As long as I was wet, I ran (all right, with my knees I haven't run a single step in ten years) over to the deli grocery for a little something for our last night; we all promptly fell asleep.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Sparts
Sparts: Arts and Sports. Depending on your viewpoint, we went from the sublime to the ridiculous, or from the ridiculous to the sublime. Tuesday, we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Yankee Stadium.
We started, mid-morning, by taking the subway to the west side of Central Park, right by the American Museum of Natural History, and wandering through the Park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is on the Park side of Fifth Avenue. We saw several athletic fields and the Obelisk, and eventually the Museum came into view.
TIP: it is very useful to have a good map of Central Park and its walking trails. The roads curve, and the trails don't always follow the roads. You're never so far from an edge that you're in real trouble, but finding the occasional landmark and re-orienting yourself to your place in the Park can be a comfort. If there are places you wish to see in the Park, this is even more useful. Believe it or not, there is a locator code on the light posts along the walks, based on the assumed cross street and how far you may be in from east or west. BUT: if you spend all your time worried about where you're going, you might miss where you are.
Arriving at the Museum, we entered and split up. My goal was to see the Frank LLoyd Wright Room, which was CLOSED. We did find the Louis Comfort Tiffany room: he was a painter and furniture designer as well as the best stained glass artist of his time. We found the Egyptian Temple, the Turner exhibit, a fascinating display of musical instruments, a room filled with Monets, another filled with works by Paul Klee (I've had a weakness for his work since high school), a marvelous Rodin hallway, several works by Grant Wood and by Edward Hopper, and a hallway with arresting photographs by the greats: Brassai, Cartier-Bresson, and others. This in two hours. I still don't know where Laura and Ross got to, but we met up in the gift shop. I spent a little but we escaped with minimal damage; what a wonderful selection of great gifts and accessories, none necessary.
TIP: There's just too much. Pick a few things from the daily guide to see, and do limit yourself to a couple hours. Then swear to go again and again. If I lived within 200 miles, I'd buy a membership. If I didn't say this for the AMNH, I'll say it now: they're both more than you can hope to absorb in a week, much less a day, much less a couple hours, which is all most of us can handle in any museum on any day. There was one hallway in the Met that smelled of pee, but I'll bet that doesn't stand for long. Somebody with too much money, possibly a donor of that wing or a descendant, will piss and moan, as it were, and the problem will go away.
We tore ourselves out of the Museum at 2 p.m. and set off through the Park, seeking the cafe at Loeb Boathouse. We ended up at the walk-up snack bar rather than the white-tablecloth cafe, as we hadn't reserved, but we found things to eat. I won with the thick but rather ordinary chili and the good beer. We ate outside and Laura got bombed by a small bird, which had all of us covering our food from the pigeons in the trees above. No food or drink was sullied, but we didn't tarry.
We walked through the Park, past the Bethesda Fountain and on to Strawberry Fields, the tribute area to John Lennon that grew up after his assassination, and includes several permanent plaques and a steady flow of fresh flowers, laid out when we saw them in a peace symbol on the memorial. About 160 nations have endorsed a peace statement that appears on the memorial, and yes, the USA is one of them. Exiting Central Park near Strawberry Fields brings you to the Dakota, the fabled apartment house where John lived and Yoko still resides. This 1884 building also figures in a wonderful novel, "Time and Again," which Wendy and I both enjoyed some years ago.
We left the Park and looked for a bus back to the hotel; this is when I discovered I'd misplaced my Metrocard, and we had to scrabble for $2 in change (no paper money) for my bus fare.
TIP: always carry at least $2 in change, for fare in an emergency. You can buy one-day unlimited Metrocards for $7.50, or other cards, at most subway stops, but not on the buses. Except for that, buses accept the Metrocards and are a poor person's alternative to Gray Line to get a look at the city. The subway is faster but offers no views of Manhattan except for people-watching.
We got back to the Edison for a regrouping (read: showers, change out of the most disgusting sweaty underthings), then set out again for the Bronx and Yankee Stadium. Once under the East River, the subway becomes an elevated line and drops you off across the street from both the old and the almost-finished new stadiums. There is just enough time above ground for the rider to absorb where s/he is headed, and then the train stops. It's too bad that the billion dollars or so spent on the new stadium couldn't include some work on the stop.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. Never mind that our tickets took us to the gate farthest from our seats. Well, maybe an issue: we got in and walked the old, narrow concourses toward Monument Park, the fabled memorial to Yankee greats. It's posted to close 45 minutes before game time. It was so busy that they cut off the line even earlier, just as we got within twenty feet of the line after coming around from the stupid distant gate. This took a bit of the bloom off the rose for Ross, and for me as well.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. We climbed the several ramps to the upper deck, and the climbed down the thirty steep, worn steps to the front row. Great seats, except the signs hung on the wall cut off our view of the foul line below. Laura unfurled her "Circle us, Bert" sign (Twins broadcaster Bert Blyleven often uses his Telestrator to highlight such signs), and looked for a place to display it.
We went out for beers (Bud Light, 16 oz, $9) and Ross and Laura looked for sandwiches (pretty good Italian sausages, served with peppers), and, by God, the service was slow. The trays for carrying food and drink weren't pre-assembled. The servers seemed to go at their own pace, not the speed required by hundreds of hungry and thirsty fans. I finally bought a 24-oz Foster's, poured from its oilcan into a plastic cup, for $12, and, beer fans forgive me, I bought a 12-oz Coors Light in the stands from a vendor for - I can't stand to think about it - $7.50.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. All right, it's old, it's tired. The concourses are narrow and uninviting. The signage is not real good in getting you to your seat. The restrooms are fair. The scoreboards are actually well-placed and informative. I couldn't help but think the lighting was uneven, especially near home plate. Monument Park is only cool if you get to go. And the Yankees beat the Twins, which made our cheering seem empty and forlorn. Almost all of the fans nearby were fine, and some had rooting interests other than the Yankees, so we enjoyed chatting.
We joined the thousands trying to board the elevated subway, and discovered that Wendy had misplaced not only her metrocard but a coin purse with a bit of cash and - we didn't know for sure - possibly her driver's license and a couple credit cards. We let Laura and Ross go on ahead, and went back to the stadium to see what we might do. We ended up sitting outside the press gate while stadium staff took a feeble swipe at looking, and we saw the players coming out to their bus (Twins) or the hotshot parking lot (Yankees). Joe Girardi, the Yankee manager, took a minute to greet a child in a wheelchair, and Giambi's porn stache was in good form.
No luck on the little purse; we called in one credit card on a cell phone to cancel it, and let the rest ride until we found out what was actually gone, and went for the subway: the gates to the elevated station were padlocked! We found a nearby underground station, got a pass for Wendy (I was on a one-day), and got a train... which proceeded to fly eight of the next nine stations, being some kind of express. It stopped at a transfer point some twelve blocks from our hotel, and I panicked and had us get off, not knowing where it might stop next - maybe Brooklyn at midnight.
As it turned out, we had a lovely walk down twelve short blocks of Broadway. We went by the legendary Brill Building, where generations of composers, arrangers and agents worked to make the music we all know and love. I think Irving Berlin (an Ellis Island immigrant!) had an office there. Better yet, the driver's license and one of the cards in question were safely in our room. Best, I had a Brooklyn Lager in our ice bag to celebrate the safe journey and the minimizing of the loss.
TIP: Know your credit card stuff. If it's a card you both carry, be sure you both have one. Otherwise, make a list of card numbers and the customer service phone numbers, so you can call and put the brakes on a lost or stolen card as soon as possible. Don't carry the list in the same wallet that the cards are in. Hey, there's nothing wrong with a money belt inside the trousers.
I was asleep when Ross and Laura came in, with their own story which I bet will be told at SpicyMinnesotaKisses.Blogspot.com. There's just a little more to go.
We started, mid-morning, by taking the subway to the west side of Central Park, right by the American Museum of Natural History, and wandering through the Park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is on the Park side of Fifth Avenue. We saw several athletic fields and the Obelisk, and eventually the Museum came into view.
TIP: it is very useful to have a good map of Central Park and its walking trails. The roads curve, and the trails don't always follow the roads. You're never so far from an edge that you're in real trouble, but finding the occasional landmark and re-orienting yourself to your place in the Park can be a comfort. If there are places you wish to see in the Park, this is even more useful. Believe it or not, there is a locator code on the light posts along the walks, based on the assumed cross street and how far you may be in from east or west. BUT: if you spend all your time worried about where you're going, you might miss where you are.
Arriving at the Museum, we entered and split up. My goal was to see the Frank LLoyd Wright Room, which was CLOSED. We did find the Louis Comfort Tiffany room: he was a painter and furniture designer as well as the best stained glass artist of his time. We found the Egyptian Temple, the Turner exhibit, a fascinating display of musical instruments, a room filled with Monets, another filled with works by Paul Klee (I've had a weakness for his work since high school), a marvelous Rodin hallway, several works by Grant Wood and by Edward Hopper, and a hallway with arresting photographs by the greats: Brassai, Cartier-Bresson, and others. This in two hours. I still don't know where Laura and Ross got to, but we met up in the gift shop. I spent a little but we escaped with minimal damage; what a wonderful selection of great gifts and accessories, none necessary.
TIP: There's just too much. Pick a few things from the daily guide to see, and do limit yourself to a couple hours. Then swear to go again and again. If I lived within 200 miles, I'd buy a membership. If I didn't say this for the AMNH, I'll say it now: they're both more than you can hope to absorb in a week, much less a day, much less a couple hours, which is all most of us can handle in any museum on any day. There was one hallway in the Met that smelled of pee, but I'll bet that doesn't stand for long. Somebody with too much money, possibly a donor of that wing or a descendant, will piss and moan, as it were, and the problem will go away.
We tore ourselves out of the Museum at 2 p.m. and set off through the Park, seeking the cafe at Loeb Boathouse. We ended up at the walk-up snack bar rather than the white-tablecloth cafe, as we hadn't reserved, but we found things to eat. I won with the thick but rather ordinary chili and the good beer. We ate outside and Laura got bombed by a small bird, which had all of us covering our food from the pigeons in the trees above. No food or drink was sullied, but we didn't tarry.
We walked through the Park, past the Bethesda Fountain and on to Strawberry Fields, the tribute area to John Lennon that grew up after his assassination, and includes several permanent plaques and a steady flow of fresh flowers, laid out when we saw them in a peace symbol on the memorial. About 160 nations have endorsed a peace statement that appears on the memorial, and yes, the USA is one of them. Exiting Central Park near Strawberry Fields brings you to the Dakota, the fabled apartment house where John lived and Yoko still resides. This 1884 building also figures in a wonderful novel, "Time and Again," which Wendy and I both enjoyed some years ago.
We left the Park and looked for a bus back to the hotel; this is when I discovered I'd misplaced my Metrocard, and we had to scrabble for $2 in change (no paper money) for my bus fare.
TIP: always carry at least $2 in change, for fare in an emergency. You can buy one-day unlimited Metrocards for $7.50, or other cards, at most subway stops, but not on the buses. Except for that, buses accept the Metrocards and are a poor person's alternative to Gray Line to get a look at the city. The subway is faster but offers no views of Manhattan except for people-watching.
We got back to the Edison for a regrouping (read: showers, change out of the most disgusting sweaty underthings), then set out again for the Bronx and Yankee Stadium. Once under the East River, the subway becomes an elevated line and drops you off across the street from both the old and the almost-finished new stadiums. There is just enough time above ground for the rider to absorb where s/he is headed, and then the train stops. It's too bad that the billion dollars or so spent on the new stadium couldn't include some work on the stop.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. Never mind that our tickets took us to the gate farthest from our seats. Well, maybe an issue: we got in and walked the old, narrow concourses toward Monument Park, the fabled memorial to Yankee greats. It's posted to close 45 minutes before game time. It was so busy that they cut off the line even earlier, just as we got within twenty feet of the line after coming around from the stupid distant gate. This took a bit of the bloom off the rose for Ross, and for me as well.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. We climbed the several ramps to the upper deck, and the climbed down the thirty steep, worn steps to the front row. Great seats, except the signs hung on the wall cut off our view of the foul line below. Laura unfurled her "Circle us, Bert" sign (Twins broadcaster Bert Blyleven often uses his Telestrator to highlight such signs), and looked for a place to display it.
We went out for beers (Bud Light, 16 oz, $9) and Ross and Laura looked for sandwiches (pretty good Italian sausages, served with peppers), and, by God, the service was slow. The trays for carrying food and drink weren't pre-assembled. The servers seemed to go at their own pace, not the speed required by hundreds of hungry and thirsty fans. I finally bought a 24-oz Foster's, poured from its oilcan into a plastic cup, for $12, and, beer fans forgive me, I bought a 12-oz Coors Light in the stands from a vendor for - I can't stand to think about it - $7.50.
But hey, we were at f***in' Yankee Stadium. All right, it's old, it's tired. The concourses are narrow and uninviting. The signage is not real good in getting you to your seat. The restrooms are fair. The scoreboards are actually well-placed and informative. I couldn't help but think the lighting was uneven, especially near home plate. Monument Park is only cool if you get to go. And the Yankees beat the Twins, which made our cheering seem empty and forlorn. Almost all of the fans nearby were fine, and some had rooting interests other than the Yankees, so we enjoyed chatting.
We joined the thousands trying to board the elevated subway, and discovered that Wendy had misplaced not only her metrocard but a coin purse with a bit of cash and - we didn't know for sure - possibly her driver's license and a couple credit cards. We let Laura and Ross go on ahead, and went back to the stadium to see what we might do. We ended up sitting outside the press gate while stadium staff took a feeble swipe at looking, and we saw the players coming out to their bus (Twins) or the hotshot parking lot (Yankees). Joe Girardi, the Yankee manager, took a minute to greet a child in a wheelchair, and Giambi's porn stache was in good form.
No luck on the little purse; we called in one credit card on a cell phone to cancel it, and let the rest ride until we found out what was actually gone, and went for the subway: the gates to the elevated station were padlocked! We found a nearby underground station, got a pass for Wendy (I was on a one-day), and got a train... which proceeded to fly eight of the next nine stations, being some kind of express. It stopped at a transfer point some twelve blocks from our hotel, and I panicked and had us get off, not knowing where it might stop next - maybe Brooklyn at midnight.
As it turned out, we had a lovely walk down twelve short blocks of Broadway. We went by the legendary Brill Building, where generations of composers, arrangers and agents worked to make the music we all know and love. I think Irving Berlin (an Ellis Island immigrant!) had an office there. Better yet, the driver's license and one of the cards in question were safely in our room. Best, I had a Brooklyn Lager in our ice bag to celebrate the safe journey and the minimizing of the loss.
TIP: Know your credit card stuff. If it's a card you both carry, be sure you both have one. Otherwise, make a list of card numbers and the customer service phone numbers, so you can call and put the brakes on a lost or stolen card as soon as possible. Don't carry the list in the same wallet that the cards are in. Hey, there's nothing wrong with a money belt inside the trousers.
I was asleep when Ross and Laura came in, with their own story which I bet will be told at SpicyMinnesotaKisses.Blogspot.com. There's just a little more to go.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Lines, Lines...
"Lines, lines, Everywhere a line, blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind..." Oh, is that "Signs?"
Monday morning, we set out for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Wendy had again obtained tickets online ahead of time, so we had a time (11:15) to be at the security check-in at Battery Park. We found the right subway route to get within about two blocks, and we were some minutes early. Here was a victory: the line for those who had purchased tickets that day appeared to be an hour long, while ours was only 15-20 minutes. Again, we went through airport-like security (except my shoes stayed on), then boarded the ferry and waited fifteen minutes while everyone else got on. The trip to Bedloe's Island took about ten minutes, and getting off the boat took ten more. Our tickets allowed us to enter the Memorial (the base of the statue and its museum), another victory, but that line took twenty minutes to get into the security line - this was where folks, including an entire summer program group of thirty kids, found out their tickets weren't for the Memorial - and another half-hour or more to go through that line (yes, probably the most rigorous security line of all, with GE puffers in the scanner and the whole nine yards).
The museum is excellent, with actual-size replicas of a foot and a nose and the original torch, and very good history and structural information about the construction. You may know that the face is modeled after the sculptor Bartholdi's mother, and that the skin is hung on a framework designed by Eiffel, who also designed the eponymous tower in Paris. Elevators, or stairs (88 degrees? Arthritis? Hell, no!) take you to an observation deck at the top of the 84-foot pedestal, itself the result of a heated design contest in the 1880's, and through glass plates you can "look up the skirt of a national monument" (Fodor's) to see the framework and the ladder that once took folks to the top of the statue. Views from the deck show the Financial District of Manhattan, Liberty State Park in New Jersey, port activities on all sides, Governor's Island off Brooklyn, and Ellis Island nearby.
We came out, did a lap of the outer walk, and made our way to the ferry dock for the next leg, to Ellis Island. This line took about half an hour, as most folks got off for the Statue and the ferry could take lots of people. The trip took just a few minutes, but boarding and debarking took longer.
Ellis Island is a remarkable place, and a remarkable exhibit. Blessings on those who decided to save it and develop this wonderful look into our heritage and national psyche. Exhibits range from films and live shows to photo exhibits and displays of things carried by immigrants (donated by their families) and things left behind, as well as some of the old equipment and the buildings themselves. One line of my family has been here since the mid 1600's, and others were in the Midwest by the mid 19th century, so this is not as close for me as for many, but Ellis made the urgency, the difficulty, and the hope seem palpable. How much more so for folks who know their ancestors actually came through there!
It was the heat that was palpable as we waited to board the ferry back to Battery Park. That, and the line abuse by about a third of those waiting, and the fact that not so many got off the ferries as it was late in the afternoon, so not so many got on - wow! part of the immigrant experience! We got on the second boat, just barely, after about an hour waiting. Again, the voyage itself was less than fifteen minutes, and the debarking took only ten or so. We were back in Battery Park, at the lower tip of Manhattan, at about 5:00.
TIP: Here's the "critics' opinion." Everyone should go to the Statue of Liberty, and get into the Memorial (Statue base, etc.). Once. You probably don't need to go back ever again. It's cool, but the excessive security line snuffs much of the pleasure out of it.
TIP: Everyone should go to Ellis Island. The earlier, the better. If you go more than once, skip the Statue of Liberty on subsequent trips and go straight to Ellis. Go as often and stay as long as it takes to see and absorb this moving story of human striving. I'm a jaded old whitebread coot and I need to go again.
From 11:00, when we arrived at Battery Park, to a little after 5:00, when we got off the ferry, we spent almost exactly half of the time, three hours, standing in one line or another. One hour at the Statue, one and a half at Ellis, half an hour on the water...
TIP: Be prepared. Take water. Drink it, as you can't take it some places. Buy more, especially if it's hot. Pee whenever the opportunity presents itself. Wear a hat that protects you from sun - or rain, as the lines aren't all going to be covered. Use sunscreen on most days. If for some reason you're staying in New Jersey, book your ferry passage from there as those boats were half-full.
In Battery Park, Laura bumped into a classmate from the U. of Minnesota; this enabled the other young lady to collect a $100 bet from her family as the first to meet someone she knew. We tried to get a bus but ended up on the subway back to the hotel. Dinner was up for discussion but we ate at the hotel's restaurant.
The Cafe Edison, in what was once the ballroom, is known as the "Polish Tea Room," receives regular mention in guides as a good deal for the money, and offers typical deli fare: corned beef, pastrami, brisket, and similar dishes. We were hot, tired, and thinking of making our show, and the convenience of dining at the hotel probably made things taste better, but the matzoh ball soup and the pastrami were excellent, and this was the site of the cheapest served beer. Oddly, the restaurant required pre-approval of charges to the room, and didn't take credit cards, but we had packed enough cash and all was well.
After a chance to spritz in our room, and change out of sodden apparel into something less sweaty, we left for the Theatre. Yeah, Broadway. We (Wendy again, bless her little Internet-based heart) had found a show that wasn't dark on Mondays, and it was two blocks from the hotel.
The John Golden Theatre is small, a few hundred seats, but it's lovely. The musical, "Avenue Q," won the Tony for Best Musical a few years back. It's a hoot: people and Muppet-like puppets interact, often rudely or other R-ratedly. The very first line is "What do you do with a BA in English?" (Ross's degree, a step up from mine which is Liberal Arts no major). One of the characters is "Gary Coleman," who is just that: a washed-up former child star who is now the super of a lousy set of apartment buildings in an un-named borough. I especially enjoyed "Trekkie Monster," who led the song, "The internet is for Porn," and who saves the day in the end. We all enjoyed "the Bad Idea Bears," who tried to deliver fun but feeble thinking to the main characters. And you do need to see puppet sex. This may not be the moment to recall the night that Gail Stefl's mother threw me out of their house because Gail and I made too much noise (loud drunken laughter) while trying to mate a Barbie and a troll doll. Puppets in the play are carried by the actors who voice them, and the choreography involves intricacies of handing these puppets off for actors who handle multiple roles. It all comes together into a fun time, even for me who finds little pleasure in live performance and less in musicals. I almost bought the souvenir T-shirt, "It sucks to be me," which is the big opening musical number. Any Broadway ticket is by definition too expensive but, once you can get past that, it's fun to see stuff done right by professionals.
We enjoyed seeing other plays advertised: Taylor Hicks in "Grease" (Laura posed bythe poster with her finger down her throat), "Legally Blonde," Tom Wopat ("who's that?" "He was in the Dukes of Hazzard on TV, I think he was Luke Duke but I'm not sure") in "A Catered Affair," across from our hotel. Stephen Collins, an actor with a bit of a stick up his ass, taking the King Arthur role in "Spamalot," in which he ought to be perfect (we saw this on tour in Minneapolis so I can speak with at least a minimum of insight). Morgan Freeman. Rene Auberjonois. Sean Hayes. New plays Old plays in revival. Lawrence Fishburne as "Thurgood," which should be important and fun in a way but which none of us voted for, except a bit of interest from Ross. Daniel Radcliffe ("Harry Potter") in Equus, naked!
After-theatre, we went to the Shubert Alley location of Junior's, purveyor of one of the legendary cheesecakes. As it was Monday, with most theatres dark, there was NO LINE. I now know how the legend grew: just like my waistband. I took on the Devil's Food cheesecake, a normal-sized slice of Original surrounded by at least as much chocolate. I gave a valiant battle, but I couldn't get much help as Laura fell before the strawberry shortcake slice, and Wendy and Ross killed their shared Original but weren't able to help much beyond that. I violated all known Porter rules on chocolate by leaving a bit behind. Three slices, and a couple of beverages, cost as much as most of our dinners. It was time to waddle back to the hotel. Golly, this is enough for three or four of these blog things!
Monday morning, we set out for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Wendy had again obtained tickets online ahead of time, so we had a time (11:15) to be at the security check-in at Battery Park. We found the right subway route to get within about two blocks, and we were some minutes early. Here was a victory: the line for those who had purchased tickets that day appeared to be an hour long, while ours was only 15-20 minutes. Again, we went through airport-like security (except my shoes stayed on), then boarded the ferry and waited fifteen minutes while everyone else got on. The trip to Bedloe's Island took about ten minutes, and getting off the boat took ten more. Our tickets allowed us to enter the Memorial (the base of the statue and its museum), another victory, but that line took twenty minutes to get into the security line - this was where folks, including an entire summer program group of thirty kids, found out their tickets weren't for the Memorial - and another half-hour or more to go through that line (yes, probably the most rigorous security line of all, with GE puffers in the scanner and the whole nine yards).
The museum is excellent, with actual-size replicas of a foot and a nose and the original torch, and very good history and structural information about the construction. You may know that the face is modeled after the sculptor Bartholdi's mother, and that the skin is hung on a framework designed by Eiffel, who also designed the eponymous tower in Paris. Elevators, or stairs (88 degrees? Arthritis? Hell, no!) take you to an observation deck at the top of the 84-foot pedestal, itself the result of a heated design contest in the 1880's, and through glass plates you can "look up the skirt of a national monument" (Fodor's) to see the framework and the ladder that once took folks to the top of the statue. Views from the deck show the Financial District of Manhattan, Liberty State Park in New Jersey, port activities on all sides, Governor's Island off Brooklyn, and Ellis Island nearby.
We came out, did a lap of the outer walk, and made our way to the ferry dock for the next leg, to Ellis Island. This line took about half an hour, as most folks got off for the Statue and the ferry could take lots of people. The trip took just a few minutes, but boarding and debarking took longer.
Ellis Island is a remarkable place, and a remarkable exhibit. Blessings on those who decided to save it and develop this wonderful look into our heritage and national psyche. Exhibits range from films and live shows to photo exhibits and displays of things carried by immigrants (donated by their families) and things left behind, as well as some of the old equipment and the buildings themselves. One line of my family has been here since the mid 1600's, and others were in the Midwest by the mid 19th century, so this is not as close for me as for many, but Ellis made the urgency, the difficulty, and the hope seem palpable. How much more so for folks who know their ancestors actually came through there!
It was the heat that was palpable as we waited to board the ferry back to Battery Park. That, and the line abuse by about a third of those waiting, and the fact that not so many got off the ferries as it was late in the afternoon, so not so many got on - wow! part of the immigrant experience! We got on the second boat, just barely, after about an hour waiting. Again, the voyage itself was less than fifteen minutes, and the debarking took only ten or so. We were back in Battery Park, at the lower tip of Manhattan, at about 5:00.
TIP: Here's the "critics' opinion." Everyone should go to the Statue of Liberty, and get into the Memorial (Statue base, etc.). Once. You probably don't need to go back ever again. It's cool, but the excessive security line snuffs much of the pleasure out of it.
TIP: Everyone should go to Ellis Island. The earlier, the better. If you go more than once, skip the Statue of Liberty on subsequent trips and go straight to Ellis. Go as often and stay as long as it takes to see and absorb this moving story of human striving. I'm a jaded old whitebread coot and I need to go again.
From 11:00, when we arrived at Battery Park, to a little after 5:00, when we got off the ferry, we spent almost exactly half of the time, three hours, standing in one line or another. One hour at the Statue, one and a half at Ellis, half an hour on the water...
TIP: Be prepared. Take water. Drink it, as you can't take it some places. Buy more, especially if it's hot. Pee whenever the opportunity presents itself. Wear a hat that protects you from sun - or rain, as the lines aren't all going to be covered. Use sunscreen on most days. If for some reason you're staying in New Jersey, book your ferry passage from there as those boats were half-full.
In Battery Park, Laura bumped into a classmate from the U. of Minnesota; this enabled the other young lady to collect a $100 bet from her family as the first to meet someone she knew. We tried to get a bus but ended up on the subway back to the hotel. Dinner was up for discussion but we ate at the hotel's restaurant.
The Cafe Edison, in what was once the ballroom, is known as the "Polish Tea Room," receives regular mention in guides as a good deal for the money, and offers typical deli fare: corned beef, pastrami, brisket, and similar dishes. We were hot, tired, and thinking of making our show, and the convenience of dining at the hotel probably made things taste better, but the matzoh ball soup and the pastrami were excellent, and this was the site of the cheapest served beer. Oddly, the restaurant required pre-approval of charges to the room, and didn't take credit cards, but we had packed enough cash and all was well.
After a chance to spritz in our room, and change out of sodden apparel into something less sweaty, we left for the Theatre. Yeah, Broadway. We (Wendy again, bless her little Internet-based heart) had found a show that wasn't dark on Mondays, and it was two blocks from the hotel.
The John Golden Theatre is small, a few hundred seats, but it's lovely. The musical, "Avenue Q," won the Tony for Best Musical a few years back. It's a hoot: people and Muppet-like puppets interact, often rudely or other R-ratedly. The very first line is "What do you do with a BA in English?" (Ross's degree, a step up from mine which is Liberal Arts no major). One of the characters is "Gary Coleman," who is just that: a washed-up former child star who is now the super of a lousy set of apartment buildings in an un-named borough. I especially enjoyed "Trekkie Monster," who led the song, "The internet is for Porn," and who saves the day in the end. We all enjoyed "the Bad Idea Bears," who tried to deliver fun but feeble thinking to the main characters. And you do need to see puppet sex. This may not be the moment to recall the night that Gail Stefl's mother threw me out of their house because Gail and I made too much noise (loud drunken laughter) while trying to mate a Barbie and a troll doll. Puppets in the play are carried by the actors who voice them, and the choreography involves intricacies of handing these puppets off for actors who handle multiple roles. It all comes together into a fun time, even for me who finds little pleasure in live performance and less in musicals. I almost bought the souvenir T-shirt, "It sucks to be me," which is the big opening musical number. Any Broadway ticket is by definition too expensive but, once you can get past that, it's fun to see stuff done right by professionals.
We enjoyed seeing other plays advertised: Taylor Hicks in "Grease" (Laura posed bythe poster with her finger down her throat), "Legally Blonde," Tom Wopat ("who's that?" "He was in the Dukes of Hazzard on TV, I think he was Luke Duke but I'm not sure") in "A Catered Affair," across from our hotel. Stephen Collins, an actor with a bit of a stick up his ass, taking the King Arthur role in "Spamalot," in which he ought to be perfect (we saw this on tour in Minneapolis so I can speak with at least a minimum of insight). Morgan Freeman. Rene Auberjonois. Sean Hayes. New plays Old plays in revival. Lawrence Fishburne as "Thurgood," which should be important and fun in a way but which none of us voted for, except a bit of interest from Ross. Daniel Radcliffe ("Harry Potter") in Equus, naked!
After-theatre, we went to the Shubert Alley location of Junior's, purveyor of one of the legendary cheesecakes. As it was Monday, with most theatres dark, there was NO LINE. I now know how the legend grew: just like my waistband. I took on the Devil's Food cheesecake, a normal-sized slice of Original surrounded by at least as much chocolate. I gave a valiant battle, but I couldn't get much help as Laura fell before the strawberry shortcake slice, and Wendy and Ross killed their shared Original but weren't able to help much beyond that. I violated all known Porter rules on chocolate by leaving a bit behind. Three slices, and a couple of beverages, cost as much as most of our dinners. It was time to waddle back to the hotel. Golly, this is enough for three or four of these blog things!
Road Trip...er, plane trip.
We got home last night after five nights in New York City. Laura and Ross, Wendy and I ate much, saw plenty, did a lot of things, missed even more, and had a great time.
We arrived Saturday, too early to check into our hotel (about which more later). So we left our luggage there and hopped on a Gray Line downtown loop tour. The day was incredibly hot, so the upper deck of the bus was almost too much, but the lower deck isn't so good for seeing what the guide is telling you about. We hopped off at South Street Seaport, which has to be a Rouse development, like Pier 39 in San Francisco and a bit like Inner Harbor in Baltimore and Quincy Market in Boston. Shops, restaurants, etc. Over the East River, looking out at Brooklyn and the Brooklyn Bridge, it was a nice break from the bus tour. The first half of the first glass of beer evaporated somewhere in the esophagus, never reaching the stomach. Then we split a platter of hors d'oeuvres at a pier restaurant. We hopped on another bus to finish the route.
TIP: every time we stood in a line for Gray Line buses, we saw City Sights buses go by with seats open while we might have to wait for a second or third Gray Line bus. They appeared to run the same routes. If I needed another set of bus tours, I might try City Sights for faster access. Also, depending on your other plans, consider a multi-day hop-on, hop-off pass so you can go see more things.
After checking into our hotel, and a brief rest period, we set out for dinner. We walked to John's Pizzeria, one outlet of one of the better-known pizza joints. Smack in the middle of the theater district, it was busy: we waited about a half-hour for a table. The restaurant is in a former church, which means a high ceiling, some stained glass, and multi-level seating. We could see four brick pizza ovens from our table, and our pie came quickly enough. It was delicious! The thin crust was brown at the edges, the sauce and cheese were in balance, and everything was just what you'd want. There's something that comes from the brick ovens, a taste in the crust, that takes pizza baked this way a step higher than otherwise.The Caesar salad was also tasty, with enough but not too much dressing evenly distributed. After dinner we walked back to the hotel, stopping at a deli grocery for beer and other room essentials.
The Hotel Edison is located on 47th Street, halfway between Broadway and 8th Avenue. It's old, from the 20's or 30's, and it's fairly big. While the lobby has a wonderful art deco feel, with several excellent murals (and with people actually sitting in it!), the rooms are not much more than functional. We had a two-bedroom "suite," with the bathroom in one of the rooms and no sitting room. This worked well enough. Ice was purchased at the bell stand in the lobby, and vending machines were not available, but there were two or three delis and the hotel gift shop within a block. The air conditioners were window units, and Wendy's and mine worked better than Laura's and Ross's. The water temperature in the shower was unpredictable, causing people to exclaim or jump out from both hot and cold surges. Our room was on the 21st floor, and the hotel elevators did a good job. We thought we might get a view from up there, but not so much: there are a number of taller buildings within a block or two. The hotel's location can't be beat: several subway stops within a few blocks, Times Square half a block away, restaurants and bars beckoning from all sides, bus service, theatres, etc., etc. The price wasn't dirt cheap but for the four of us it was well under $90 per person per night, even with the 15%+ taxes added. I think that Wendy and I would stay there again, depending on the price. Within a block or two are the Marriott Marquis, the Renaissance, the W, the Crowne Plaza, and other hotels which would likely have cost double or more.
TRIVIA QUIZ: what is the Javits tax?
Breakfast seemed never to be important. I ended up going to the deli next to the hotel every morning for a coffee and a little something (often the chocolate chip pound cake), and bringing it back up to the room for showering and dressing. There was a Starbucks half a block each way, but I could do up my own at the deli, and it was closer and cheaper. We didn't ever hit the street much before ten, which cut a little into the amount of exploring but felt luxurious.
Sunday morning, we walked about ten blocks to have a look at Grand Central Station (er, Terminal). The vaulted ceiling of the lobby, the huge sculpture above the main entry, the multiple levels, the food court, all were interesting to see. It would have been fun to go at a rush hour and watch the swarms, but it was much more leisurely our way. We found a deli and ate a late breakfast or early lunch, then began the subway adventure. We bought 7-day unlimited MetroCards, a huge convenience as they work on subways and buses. The vending machines only allow you to buy two MetroCards per credit card, probably to limit exposure to stolen or bogus cards.
TIP: if you have more than one credit card, bring them both, in separate wallets or pockets. If you meet up with a limit as above, or if you lose one (about which more later), you will have a fallback position.
Our first subway ride was up to the American Museum of Natural History. The place is huge, about three blocks long and two deep, three floors, with over a dozen main halls and many more rooms. Ross and Laura went one way, Wendy and I another. One interesting aspect of this museum is that it shows a history of museum exhibit styles, from mid-20th century and earlier to very modern, from stuffed animals and fake people in dusty dioramas to dramatically lit walk-through environments. Some signs attribute the sources of samples to countries no longer on the map. Also, some of the items on exhibit have been so since the 1880's or earlier, including the 50-foot Northwest Indian canoe hanging in one hall. The entrance hall is an architectural spectacle all by itself, and a memorial to Teddy Roosevelt. We stayed only a couple hours, saw only a portion of the museum, and would happily go back.
The AMNH is across from the west edge of Central Park, between 77th and 81st Streets. We crossed the street and hopped on the Gray Line Uptown Loop tour; we had waited for this at its supposed origin point but no buses showed up in twenty minutes so we did the subway. This took us along Central Park West, then past Columbia University, Union Theological Seminary and Riverside Church, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The nave of the Cathedral had been under renovation for two years, and was due to reopen the NEXT DAY. So we stayed on the bus along Riverside Drive, saw Grant's Tomb and the George Washington Bridge, then hopped off in Harlem. We walked along 125th Avenue for a couple blocks, and took note of the entirely different tone of street life, found nowhere to eat on that busy shopping street (Burger King was a non-starter, except for a life-saving cold Coke), and caught the next Gray Line bus. We hopped off along Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and walked along 5th Avenue past the museum and the art vendors outside. The east side of 5th Avenue being mostly luxury apartments, we didn't see any likely restaurants, so we turned east and asked a police officer what street might be likely to help us.
"Where ya from?" he asked in a friendly manner.
"Wisconsin and Minnesota."
"Oh, you're not from here. That's why you're so nice."
He directed us to Lexington Avenue, the block east of Park Avenue (no, Park Avenue isn't along the park), and we found a neighborhood restaurant. Very good, not great, you don't need to look for it but it did the trick. We all chowed down pretty good. It was also near a subway stop that, with one transfer, got us back within two blocks of the hotel.
TIP: In Manhattan, north-south blocks, between the Streets, are short, "20 to the mile." East-west blocks, between the Avenues, are over twice that long. The three block width of Central Park, from 5th to 8th Avenues, is surprising. Also, in lower Manhattan, numbers tend to disappear and street directions - and names - vary. It is wise to travel with a good map reader, for subway and bus maps and for surface maps. It's OK to ask for directions, as most folks are willing to help, if briefly, but the results are spotty. Also keep in mind: "uptown" is roughly north, away from the Battery, "downtown" is roughly south, toward the Battery, and crosstown is just that, east to west and vice versa. Most Manhattan addresses are given including the cross street, as the numbering of buildings and blocks is apparently intelligible with a chart but is not obvious.
We stopped back at the hotel for a breather, then in the early evening set off for the Empire State Building observation deck. Wendy had obtained tickets online in advance, as she did for several places, and this saved us a portion of the standing in line. There was still plenty of that, from outside the building, through the line for the security check (similar to airports), and to the line for the elevators to the 80th floor, to the line for the elevators to the 86th floor (stairs available for these six flights). We were probably in line for a total of maybe 45 minutes, maybe a little more. Then came the deck, crowded both inside and outside but giving stunning views in all directions. We were there at the last of the light, so we could see things with the natural light but enjoy the lighting show as well. It was windy on the outside deck, but my hat stayed put. The hot, muggy weather left a haze, so the Verrazano Narrows Bridge was barely suggested to the south, as if painted by an Impressionist running out of paint. The Statue of Liberty was there in outline, with a hint of gold from the top of the torch. Not far away from the Empire State was the metal-clad spire of the Chrysler Building, and we could see the glow beginning to rise from Times Square. Then the descent: the line for the elevator to the 80th floor, and the line for the elevators to the 2nd level; these took about ten minutes.
This was thirsty work; luckily, we found a brewpub on the street level of the Empire State. We enjoyed a few beverages and, when the spicy fries came out cold, were comped a couple of them.
TIP: this did not make things cheap. You need to do some looking if you want a cheap beer. The only beer I bought that cost under $3 was part of a six-pack from a deli grocery; the only other one under $4 was one with dinner at the restaurant in our hotel. You can do better in neighborhoods away from Times Square and midtown Manhattan; Laura and Ross suggest that, based on happy hour signboard pricing, the Lower East Side near Chinatown is probably a cheaper place to party.
We took a short ride on the subway to the other end of Times Square from our hotel and took in the amazing lights and signs on our way to the hotel. That was enough for that day, and it's enough for this entry.
We arrived Saturday, too early to check into our hotel (about which more later). So we left our luggage there and hopped on a Gray Line downtown loop tour. The day was incredibly hot, so the upper deck of the bus was almost too much, but the lower deck isn't so good for seeing what the guide is telling you about. We hopped off at South Street Seaport, which has to be a Rouse development, like Pier 39 in San Francisco and a bit like Inner Harbor in Baltimore and Quincy Market in Boston. Shops, restaurants, etc. Over the East River, looking out at Brooklyn and the Brooklyn Bridge, it was a nice break from the bus tour. The first half of the first glass of beer evaporated somewhere in the esophagus, never reaching the stomach. Then we split a platter of hors d'oeuvres at a pier restaurant. We hopped on another bus to finish the route.
TIP: every time we stood in a line for Gray Line buses, we saw City Sights buses go by with seats open while we might have to wait for a second or third Gray Line bus. They appeared to run the same routes. If I needed another set of bus tours, I might try City Sights for faster access. Also, depending on your other plans, consider a multi-day hop-on, hop-off pass so you can go see more things.
After checking into our hotel, and a brief rest period, we set out for dinner. We walked to John's Pizzeria, one outlet of one of the better-known pizza joints. Smack in the middle of the theater district, it was busy: we waited about a half-hour for a table. The restaurant is in a former church, which means a high ceiling, some stained glass, and multi-level seating. We could see four brick pizza ovens from our table, and our pie came quickly enough. It was delicious! The thin crust was brown at the edges, the sauce and cheese were in balance, and everything was just what you'd want. There's something that comes from the brick ovens, a taste in the crust, that takes pizza baked this way a step higher than otherwise.The Caesar salad was also tasty, with enough but not too much dressing evenly distributed. After dinner we walked back to the hotel, stopping at a deli grocery for beer and other room essentials.
The Hotel Edison is located on 47th Street, halfway between Broadway and 8th Avenue. It's old, from the 20's or 30's, and it's fairly big. While the lobby has a wonderful art deco feel, with several excellent murals (and with people actually sitting in it!), the rooms are not much more than functional. We had a two-bedroom "suite," with the bathroom in one of the rooms and no sitting room. This worked well enough. Ice was purchased at the bell stand in the lobby, and vending machines were not available, but there were two or three delis and the hotel gift shop within a block. The air conditioners were window units, and Wendy's and mine worked better than Laura's and Ross's. The water temperature in the shower was unpredictable, causing people to exclaim or jump out from both hot and cold surges. Our room was on the 21st floor, and the hotel elevators did a good job. We thought we might get a view from up there, but not so much: there are a number of taller buildings within a block or two. The hotel's location can't be beat: several subway stops within a few blocks, Times Square half a block away, restaurants and bars beckoning from all sides, bus service, theatres, etc., etc. The price wasn't dirt cheap but for the four of us it was well under $90 per person per night, even with the 15%+ taxes added. I think that Wendy and I would stay there again, depending on the price. Within a block or two are the Marriott Marquis, the Renaissance, the W, the Crowne Plaza, and other hotels which would likely have cost double or more.
TRIVIA QUIZ: what is the Javits tax?
Breakfast seemed never to be important. I ended up going to the deli next to the hotel every morning for a coffee and a little something (often the chocolate chip pound cake), and bringing it back up to the room for showering and dressing. There was a Starbucks half a block each way, but I could do up my own at the deli, and it was closer and cheaper. We didn't ever hit the street much before ten, which cut a little into the amount of exploring but felt luxurious.
Sunday morning, we walked about ten blocks to have a look at Grand Central Station (er, Terminal). The vaulted ceiling of the lobby, the huge sculpture above the main entry, the multiple levels, the food court, all were interesting to see. It would have been fun to go at a rush hour and watch the swarms, but it was much more leisurely our way. We found a deli and ate a late breakfast or early lunch, then began the subway adventure. We bought 7-day unlimited MetroCards, a huge convenience as they work on subways and buses. The vending machines only allow you to buy two MetroCards per credit card, probably to limit exposure to stolen or bogus cards.
TIP: if you have more than one credit card, bring them both, in separate wallets or pockets. If you meet up with a limit as above, or if you lose one (about which more later), you will have a fallback position.
Our first subway ride was up to the American Museum of Natural History. The place is huge, about three blocks long and two deep, three floors, with over a dozen main halls and many more rooms. Ross and Laura went one way, Wendy and I another. One interesting aspect of this museum is that it shows a history of museum exhibit styles, from mid-20th century and earlier to very modern, from stuffed animals and fake people in dusty dioramas to dramatically lit walk-through environments. Some signs attribute the sources of samples to countries no longer on the map. Also, some of the items on exhibit have been so since the 1880's or earlier, including the 50-foot Northwest Indian canoe hanging in one hall. The entrance hall is an architectural spectacle all by itself, and a memorial to Teddy Roosevelt. We stayed only a couple hours, saw only a portion of the museum, and would happily go back.
The AMNH is across from the west edge of Central Park, between 77th and 81st Streets. We crossed the street and hopped on the Gray Line Uptown Loop tour; we had waited for this at its supposed origin point but no buses showed up in twenty minutes so we did the subway. This took us along Central Park West, then past Columbia University, Union Theological Seminary and Riverside Church, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The nave of the Cathedral had been under renovation for two years, and was due to reopen the NEXT DAY. So we stayed on the bus along Riverside Drive, saw Grant's Tomb and the George Washington Bridge, then hopped off in Harlem. We walked along 125th Avenue for a couple blocks, and took note of the entirely different tone of street life, found nowhere to eat on that busy shopping street (Burger King was a non-starter, except for a life-saving cold Coke), and caught the next Gray Line bus. We hopped off along Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and walked along 5th Avenue past the museum and the art vendors outside. The east side of 5th Avenue being mostly luxury apartments, we didn't see any likely restaurants, so we turned east and asked a police officer what street might be likely to help us.
"Where ya from?" he asked in a friendly manner.
"Wisconsin and Minnesota."
"Oh, you're not from here. That's why you're so nice."
He directed us to Lexington Avenue, the block east of Park Avenue (no, Park Avenue isn't along the park), and we found a neighborhood restaurant. Very good, not great, you don't need to look for it but it did the trick. We all chowed down pretty good. It was also near a subway stop that, with one transfer, got us back within two blocks of the hotel.
TIP: In Manhattan, north-south blocks, between the Streets, are short, "20 to the mile." East-west blocks, between the Avenues, are over twice that long. The three block width of Central Park, from 5th to 8th Avenues, is surprising. Also, in lower Manhattan, numbers tend to disappear and street directions - and names - vary. It is wise to travel with a good map reader, for subway and bus maps and for surface maps. It's OK to ask for directions, as most folks are willing to help, if briefly, but the results are spotty. Also keep in mind: "uptown" is roughly north, away from the Battery, "downtown" is roughly south, toward the Battery, and crosstown is just that, east to west and vice versa. Most Manhattan addresses are given including the cross street, as the numbering of buildings and blocks is apparently intelligible with a chart but is not obvious.
We stopped back at the hotel for a breather, then in the early evening set off for the Empire State Building observation deck. Wendy had obtained tickets online in advance, as she did for several places, and this saved us a portion of the standing in line. There was still plenty of that, from outside the building, through the line for the security check (similar to airports), and to the line for the elevators to the 80th floor, to the line for the elevators to the 86th floor (stairs available for these six flights). We were probably in line for a total of maybe 45 minutes, maybe a little more. Then came the deck, crowded both inside and outside but giving stunning views in all directions. We were there at the last of the light, so we could see things with the natural light but enjoy the lighting show as well. It was windy on the outside deck, but my hat stayed put. The hot, muggy weather left a haze, so the Verrazano Narrows Bridge was barely suggested to the south, as if painted by an Impressionist running out of paint. The Statue of Liberty was there in outline, with a hint of gold from the top of the torch. Not far away from the Empire State was the metal-clad spire of the Chrysler Building, and we could see the glow beginning to rise from Times Square. Then the descent: the line for the elevator to the 80th floor, and the line for the elevators to the 2nd level; these took about ten minutes.
This was thirsty work; luckily, we found a brewpub on the street level of the Empire State. We enjoyed a few beverages and, when the spicy fries came out cold, were comped a couple of them.
TIP: this did not make things cheap. You need to do some looking if you want a cheap beer. The only beer I bought that cost under $3 was part of a six-pack from a deli grocery; the only other one under $4 was one with dinner at the restaurant in our hotel. You can do better in neighborhoods away from Times Square and midtown Manhattan; Laura and Ross suggest that, based on happy hour signboard pricing, the Lower East Side near Chinatown is probably a cheaper place to party.
We took a short ride on the subway to the other end of Times Square from our hotel and took in the amazing lights and signs on our way to the hotel. That was enough for that day, and it's enough for this entry.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
More Roommates
It seems that I forgot a few folks who are worthy of a mention in a discussion of roommates. Some weren't exactly in the room or apartment, but count; some were in the same place but...ah, that's not fair. Everybody counts.
In my freshman year, Larry Nowlin was my roommate but Pete Aschoff and Paul Rock were my buddies. Rock lived in the room next door, with his roommate Ted Chapin. Ted was from New York City, and his dad was, in later years, director of the Metropolitan Opera after Sir Rudolf Bing retired. He had a postcard from his family, with a corner note scribbled by Peter Ustinov. Rock, Aschoff and I engaged in a contest to see who could grow a zit on the end of his nose. Nobody won, but we all had a few extra zits in non-scoring places. Aschoff and I tried to brew Applejack in his closet, with apple cider, yeast, sugar, and his closet light staying on 24/7.
Aschoff also got his parrot stoned, twice. The first time, it stood on the floor of its cage and didn't move except to the music of the Rolling Stones. The second time, it died.
In the apartment with Don Lee, we had a couple of roommates after Mike and John moved out. We had Dean Merwin, a nice enough guy whom Don still runs into once in awhile. And we had Howard Kaufman. Howard was from Appleton, and he was blind. Two hours after beginning to move in, he had his stereo set up and knew his way to the kitchen, the bathroom and the beer. One evening he had a party, hosting his blind and partially-sighted friends.
Do you know how, in a group, you watch for non-verbal signals to see who is eager to speak, who is bored, who is interested in whom, and other sorts of dynamics? These don't work so well in a gathering of blind people: although they all give off the signals, nobody sees them. In order to get the next turn to speak, they interject, interrupt and jack up the volume to talk over each other.
Alcohol only pushes up the volume even more, although I got caught at my little joke. I had stuck around to bartend, and I started pouring things together in a non-directed version of "wap" ("wapituli," or however it's spelled, which generally refers to each guest bringing a bottle of booze and all of them being dumped together to make a hideous punch). Howard called my bluff: he said it was great, and could I make more of the same? I had no idea of the recipe.
Howard walked all over the East Side of Milwaukee, to UWM and to stores and wherever. He found his way to Wendy's and my wedding party at the Y-Not Bar; we have a picture of him offering us the wedding gift of a pack of Trojans. Not that he's ever seen it... Do you know how blind people check to see if food on the stove is hot? Howard would just stick in a finger. I hoped it wasn't his reading hand. I never asked him if he learned to read with both hands.
Wendy had a roommate, Cindy, while I was moving into the relationship. Cindy painted her bedroom purple, with white trim. Do you know how hard it is to paint over purple? Cindy worked with Wendy at a popular Milwaukee steak restaurant frequented by various celebrities including a few Milwaukee Bucks; I met one while wrapped in the sheets and saw the backside of another on a bathroom run.
I hope this takes care of the topic. If someone feels neglected, let me know.
In my freshman year, Larry Nowlin was my roommate but Pete Aschoff and Paul Rock were my buddies. Rock lived in the room next door, with his roommate Ted Chapin. Ted was from New York City, and his dad was, in later years, director of the Metropolitan Opera after Sir Rudolf Bing retired. He had a postcard from his family, with a corner note scribbled by Peter Ustinov. Rock, Aschoff and I engaged in a contest to see who could grow a zit on the end of his nose. Nobody won, but we all had a few extra zits in non-scoring places. Aschoff and I tried to brew Applejack in his closet, with apple cider, yeast, sugar, and his closet light staying on 24/7.
Aschoff also got his parrot stoned, twice. The first time, it stood on the floor of its cage and didn't move except to the music of the Rolling Stones. The second time, it died.
In the apartment with Don Lee, we had a couple of roommates after Mike and John moved out. We had Dean Merwin, a nice enough guy whom Don still runs into once in awhile. And we had Howard Kaufman. Howard was from Appleton, and he was blind. Two hours after beginning to move in, he had his stereo set up and knew his way to the kitchen, the bathroom and the beer. One evening he had a party, hosting his blind and partially-sighted friends.
Do you know how, in a group, you watch for non-verbal signals to see who is eager to speak, who is bored, who is interested in whom, and other sorts of dynamics? These don't work so well in a gathering of blind people: although they all give off the signals, nobody sees them. In order to get the next turn to speak, they interject, interrupt and jack up the volume to talk over each other.
Alcohol only pushes up the volume even more, although I got caught at my little joke. I had stuck around to bartend, and I started pouring things together in a non-directed version of "wap" ("wapituli," or however it's spelled, which generally refers to each guest bringing a bottle of booze and all of them being dumped together to make a hideous punch). Howard called my bluff: he said it was great, and could I make more of the same? I had no idea of the recipe.
Howard walked all over the East Side of Milwaukee, to UWM and to stores and wherever. He found his way to Wendy's and my wedding party at the Y-Not Bar; we have a picture of him offering us the wedding gift of a pack of Trojans. Not that he's ever seen it... Do you know how blind people check to see if food on the stove is hot? Howard would just stick in a finger. I hoped it wasn't his reading hand. I never asked him if he learned to read with both hands.
Wendy had a roommate, Cindy, while I was moving into the relationship. Cindy painted her bedroom purple, with white trim. Do you know how hard it is to paint over purple? Cindy worked with Wendy at a popular Milwaukee steak restaurant frequented by various celebrities including a few Milwaukee Bucks; I met one while wrapped in the sheets and saw the backside of another on a bathroom run.
I hope this takes care of the topic. If someone feels neglected, let me know.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Roommates
I think I'm on safe ground here, since I am in touch with only two (if you count my spouse) of my roommates through the years, and I don't believe any others have found this blog. One, I believe, is deceased. Donny, I apologize right now.
I grew up an only child. Still am, and since my parents are gone, I think I'm safe there. I had two cousins that lived within hailing distance for awhile, and two more that I saw some summers, and six more that I met when I was ten (give or take Peggy's birth year), but I was quite used to having my own room and not so much used to having others around who were on my level. I used to, when I was six or seven, have an occasional overnight with Joellen Peters, or with Ron Quimby. You could hit a golf ball through their windows from my house, and our parents were friends.
I went to Boy Scout Camp, Gardner Dam in north central Wisconsin, and our troop went on campouts to that site and others, and our DeMolay chapter took a couple road trips. But I seldom had to deal with anyone else's needs or stuff in my room - or tent - for more than a week until I went off to college (two miles from home). A sleepover, camping trip or the like was a treat, a special event, with late night conversations, fart contests in the dark, and other markers of something beyond the normal.
My first roommate in the true sense was Larry Nowlin, in our freshman year at Lawrence University. Larry was from Minneapolis. We went through an alcohol adjustment; Wisconsin served beer to 18 year olds in beer bars, and I had turned 18 during my senior year of high school. Minnesota didn't serve legally until 21, so Larry's experience was from house parties.
The first weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I cleaned it up. The second weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I left it for him. It didn't happen again.
We never really bonded, but we got along. Each of us tried to back off of our worst traits, and we each tried to enjoy something about the other. Larry liked my wall of Playboy foldouts, and we made up a scoring system for the darts we threw at that wall. We did have some plaster repair to do at the end of the year.
I've not seen or heard from, or of, Larry since then, but he left me with a particularly rude but high compliment which may be said of an especially lovely lady. I will answer individual inquiries, or I may just do a list of rude sayings to get them out of the moustache. Not tonight.
For the sophomore year, I moved into the Phi Kappa Tau house with Pete Aschoff, a friend from down the hall in the freshman year. Our room was about 9'x9', with two desks and two dressers. We began the year by trying to sleep in bunks on the "cold porch," which was just that, a room of six or seven bunk beds with no heat. By late October, we were on quilts on the floor of our tiny room. This wasn't bad, except for the night Pete brought back his girlfriend: I woke up folded neatly between the legs of my desk. For reasons related more to money and grades than to room issues, I moved home at Christmas.
While between colleges, I took an apartment with my childhood friend Bob Verhage. We got along all right, except for money and boundaries. I piled up his car at a drive-in; we subtracted the repair from what he owed me and it still took his girlfriend two years to goad him into paying off the debt of six months. After asking him to keep out of my stuff, I came home one day to find him wearing my best shirt and my only cufflinks (interesting fashion era), I went over the coffee table after him, perhaps my worst act of violence ever. Money and stuff... I moved home again.
My first lodging at UW-Milwaukee was in a rooming house. I had my own bedroom, and the several tenants shared a bath on the second floor and a kitchen in the basement. I almost never saw the other tenants, and only occasionally saw the resident landlord family, the Chuppas.
I stumbled across the ad seeking a roommate. Don Lee was looking for a fourth to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a large building on Milwaukee's East Side, not too far from campus. This turned out well. Mike Rockel and John Kiedrowski had one room; Don and I had the other. Mike and John kind of went their own ways, although we had some good group drunks. Don and I found our way into a friendship that is now at 36 years and counting. He stood up at our wedding, I stood up at his a few years later, and he and Helen, with their son Mark, joined us for dinner last Friday. I don't see him as often as I might like, but when we get together, there's not much need to fill in the gaps.
It was while I was in the apartment with Don that I met Wendy. After awhile, I had what amounted to two roommates at two addresses, and after a bit longer, things took their course and I found my long-term roommate.
So, to sum up, I've had two decent roommate experiences, one that went south for the usual; reasons, and two that have stuck. I guess that's a pretty good track record.
I grew up an only child. Still am, and since my parents are gone, I think I'm safe there. I had two cousins that lived within hailing distance for awhile, and two more that I saw some summers, and six more that I met when I was ten (give or take Peggy's birth year), but I was quite used to having my own room and not so much used to having others around who were on my level. I used to, when I was six or seven, have an occasional overnight with Joellen Peters, or with Ron Quimby. You could hit a golf ball through their windows from my house, and our parents were friends.
I went to Boy Scout Camp, Gardner Dam in north central Wisconsin, and our troop went on campouts to that site and others, and our DeMolay chapter took a couple road trips. But I seldom had to deal with anyone else's needs or stuff in my room - or tent - for more than a week until I went off to college (two miles from home). A sleepover, camping trip or the like was a treat, a special event, with late night conversations, fart contests in the dark, and other markers of something beyond the normal.
My first roommate in the true sense was Larry Nowlin, in our freshman year at Lawrence University. Larry was from Minneapolis. We went through an alcohol adjustment; Wisconsin served beer to 18 year olds in beer bars, and I had turned 18 during my senior year of high school. Minnesota didn't serve legally until 21, so Larry's experience was from house parties.
The first weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I cleaned it up. The second weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I left it for him. It didn't happen again.
We never really bonded, but we got along. Each of us tried to back off of our worst traits, and we each tried to enjoy something about the other. Larry liked my wall of Playboy foldouts, and we made up a scoring system for the darts we threw at that wall. We did have some plaster repair to do at the end of the year.
I've not seen or heard from, or of, Larry since then, but he left me with a particularly rude but high compliment which may be said of an especially lovely lady. I will answer individual inquiries, or I may just do a list of rude sayings to get them out of the moustache. Not tonight.
For the sophomore year, I moved into the Phi Kappa Tau house with Pete Aschoff, a friend from down the hall in the freshman year. Our room was about 9'x9', with two desks and two dressers. We began the year by trying to sleep in bunks on the "cold porch," which was just that, a room of six or seven bunk beds with no heat. By late October, we were on quilts on the floor of our tiny room. This wasn't bad, except for the night Pete brought back his girlfriend: I woke up folded neatly between the legs of my desk. For reasons related more to money and grades than to room issues, I moved home at Christmas.
While between colleges, I took an apartment with my childhood friend Bob Verhage. We got along all right, except for money and boundaries. I piled up his car at a drive-in; we subtracted the repair from what he owed me and it still took his girlfriend two years to goad him into paying off the debt of six months. After asking him to keep out of my stuff, I came home one day to find him wearing my best shirt and my only cufflinks (interesting fashion era), I went over the coffee table after him, perhaps my worst act of violence ever. Money and stuff... I moved home again.
My first lodging at UW-Milwaukee was in a rooming house. I had my own bedroom, and the several tenants shared a bath on the second floor and a kitchen in the basement. I almost never saw the other tenants, and only occasionally saw the resident landlord family, the Chuppas.
I stumbled across the ad seeking a roommate. Don Lee was looking for a fourth to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a large building on Milwaukee's East Side, not too far from campus. This turned out well. Mike Rockel and John Kiedrowski had one room; Don and I had the other. Mike and John kind of went their own ways, although we had some good group drunks. Don and I found our way into a friendship that is now at 36 years and counting. He stood up at our wedding, I stood up at his a few years later, and he and Helen, with their son Mark, joined us for dinner last Friday. I don't see him as often as I might like, but when we get together, there's not much need to fill in the gaps.
It was while I was in the apartment with Don that I met Wendy. After awhile, I had what amounted to two roommates at two addresses, and after a bit longer, things took their course and I found my long-term roommate.
So, to sum up, I've had two decent roommate experiences, one that went south for the usual; reasons, and two that have stuck. I guess that's a pretty good track record.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Rated R for Language Issues
I know most of the words. The F word. The S word. The C word. Multiple terms for multiple body parts, elimination functions, sexual connections, and, in the words of J.P. Donleavy, "vilenesses various." I quoted, in an earlier blog, George Carlin's take on one of the stronger rude terms. I drop more than my share of F-bombs in conversation. And I enjoy a rude jest, if it involves clever wordplay or exceptional meanness of spirit, whether or not it uses "bad language."
None of these words or phrases are necessary to basic communication. I can go all day, as indeed I must in the workplace, without using them. Of the twenty-odd preceding blogs in this collection (Holy Crap! Thirty-couple!), less than half use such terms at all, and only a few feature them in any way.
But there is a subtle difference between basic communication and effective communication. I remember a rubber stamp that Gordy Baird, a dorm-mate my freshman year, carried and used to great effect, and many are the times I have longed to have that stamp. It said only one word: "Bullshit ." Come on, now, you want it, too. And you wouldn't overuse such a precious tool, you'd be judicious. Only one memo...well maybe two. And a copy of an ordinance, or a so-called news story that is nothing but a press release in the paper's stock type. Or most anything put out by the Bush Administration, those poor lost bastards.
Oops! That's one of those terms that may or may not be offensive. Did you know that one type of file used in metal shops is called a mill bastard? Learned that in junior high. In class. It wasn't explained: what did the poor file do to earn such a term of disrespect? The word used to refer simply to someone whose parents weren't married to each other, and was often used to explain why some young British fellow wasn't coming into the family money. Now it's in wide use, generally to express disapproval or to explain that someone has done someone else, who is probably closer to you, dirt.
It's also one of the words that is part of the creeping decline of TV standards. You'll hear it, along with "ass," "penis," and others like you never heard them even ten years ago. So maybe what's filthy now isn't the same as what was filthy back then. But the standard is so loose, and individuals' standards are spread over such a spectrum, that it's impossible to know exactly where the bounds of good taste lie. Bodily functions, sexual connections, and "vilenesses various" appear nightly in ways I don't recall from years past.
Even at work, the standard moves all over the place. I work with a range of people from 17 to 60, from cussing dockworked to professing Christian. We generally use the terms "HR-friendly" and "HR-free;" you might guess that I try to maintain a ten-foot perimeter of HR-free. This refers to language, joke and other issues that may or may not offend someone to the point that they bring action under the arcane and remarkably biased rules of harassment and discrimination; HR-free means that I hope I can speak freely and not get myself hauled in for some ill-chosen word or joke. "HR-friendly" means that everyone treads awfully lightly, and fun suffers as well as effective transmission of ideas or training. You can say otherwise, but it's like saying that tortilla chips taste just as good without salt.
Mostly I have no desire to offend or hurt anyone. Except, of course, when they have it coming. There's a lovely, if HR-free, description of stress that defines it as "the mind's struggle to overcome the body's natural desire to choke the living shit out of some asshole who richly deserves it." While that's a little over the top for most situations, once in awhile you'll resonate with the sentiment and appreciate the directness of the expression. And what, pray tell, do you say when you catch your thigh on the corner of a table, or stub your toe, or nail your thumb with a hammer, or spill the red wine on the white carpet, or step in the middle of the night on the cold pile of dog barf? "Oh, golly gee?"
I think not. I bet that a good old Anglo-Saxon plosive of one form or other slips past your lips before you can gather yourself, or you consign the event or its perpetrator to Hades, or suggest that one parent may be canine.
I make a reasonable effort to describe events, tell stories, give opinions, or generally blog away without slipping into language that may put readers off. But sometimes I can make a point, or more effectively emphasize it, or tell a story with more truth, if I throw in a word or a phrase that may run a little rough. Effective communication is more important than "appropriate" language.
None of these words or phrases are necessary to basic communication. I can go all day, as indeed I must in the workplace, without using them. Of the twenty-odd preceding blogs in this collection (Holy Crap! Thirty-couple!), less than half use such terms at all, and only a few feature them in any way.
But there is a subtle difference between basic communication and effective communication. I remember a rubber stamp that Gordy Baird, a dorm-mate my freshman year, carried and used to great effect, and many are the times I have longed to have that stamp. It said only one word: "Bullshit ." Come on, now, you want it, too. And you wouldn't overuse such a precious tool, you'd be judicious. Only one memo...well maybe two. And a copy of an ordinance, or a so-called news story that is nothing but a press release in the paper's stock type. Or most anything put out by the Bush Administration, those poor lost bastards.
Oops! That's one of those terms that may or may not be offensive. Did you know that one type of file used in metal shops is called a mill bastard? Learned that in junior high. In class. It wasn't explained: what did the poor file do to earn such a term of disrespect? The word used to refer simply to someone whose parents weren't married to each other, and was often used to explain why some young British fellow wasn't coming into the family money. Now it's in wide use, generally to express disapproval or to explain that someone has done someone else, who is probably closer to you, dirt.
It's also one of the words that is part of the creeping decline of TV standards. You'll hear it, along with "ass," "penis," and others like you never heard them even ten years ago. So maybe what's filthy now isn't the same as what was filthy back then. But the standard is so loose, and individuals' standards are spread over such a spectrum, that it's impossible to know exactly where the bounds of good taste lie. Bodily functions, sexual connections, and "vilenesses various" appear nightly in ways I don't recall from years past.
Even at work, the standard moves all over the place. I work with a range of people from 17 to 60, from cussing dockworked to professing Christian. We generally use the terms "HR-friendly" and "HR-free;" you might guess that I try to maintain a ten-foot perimeter of HR-free. This refers to language, joke and other issues that may or may not offend someone to the point that they bring action under the arcane and remarkably biased rules of harassment and discrimination; HR-free means that I hope I can speak freely and not get myself hauled in for some ill-chosen word or joke. "HR-friendly" means that everyone treads awfully lightly, and fun suffers as well as effective transmission of ideas or training. You can say otherwise, but it's like saying that tortilla chips taste just as good without salt.
Mostly I have no desire to offend or hurt anyone. Except, of course, when they have it coming. There's a lovely, if HR-free, description of stress that defines it as "the mind's struggle to overcome the body's natural desire to choke the living shit out of some asshole who richly deserves it." While that's a little over the top for most situations, once in awhile you'll resonate with the sentiment and appreciate the directness of the expression. And what, pray tell, do you say when you catch your thigh on the corner of a table, or stub your toe, or nail your thumb with a hammer, or spill the red wine on the white carpet, or step in the middle of the night on the cold pile of dog barf? "Oh, golly gee?"
I think not. I bet that a good old Anglo-Saxon plosive of one form or other slips past your lips before you can gather yourself, or you consign the event or its perpetrator to Hades, or suggest that one parent may be canine.
I make a reasonable effort to describe events, tell stories, give opinions, or generally blog away without slipping into language that may put readers off. But sometimes I can make a point, or more effectively emphasize it, or tell a story with more truth, if I throw in a word or a phrase that may run a little rough. Effective communication is more important than "appropriate" language.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
A Reason To Drink
I seem to do a pretty good job of finding reasons to drink. It was a long/tough/great day at work. It's a holiday/weekend/day off. It's my birthday/your birthday/some guy's birthday. It's Tuesday/5 o'clock/noon/not just for breakfast anymore. I just bought some/have some/you have some. It's fresh/getting old/right here in the fridge. It goes great with pizza/burgers/any food/who needs food? Or, perhaps, they're working on your house and donig a really bad frustrating job.
Now I may have another one: it can help us to energy independence. A report on ABC News tells that sorghum makes for a better crop than corn if your goal is raw material for biofuel production (sorghum is multiples energy- positive, corn slightly energy-negative). It grows in sketchier terrain, and the extraction of the raw material requires less energy, and the stalks are the source of the squeezings to be refined, leaving the grain available for food - and brewing.
It seems that sorghum beer has been common in Africa for centuries, although the product has been, even in modern times, cloudy and inconsistent. The general term has been "chibuku." Sounds like Chewbacca, and if you drank some, you might make sounds like Chewie's bleating barks. In fact, it's known as "opaque" beer as opposed to clear German-style and American lagers. SAB Miller has recently introduced a sorghum-based beer called "Eagle" for African markets, brewed to be clear and lighter, perhaps intended to be a "bridge" beer to clear barley-based lagers. Sorghum is a grain grown widely in Africa, and elsewhere through the Middle East and in warm climates.
Sorghum beer began showing up on shelves around here a few years ago. Lakefront Brewery, from Milwaukee, brews something called "New Grist." Anheuser-Busch brought out "Redbridge," and there's one called "Dragon's Gold," from Bard in Kansas City. There may be more, but we'll talk about that after a bit.
The market thrust for Redbridge, and one used by the others, is that sorghum produces a gluten-free beer. Apparently barley, and wheat, leave gluten in the wort after malting and cooking. Spelt, triticale, and some of the other "heritage" grains and wonder grasses from which the cereals are made that cost you five bucks in the organic section of your local grocery, also have glutens, so if you have celiac disease or other gluten troubles, cast off your Kashi and Barbara's. Weizenbier lovers, Bud fans (barley with rice adjunct), and everyone else, if you have difficulties after drinking beer in moderation, you might want to check with your doctor or allergist. Miller drinkers, I still believe that Miller products rely too much on clarifiers, head adjusters and other lab additives to be entirely good for you, although I owe it to fairness to try a couple of the new Miller Lite craft flavors (none made from sorghum).
I can't locate Dragon's Gold in western Wisconsin, but I got hold of some New Grist and some Redbridge. A taste test suggests that Redbridge, the Anheuser-Busch product, is more palatable. It's slightly red in color, and clear. There's a little something unusual as it goes into your mouth, but it's nicely hopped and it finishes fairly clean. The New Grist, from Lakefront, uses rice as an adjunct grain. It is golden, although a richer color than most American lagers, and also clear. But it's a bit disappointing in the mouth, as it's vaguely sour - and a little gummy (the hops in the Redbridge cut that effect). I had tried New Grist once before, and the recent tasting confirms what I had remembered. Although I had skipped Redbridge because it was from a megabrewer, A-B, if I'm going to drink my way to energy independence, it would be the Redbridge. Neither one is as flavorful or as rewarding as a good Maibock.
In the meantime, as the corn-for-ethanol push drives prices up for all corn and for food, all I can do is hope that somebody will keep growing barley instead of plowing it under and planting more corn. What about beef barley soup? What about Grape-Nuts? Is nothing sacred? I've had some rye beers - SunRye from Redhook is very nice - but where are the beers from oats? Or, say, spelt? Triticale? Quinoa?
It's a damn shame when they come and piss all over your simple beer drinking.
Now I may have another one: it can help us to energy independence. A report on ABC News tells that sorghum makes for a better crop than corn if your goal is raw material for biofuel production (sorghum is multiples energy- positive, corn slightly energy-negative). It grows in sketchier terrain, and the extraction of the raw material requires less energy, and the stalks are the source of the squeezings to be refined, leaving the grain available for food - and brewing.
It seems that sorghum beer has been common in Africa for centuries, although the product has been, even in modern times, cloudy and inconsistent. The general term has been "chibuku." Sounds like Chewbacca, and if you drank some, you might make sounds like Chewie's bleating barks. In fact, it's known as "opaque" beer as opposed to clear German-style and American lagers. SAB Miller has recently introduced a sorghum-based beer called "Eagle" for African markets, brewed to be clear and lighter, perhaps intended to be a "bridge" beer to clear barley-based lagers. Sorghum is a grain grown widely in Africa, and elsewhere through the Middle East and in warm climates.
Sorghum beer began showing up on shelves around here a few years ago. Lakefront Brewery, from Milwaukee, brews something called "New Grist." Anheuser-Busch brought out "Redbridge," and there's one called "Dragon's Gold," from Bard in Kansas City. There may be more, but we'll talk about that after a bit.
The market thrust for Redbridge, and one used by the others, is that sorghum produces a gluten-free beer. Apparently barley, and wheat, leave gluten in the wort after malting and cooking. Spelt, triticale, and some of the other "heritage" grains and wonder grasses from which the cereals are made that cost you five bucks in the organic section of your local grocery, also have glutens, so if you have celiac disease or other gluten troubles, cast off your Kashi and Barbara's. Weizenbier lovers, Bud fans (barley with rice adjunct), and everyone else, if you have difficulties after drinking beer in moderation, you might want to check with your doctor or allergist. Miller drinkers, I still believe that Miller products rely too much on clarifiers, head adjusters and other lab additives to be entirely good for you, although I owe it to fairness to try a couple of the new Miller Lite craft flavors (none made from sorghum).
I can't locate Dragon's Gold in western Wisconsin, but I got hold of some New Grist and some Redbridge. A taste test suggests that Redbridge, the Anheuser-Busch product, is more palatable. It's slightly red in color, and clear. There's a little something unusual as it goes into your mouth, but it's nicely hopped and it finishes fairly clean. The New Grist, from Lakefront, uses rice as an adjunct grain. It is golden, although a richer color than most American lagers, and also clear. But it's a bit disappointing in the mouth, as it's vaguely sour - and a little gummy (the hops in the Redbridge cut that effect). I had tried New Grist once before, and the recent tasting confirms what I had remembered. Although I had skipped Redbridge because it was from a megabrewer, A-B, if I'm going to drink my way to energy independence, it would be the Redbridge. Neither one is as flavorful or as rewarding as a good Maibock.
In the meantime, as the corn-for-ethanol push drives prices up for all corn and for food, all I can do is hope that somebody will keep growing barley instead of plowing it under and planting more corn. What about beef barley soup? What about Grape-Nuts? Is nothing sacred? I've had some rye beers - SunRye from Redhook is very nice - but where are the beers from oats? Or, say, spelt? Triticale? Quinoa?
It's a damn shame when they come and piss all over your simple beer drinking.
Up In The Air, Part 10
Just when we thought that our contractor had run away to Iowa - he had - and would be seen no more, he showed up! We have had some progress on our house project, and although there's much still to do, we can see an end.
The last of the concrete block is in and the windows are in, so the basement is sealed. Ah, but no: there's some trim and insulation and exterior finish that needs to be put in, as I can see daylight along the seams between block and wood . I'm not sure Larry knows that, but he will be shown. A good deal of dirt needs to be returned so that the grade can be established, sloping away from the house, and window wells can be set.
We still have no front porch, but the new entry at the back door now has a door and window and can be closed. Since the old storm door from the back is gone, this is a good thing; the new door has no screen but the window in the entry does. We will have a kind of vestibule. Of course, Wendy hates the thought of a white door, and Larry hung a white door. All our other windows and our other storm door are dark brown, but he apparently missed that detail; the new window doesn't even match the new door but is almond, almost the color that he'll need to paint the new clapboard when he hangs it on the back entry area. And it has the little trim that makes the glass nine-pane, which none of our other windows are; we can't even saw that out, as it's embedded between the panes of glass ("No dusting!").
Then, on Thursday, they were re-doing beams in the basement, and the sewerage pipe from our back toilet was in the way, so they broke it off. That's not all bad: the plumber is coming tomorrow, and will be re-doing much of the water supply and drain/sewer pipe, as well as replacing the back toilet. But it might have been better had they told Wendy, who was home at the time. It's just fortunate that we sometimes let the first whiz sit ("first yellow, let it be mellow; second or brown, flush it down"), or the guys would have gotten a shower they deserved but would not have enjoyed. The plumber does face a bit of a challenge... then there was the hole where that pipe entered the main house sewerage pipe. What about the upstairs toilet, the sink, the shower, the dishwasher? Wouldn't all of that water come spewing backwards out of that hole? Did you know that you could stuff such a hole, cover it with a plastic bag, tape the bag to the pipe, and things would be OK? Ah, but no: it held for a couple days, but has started to drip, and there's no knowing whether it will hold or blow with the next few flushes. Another hazmat challenge for the plumber, I'll bet.
The washer, dryer, freezer and furnace are back in the basement. Although none are connected, they can be. The plumber is to bring the new water heater and a laundry sink, and make the appropriate new hookups, and we may be back in the home laundry business as soon as Tuesday. Since each trip to the laundromat has cost about $9, that will be nice.
Still to be determined: where the central air conditioner will sit and where it will be connected through the wall to the heating system, the ducting for which is also still to be determined. Also, the dryer vent and the furnace vent duct (the PVC pipe out the side of the basement that has replaced chimneys in many homes) need to be situated, and the plumber needs to run a pipe or two outside for hose hookups. So our foundation and/or sill will need to be breached in a few spots.
Then, the building of the front porch is to occur Monday. Wendy will be watching that like a hawk: she has made it clear to the contractor that it must look good, not half-assed. Good round trim, not 2x4s, finished-quality skirting, full steps, animal-proof screening, quality ceiling, etc., and the porch should convey the same look as the old one did, which suited the house. I think this will be the piece that determines our level of satisfaction, although I'll be watching things like dampness in the basement, sags and cracks in the house beyond those we've already had, etc.
The new basement steps are interesting. The flight is longer, since the new basement is over a foot taller, and the incline is slightly less steep, a good thing. This means, however, that there is slightly less headroom where the stairs nip under the first floor: I need to duck a bit, and I'm well under six feet tall. There's also less room at the bottom, just enough space to turn. The back of each step is open, which I believe will be enough to keep the dog out of the basement. We can return the cat's feeding to about the fourth step.
It will take awhile to develop the new basement habits. If the space proves congenial, I may take our couple pieces of workout stuff down there. I mostly ignore the equipment anyway, and Wendy absolutely hates one piece, so the idea of a basement gym space seems like a winner, as we can then spread out the seating in our back room. I can also have the option of getting some exercise while I wait for the last rinse and spin. We will need to get a few more sections of shelving and other storage fixturing, as we had some crappy old wood built-ins that left with the rest of the old basement. And I think that some things may not go back down at all but head for a thrift sale, or Goodwill, or the dump. It looks like some of our sill storage along the stairs has survived, and we may even end up with more; this has served as canned-goods pantry space and a holding area for beverages. I think we'll take our time settling in: we won't do anything until we know the job is done, and then proceed slowly, letting the space tell us what will work.
The next update will probably come after the plumber is done and the porch is up.
The last of the concrete block is in and the windows are in, so the basement is sealed. Ah, but no: there's some trim and insulation and exterior finish that needs to be put in, as I can see daylight along the seams between block and wood . I'm not sure Larry knows that, but he will be shown. A good deal of dirt needs to be returned so that the grade can be established, sloping away from the house, and window wells can be set.
We still have no front porch, but the new entry at the back door now has a door and window and can be closed. Since the old storm door from the back is gone, this is a good thing; the new door has no screen but the window in the entry does. We will have a kind of vestibule. Of course, Wendy hates the thought of a white door, and Larry hung a white door. All our other windows and our other storm door are dark brown, but he apparently missed that detail; the new window doesn't even match the new door but is almond, almost the color that he'll need to paint the new clapboard when he hangs it on the back entry area. And it has the little trim that makes the glass nine-pane, which none of our other windows are; we can't even saw that out, as it's embedded between the panes of glass ("No dusting!").
Then, on Thursday, they were re-doing beams in the basement, and the sewerage pipe from our back toilet was in the way, so they broke it off. That's not all bad: the plumber is coming tomorrow, and will be re-doing much of the water supply and drain/sewer pipe, as well as replacing the back toilet. But it might have been better had they told Wendy, who was home at the time. It's just fortunate that we sometimes let the first whiz sit ("first yellow, let it be mellow; second or brown, flush it down"), or the guys would have gotten a shower they deserved but would not have enjoyed. The plumber does face a bit of a challenge... then there was the hole where that pipe entered the main house sewerage pipe. What about the upstairs toilet, the sink, the shower, the dishwasher? Wouldn't all of that water come spewing backwards out of that hole? Did you know that you could stuff such a hole, cover it with a plastic bag, tape the bag to the pipe, and things would be OK? Ah, but no: it held for a couple days, but has started to drip, and there's no knowing whether it will hold or blow with the next few flushes. Another hazmat challenge for the plumber, I'll bet.
The washer, dryer, freezer and furnace are back in the basement. Although none are connected, they can be. The plumber is to bring the new water heater and a laundry sink, and make the appropriate new hookups, and we may be back in the home laundry business as soon as Tuesday. Since each trip to the laundromat has cost about $9, that will be nice.
Still to be determined: where the central air conditioner will sit and where it will be connected through the wall to the heating system, the ducting for which is also still to be determined. Also, the dryer vent and the furnace vent duct (the PVC pipe out the side of the basement that has replaced chimneys in many homes) need to be situated, and the plumber needs to run a pipe or two outside for hose hookups. So our foundation and/or sill will need to be breached in a few spots.
Then, the building of the front porch is to occur Monday. Wendy will be watching that like a hawk: she has made it clear to the contractor that it must look good, not half-assed. Good round trim, not 2x4s, finished-quality skirting, full steps, animal-proof screening, quality ceiling, etc., and the porch should convey the same look as the old one did, which suited the house. I think this will be the piece that determines our level of satisfaction, although I'll be watching things like dampness in the basement, sags and cracks in the house beyond those we've already had, etc.
The new basement steps are interesting. The flight is longer, since the new basement is over a foot taller, and the incline is slightly less steep, a good thing. This means, however, that there is slightly less headroom where the stairs nip under the first floor: I need to duck a bit, and I'm well under six feet tall. There's also less room at the bottom, just enough space to turn. The back of each step is open, which I believe will be enough to keep the dog out of the basement. We can return the cat's feeding to about the fourth step.
It will take awhile to develop the new basement habits. If the space proves congenial, I may take our couple pieces of workout stuff down there. I mostly ignore the equipment anyway, and Wendy absolutely hates one piece, so the idea of a basement gym space seems like a winner, as we can then spread out the seating in our back room. I can also have the option of getting some exercise while I wait for the last rinse and spin. We will need to get a few more sections of shelving and other storage fixturing, as we had some crappy old wood built-ins that left with the rest of the old basement. And I think that some things may not go back down at all but head for a thrift sale, or Goodwill, or the dump. It looks like some of our sill storage along the stairs has survived, and we may even end up with more; this has served as canned-goods pantry space and a holding area for beverages. I think we'll take our time settling in: we won't do anything until we know the job is done, and then proceed slowly, letting the space tell us what will work.
The next update will probably come after the plumber is done and the porch is up.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
A Tale of Two Highways
You can look at a map and get a sense of where you are, where your destination is, and what you might find on the way. But there are times that the map cannot express the wonder of the terrain.
You may have heard of California Highway 1. It runs up from north of San Diego, through San Clemente and Laguna Beach, through the Los Angeles area. It is the main way through Malibu, and runs on and off with 101 through Santa Barbara, separates and rejoins a time or two, then sets off at San Luis Obispo on its spectacular journey through the Big Sur region. It goes through Carmel and Monterey, around the bay to Santa Cruz, then along the coast into San Francisco. After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with 101, it heads for the coast again, up through Sea Ranch, Mendocino and Fort Bragg, then joins 101 in time to let you off on the Avenue of the Giants, a wonderful road through small towns and huge redwoods.
I've been on much of that spectacular road at one time or another. We spent a nice day at the beach in Laguna Beach, watching volleyball and eating at El Pollo Loco. Driving through Huntington Beach, I saw the oil wells along the sand. We took the little ferry onto Balboa Island, and I foresaw the real estate collapse but did nothing to avoid it. We stopped and waded at the beach in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the fabled "Ivy" restaurant. I've also dined there, but we didn't see anyone famous. I mentioned my mom's cousin in a previous blog; she lives along Highway 1 in Malibu, in an old motel. Down from the highway are some oceanfront homes, including one occupied by a family who had a photo portrait taken by her husband, Wayne. Some family named Die-lan (oops! Bob Dylan).
Highway 1 takes you past the world-famous Hearst Castle at San Simeon. Of course, although my parents weren't along, we didn't stop. Tours were spendy, in a time when we couldn't play that. On a different trip, we drove down from Santa Cruz, past Monterey and Carmel, and down toward Big Sur (the small town on the map of that name). We stopped at a restaurant named Nepenthe, a well-known landmark with some celebrity claims to fame. What exquisite views from its balcony, what an expensive lunch! In the recent spate of terrible forest fires, the Big Sur fire caused the evacuation of many people in the immediate area of this wonderful spot; I don't know if it still stands.
Then there's the white sand beach in Carmel, and the marvelous streets of shops to walk past and save just oodles of money. Then, on another visit to Aptos, my daughter and I took Highway 1 from San Francisco, where it branches off the freeways, through Pacifica through Half Moon Bay and down to Santa Cruz. And, over 30 years ago, Wendy and I drove with her father down 1 from the northern end into San Francisco, finishing with the curl around Mt. Tamalpais.
The wonder of driving on Highway 1 is its adjacency to the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes you're right along the beach. Sometimes you're hundreds of feet up a cliffside where they had no business building a road. Sometimes you're 100 yards from the ocean but can't see it for the forest, or the grass-covered hills. You'll find yourself on a lovely curving embankment, or an even more lovely curving bridge over a stream emptying into the ocean. Several of the bridges on this road are in the pantheon of great bridges of the world. If you happen to miss a quick view, you can't really go back, as it's mostly two-lane and fairly busy, but have no fear: another soul-restoring view will come around the next bend. And hoo boy, are there bends!
On reflection, I think that I might have done Highway 1 the best way: not all at once, but in bits. Sometimes you just hit sensory overload, and need some time to absorb. Not, maybe, 33 years, but some buffer. I only promise that each of the places I mention is worth a look, and that there are many more views from this unbelievable road. If all your tax dollars could be spent to this wonderful effect...
Are there roads that can compare? I can speak for what is now Minnesota Highway 61, north from Duluth along the Lake Superior shore. In fact, if you keep going into Ontario, and around the whole of Lake Superior, you'll be surrounded by wonderful scenery, great campgrounds and some interesting bits of history. And if you make it back to Duluth, and get up into the town, you'll find some vistas that compare well to views of the Bay in San Francisco. Someone once described the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior as "more like the rock-bound coast of Maine than the rock-bound coast of Maine."
And we live near the Mississippi River, which means that we have a choice of US 61, on the Minnesota side, or Wisconsin 35, on our side, from the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers to La Crosse, and beyond on the Wisconsin side. Especially in the green seasons, the roads give views of the bluffs, the fields, the river, the islands, the trains on the busy rail routes, the barge tows, the locks and dams, the cranes and eagles, in as happy a mixture of bucolic peace and transportation might as you can find.
Then, last summer, we found the match to California 1. I don't recall its number, as I was staring out the windhsield pretty much constantly. This was safe, as our dear friend Hasan was driving. The highway is in Turkey, along the Mediterranean coast. If I can find my Turkish highway map, or when Hasan comes to visit in a month or so, I'll put a number to this wondrous road.
If you find the city of Antalya on the southern coast of Turkey, about a quarter of the way east and just beyond a big bulge to the south, you'll be at the eastern end of the route. We had stayed at a lovely all-inclusive resort about an hour east of Antalya, eaten too much, gotten way too much sun and had a fine time. After dropping one of our friends' daughters at the Antalya airport, we headed out of town to the south and west.
This roadway must have made some manufacturer of dynamite rich, as in a number of places it was blasted out of the cliffside. Sometimes 10 or 20 feet above the water, sometimes 100 or 200 feet, or more, it was dogged in its attempt to stay along the water. In places it had to leave; then it went through tree-lined valleys or rich agricultural areas. We saw dozens of plastic-covered greenhouses growing tomatoes or other vegetables: in Turkey, wonderful fresh vegetables are a huge part of the cuisine.
Just before the light failed, we reached the city of Demre. This town is not large or remarkable, except for the historic town and ruins that run into the modern town. The old city was called Myra, and it goes back nearly 2,000 years. It had a kindly bishop in the 4th century, who made anonymous gifts to poor families. Uh, his name was Nicholas... we were too late that day, but there were many gift shops and a couple of shrines for tourists to enjoy this "home of Christmas" city.
We followed the last of the light, lost it, and finally came down a cliffside into a little coastal city called Kas. It's pronounced "cash." As we drove in, Hasan asked a motorcyclist carrying his small child where we might find lodging. He turned and led us to his family's "pension," read cheap but clean guest house, a few blocks from the harbor. His wife was English! We walked back to the harbor area, had a lovely dinner overlooking the water and the main square, and were well-pleased.
The next morning we were forced to deal with more rock-climbing, coast-hugging, 25-mph-curving scenery, until the road climbed away up the mountainside. For miles afterward, the water was still visible, with roads to some of Turkey's best-known coastal resorts. I remember thinking then that this road was the equal of California 1.
Now, after further review, I won't label any one as better than any other. Each road is a wonder, as are many others. I am learning about, and starting to talk to others about, the receiving of wonder from whatever source without rating it. How do you rank a sunrise against another one? At my age, I'm only glad that each one makes it, although at my age I begrudge the late start of the winter ones. I'm very lucky to have been to such beautiful places, with family and friends. I hope to get to many more, and maybe back to these again, and I hope that you can visit wonderful places and, more important, that you can find the pleasure in each.
You may have heard of California Highway 1. It runs up from north of San Diego, through San Clemente and Laguna Beach, through the Los Angeles area. It is the main way through Malibu, and runs on and off with 101 through Santa Barbara, separates and rejoins a time or two, then sets off at San Luis Obispo on its spectacular journey through the Big Sur region. It goes through Carmel and Monterey, around the bay to Santa Cruz, then along the coast into San Francisco. After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with 101, it heads for the coast again, up through Sea Ranch, Mendocino and Fort Bragg, then joins 101 in time to let you off on the Avenue of the Giants, a wonderful road through small towns and huge redwoods.
I've been on much of that spectacular road at one time or another. We spent a nice day at the beach in Laguna Beach, watching volleyball and eating at El Pollo Loco. Driving through Huntington Beach, I saw the oil wells along the sand. We took the little ferry onto Balboa Island, and I foresaw the real estate collapse but did nothing to avoid it. We stopped and waded at the beach in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the fabled "Ivy" restaurant. I've also dined there, but we didn't see anyone famous. I mentioned my mom's cousin in a previous blog; she lives along Highway 1 in Malibu, in an old motel. Down from the highway are some oceanfront homes, including one occupied by a family who had a photo portrait taken by her husband, Wayne. Some family named Die-lan (oops! Bob Dylan).
Highway 1 takes you past the world-famous Hearst Castle at San Simeon. Of course, although my parents weren't along, we didn't stop. Tours were spendy, in a time when we couldn't play that. On a different trip, we drove down from Santa Cruz, past Monterey and Carmel, and down toward Big Sur (the small town on the map of that name). We stopped at a restaurant named Nepenthe, a well-known landmark with some celebrity claims to fame. What exquisite views from its balcony, what an expensive lunch! In the recent spate of terrible forest fires, the Big Sur fire caused the evacuation of many people in the immediate area of this wonderful spot; I don't know if it still stands.
Then there's the white sand beach in Carmel, and the marvelous streets of shops to walk past and save just oodles of money. Then, on another visit to Aptos, my daughter and I took Highway 1 from San Francisco, where it branches off the freeways, through Pacifica through Half Moon Bay and down to Santa Cruz. And, over 30 years ago, Wendy and I drove with her father down 1 from the northern end into San Francisco, finishing with the curl around Mt. Tamalpais.
The wonder of driving on Highway 1 is its adjacency to the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes you're right along the beach. Sometimes you're hundreds of feet up a cliffside where they had no business building a road. Sometimes you're 100 yards from the ocean but can't see it for the forest, or the grass-covered hills. You'll find yourself on a lovely curving embankment, or an even more lovely curving bridge over a stream emptying into the ocean. Several of the bridges on this road are in the pantheon of great bridges of the world. If you happen to miss a quick view, you can't really go back, as it's mostly two-lane and fairly busy, but have no fear: another soul-restoring view will come around the next bend. And hoo boy, are there bends!
On reflection, I think that I might have done Highway 1 the best way: not all at once, but in bits. Sometimes you just hit sensory overload, and need some time to absorb. Not, maybe, 33 years, but some buffer. I only promise that each of the places I mention is worth a look, and that there are many more views from this unbelievable road. If all your tax dollars could be spent to this wonderful effect...
Are there roads that can compare? I can speak for what is now Minnesota Highway 61, north from Duluth along the Lake Superior shore. In fact, if you keep going into Ontario, and around the whole of Lake Superior, you'll be surrounded by wonderful scenery, great campgrounds and some interesting bits of history. And if you make it back to Duluth, and get up into the town, you'll find some vistas that compare well to views of the Bay in San Francisco. Someone once described the Minnesota shore of Lake Superior as "more like the rock-bound coast of Maine than the rock-bound coast of Maine."
And we live near the Mississippi River, which means that we have a choice of US 61, on the Minnesota side, or Wisconsin 35, on our side, from the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers to La Crosse, and beyond on the Wisconsin side. Especially in the green seasons, the roads give views of the bluffs, the fields, the river, the islands, the trains on the busy rail routes, the barge tows, the locks and dams, the cranes and eagles, in as happy a mixture of bucolic peace and transportation might as you can find.
Then, last summer, we found the match to California 1. I don't recall its number, as I was staring out the windhsield pretty much constantly. This was safe, as our dear friend Hasan was driving. The highway is in Turkey, along the Mediterranean coast. If I can find my Turkish highway map, or when Hasan comes to visit in a month or so, I'll put a number to this wondrous road.
If you find the city of Antalya on the southern coast of Turkey, about a quarter of the way east and just beyond a big bulge to the south, you'll be at the eastern end of the route. We had stayed at a lovely all-inclusive resort about an hour east of Antalya, eaten too much, gotten way too much sun and had a fine time. After dropping one of our friends' daughters at the Antalya airport, we headed out of town to the south and west.
This roadway must have made some manufacturer of dynamite rich, as in a number of places it was blasted out of the cliffside. Sometimes 10 or 20 feet above the water, sometimes 100 or 200 feet, or more, it was dogged in its attempt to stay along the water. In places it had to leave; then it went through tree-lined valleys or rich agricultural areas. We saw dozens of plastic-covered greenhouses growing tomatoes or other vegetables: in Turkey, wonderful fresh vegetables are a huge part of the cuisine.
Just before the light failed, we reached the city of Demre. This town is not large or remarkable, except for the historic town and ruins that run into the modern town. The old city was called Myra, and it goes back nearly 2,000 years. It had a kindly bishop in the 4th century, who made anonymous gifts to poor families. Uh, his name was Nicholas... we were too late that day, but there were many gift shops and a couple of shrines for tourists to enjoy this "home of Christmas" city.
We followed the last of the light, lost it, and finally came down a cliffside into a little coastal city called Kas. It's pronounced "cash." As we drove in, Hasan asked a motorcyclist carrying his small child where we might find lodging. He turned and led us to his family's "pension," read cheap but clean guest house, a few blocks from the harbor. His wife was English! We walked back to the harbor area, had a lovely dinner overlooking the water and the main square, and were well-pleased.
The next morning we were forced to deal with more rock-climbing, coast-hugging, 25-mph-curving scenery, until the road climbed away up the mountainside. For miles afterward, the water was still visible, with roads to some of Turkey's best-known coastal resorts. I remember thinking then that this road was the equal of California 1.
Now, after further review, I won't label any one as better than any other. Each road is a wonder, as are many others. I am learning about, and starting to talk to others about, the receiving of wonder from whatever source without rating it. How do you rank a sunrise against another one? At my age, I'm only glad that each one makes it, although at my age I begrudge the late start of the winter ones. I'm very lucky to have been to such beautiful places, with family and friends. I hope to get to many more, and maybe back to these again, and I hope that you can visit wonderful places and, more important, that you can find the pleasure in each.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Maps
I don't know when I became fond of maps. Maybe it was on that 1960 trip, when we had AAA maps with orange lines to show us the suggested route, or the fabled Triptik, which was a kind of flipbook for your trip that helped you through the big cities and highlighted some interesting points. Maybe it was the Christmas before or the one after, when, with the aid of pictorial books by the explorer Richard Halliburton, I visited many of the wonders of the world. Halliburton's last recorded message: "Hardtack bully. Wish you were here instead of me." Almost as good as that wonderful line that came later, and not from Halliburton: "the weather is here. Wish you were beautiful."
At any rate, I love to look at maps. If I've been to a place, the map can take me back there. I can recall the scenery, maybe even the building, or something about the setting. If I am going there, I can build a plan and perhaps not be quite lost when I arrive. And sometimes it helps me imagine, or help deal with what I've seen on the news or read in a book.
I have a highway map of Wisconsin that I have taken a highlighter to. I've marked all the highways I can remember driving or riding on. And that's a whoopin' plenty: from Dubuque, Iowa, to Marinette; from Carthage College in Kenosha to Port Wing and Herbster on Highway 13 beyond Bayfield.
The wonder of travel is that I've been to so many places but have not been to so many more. And I've been through so many places that I haven't been to. I've been THROUGH Albuquerque, NM, two or three times, but never stopped: we camped outside the city once, but never went in, and I went through at rush hour one morning. One of my favorite memories is of an Albuquerque radio station playing a comedy parody of the Kinks' hit "Lola," but I didn't stop in town to listen, I pulled over on the Interstate on the east ridge so as not to pile up the car. Sometimes the map reminds me of where I'd like to go back, so as to have another look, another chance to enjoy.
Of course, you're wondering: "where we drank champagne, and it tastes just like BEER, c-o-l-a- BEER." "Well, I'm not dumb but I don't understand, why society frowns on makin' love to a lamb..." "Well, I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am, in the barn I'm a ram, to my Lola Sue..." this is disgusting, filthy, and totally unexpected, and I should receive an award for not causing a massive traffic delay when I first heard this exceptional radio parody. I laughed until I cried for about a hundred miles. This was 1991, before cell phones became anywhere near common, or I would have called the station and had a copy sent to me.
When we have a trip coming up, as we do to New York City, I love to study and see where various places, sights, events, etc., are situated, and how we can get to them from our intended lodging. I like to be surprised a little, but I like to have a sense of the terrain. Once the map starts to fit the terrain, I can relax and enjoy what the places have to offer instead of worrying about where we are and where we need to be. Once I get a grip on the subway map, I'll worry less about how to get home from Yankee Stadium and more about how the Twins will do against the Bronx Bombers.
In the next entry, I'll tell you a bit about how maps are useful but not exactly fair.
At any rate, I love to look at maps. If I've been to a place, the map can take me back there. I can recall the scenery, maybe even the building, or something about the setting. If I am going there, I can build a plan and perhaps not be quite lost when I arrive. And sometimes it helps me imagine, or help deal with what I've seen on the news or read in a book.
I have a highway map of Wisconsin that I have taken a highlighter to. I've marked all the highways I can remember driving or riding on. And that's a whoopin' plenty: from Dubuque, Iowa, to Marinette; from Carthage College in Kenosha to Port Wing and Herbster on Highway 13 beyond Bayfield.
The wonder of travel is that I've been to so many places but have not been to so many more. And I've been through so many places that I haven't been to. I've been THROUGH Albuquerque, NM, two or three times, but never stopped: we camped outside the city once, but never went in, and I went through at rush hour one morning. One of my favorite memories is of an Albuquerque radio station playing a comedy parody of the Kinks' hit "Lola," but I didn't stop in town to listen, I pulled over on the Interstate on the east ridge so as not to pile up the car. Sometimes the map reminds me of where I'd like to go back, so as to have another look, another chance to enjoy.
Of course, you're wondering: "where we drank champagne, and it tastes just like BEER, c-o-l-a- BEER." "Well, I'm not dumb but I don't understand, why society frowns on makin' love to a lamb..." "Well, I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am, in the barn I'm a ram, to my Lola Sue..." this is disgusting, filthy, and totally unexpected, and I should receive an award for not causing a massive traffic delay when I first heard this exceptional radio parody. I laughed until I cried for about a hundred miles. This was 1991, before cell phones became anywhere near common, or I would have called the station and had a copy sent to me.
When we have a trip coming up, as we do to New York City, I love to study and see where various places, sights, events, etc., are situated, and how we can get to them from our intended lodging. I like to be surprised a little, but I like to have a sense of the terrain. Once the map starts to fit the terrain, I can relax and enjoy what the places have to offer instead of worrying about where we are and where we need to be. Once I get a grip on the subway map, I'll worry less about how to get home from Yankee Stadium and more about how the Twins will do against the Bronx Bombers.
In the next entry, I'll tell you a bit about how maps are useful but not exactly fair.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Road Trip 2
Where did I leave us? On California 152, coming into Watsonville. There is a brief lovely descent down the west slope, which gives a long view of the great salad bowl that runs from Watsonville down through Salinas. I knew nothing of that in 1960, being too young to read much Steinbeck. We went north on California 1 for a bit and found the way into Aptos.
In later years, my Aunt Fran became a favorite, then an icon, Then she was a welcoming lady, going with the flow as her kids and others came and went. This easy acceptance both awed and frightened my father, who liked things orderly. The area was beginning to develop then, but I remember looking out over fields of berries or something and at least having a sense of where the ocean was, about a mile and a half away. Now it's all built up, although still lovely, and all you can see out the patio door is the fence and the top of the next house. My oldest cousin, Bruce, was not there that I remember, and the next, Mary, may have been around briefly. I remember especially Carol, a few months older than I am, and Roger, a couple years younger, and I think I'm still most fond of them. Jean was very little and I don't think Peggy was even born; she has powered her way into my heart from a delayed start. Uncle Bob, who died in early January of this year, also grew in my estimation in later years: I hope that I can age out half as well as he did. This family will receive a better tribute in some other entry.
From this house, we visited San Francisco. This involved going up the east side of San Francisco Bay to San Leandro, where we met up with my father's old Marine Corps buddy, Stevie Kelso. We drove into the City, and I went on my first pub crawl. I am just now remembering something about a Marine Corps Club. We stopped at the Tahitian Room of the Fairmont Hotel, which had drinks with umbrellas and a little "tropical shower" over a little "lagoon" in the middle of the room. We went up to the "Top of the Mark" Hopkins hotel, a lovely room with a view. Paul Fix, who portrayed the sheriff Micah Torrance in "the Rifleman" TV series, was there in a tux. Wow.
Then we went to Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. We ate at Alioto's Fish Grotto. I neither knew nor cared for fish, so I ordered a hamburger. The Wharf itself looks very much the same today, although the area, including Pier 39, has developed a lot. We made it back safely.
From Aptos we went down to Los Angeles. Yes, Disneyland was open by then, and yes, we went. I remember Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Dumbo ride, both in Fantasyland. No Pirates, no Haunted mansion, no Space Mountain in 1960. We also went to Knott's Berry Farm, which was more competitive then because it didn't have to do as much to be cool to a kid.
The reason for going to LA was to visit Uncle Chet. My mom's uncle, actually; many of the relatives I knew whom I called "uncle" or "aunt" were actually my parents' uncles or aunts. I had Uncle Allan (Dad's brother) and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginny (Mom's sister), plus the aforementioned Uncle Bob and Aunt Pep (Fran; Pep was a nickname my dad had for his sister). My parents had Uncle Chet and Auntie Jen (Chet the brother of my mom's mom), Uncle Francey and Aunt Corey (Cora) (Francis the youngest brother of my mom's mom; there will likely be more about these wonderful folks at some point), and Uncle Harry and Auntie Hortense (honest!) (Harry the brother of my dad's mom). I also met Auntie Grace, the widow of my dad's dad's brother, but she wasn't part of the regular discussion. Then there were my parents' friends, especially my dad's friends: Uncle Dick and Aunt Lil, the Fullers (no relation) and Uncle Bob and Aunt Stella, the Colletts (no relation).
Uncle Chet was an oil millionaire, Then he wasn't. Then he was again, and donated a building to Upper Iowa University in Fayette, Iowa (I've been to see it). Then he set up the family trust, and hit the deepest dry well in California history (meaning then, he wasn't). The December 1949 issue of The Saturday Evening Post wrote him up. I'm still an heir of the oil well trust: last year I got about $100, mostly from settled lawsuits and lost trust members. I had met him at my grandma's, and he was really something: tall, with a prominent nose and hawklike visage. And he snorted at me, which made me howl with laughter, and he used to steal my oatmeal. By 1960 his hair was white and he must have been about 70, but he was still a powerful presence. He and Auntie Jen lived in a home in the Hollywood Hills. I remember talking baseball with Uncle Chet, and losing to him at checkers. My mom's cousin, her husband and their boys were around, but I recall absolutely nothing about any of them. Wendy and I visited Chet and Jen in 1978, and also got to know mom's cousin Helen and husband Wayne, but Auntie Jen was lost to Alzheimer's and Chet was almost a shell. But you need to know this: they lived in a mobile home next to Helen and Wayne's home, and much of their beloved furniture was in there. When I walked in, Uncle Chet rose from his chair, fixed me in his old man's gaze, and said, "I used to SNORT at you." We laughed, and it was a good thing.
We did manage to find the Grand Canyon on the way home. I think this was also the trip that took us to Durango, Colorado, and over the Royal Gorge bridge. We headed east into Kansas, but turned north into Nebraska to find a motel with a pool (Kearney): it was too hot to talk about, and even my dad would pay for that luxury. I believe I took up reading the AAA guides on that trip.
In later years, my Aunt Fran became a favorite, then an icon, Then she was a welcoming lady, going with the flow as her kids and others came and went. This easy acceptance both awed and frightened my father, who liked things orderly. The area was beginning to develop then, but I remember looking out over fields of berries or something and at least having a sense of where the ocean was, about a mile and a half away. Now it's all built up, although still lovely, and all you can see out the patio door is the fence and the top of the next house. My oldest cousin, Bruce, was not there that I remember, and the next, Mary, may have been around briefly. I remember especially Carol, a few months older than I am, and Roger, a couple years younger, and I think I'm still most fond of them. Jean was very little and I don't think Peggy was even born; she has powered her way into my heart from a delayed start. Uncle Bob, who died in early January of this year, also grew in my estimation in later years: I hope that I can age out half as well as he did. This family will receive a better tribute in some other entry.
From this house, we visited San Francisco. This involved going up the east side of San Francisco Bay to San Leandro, where we met up with my father's old Marine Corps buddy, Stevie Kelso. We drove into the City, and I went on my first pub crawl. I am just now remembering something about a Marine Corps Club. We stopped at the Tahitian Room of the Fairmont Hotel, which had drinks with umbrellas and a little "tropical shower" over a little "lagoon" in the middle of the room. We went up to the "Top of the Mark" Hopkins hotel, a lovely room with a view. Paul Fix, who portrayed the sheriff Micah Torrance in "the Rifleman" TV series, was there in a tux. Wow.
Then we went to Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. We ate at Alioto's Fish Grotto. I neither knew nor cared for fish, so I ordered a hamburger. The Wharf itself looks very much the same today, although the area, including Pier 39, has developed a lot. We made it back safely.
From Aptos we went down to Los Angeles. Yes, Disneyland was open by then, and yes, we went. I remember Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Dumbo ride, both in Fantasyland. No Pirates, no Haunted mansion, no Space Mountain in 1960. We also went to Knott's Berry Farm, which was more competitive then because it didn't have to do as much to be cool to a kid.
The reason for going to LA was to visit Uncle Chet. My mom's uncle, actually; many of the relatives I knew whom I called "uncle" or "aunt" were actually my parents' uncles or aunts. I had Uncle Allan (Dad's brother) and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginny (Mom's sister), plus the aforementioned Uncle Bob and Aunt Pep (Fran; Pep was a nickname my dad had for his sister). My parents had Uncle Chet and Auntie Jen (Chet the brother of my mom's mom), Uncle Francey and Aunt Corey (Cora) (Francis the youngest brother of my mom's mom; there will likely be more about these wonderful folks at some point), and Uncle Harry and Auntie Hortense (honest!) (Harry the brother of my dad's mom). I also met Auntie Grace, the widow of my dad's dad's brother, but she wasn't part of the regular discussion. Then there were my parents' friends, especially my dad's friends: Uncle Dick and Aunt Lil, the Fullers (no relation) and Uncle Bob and Aunt Stella, the Colletts (no relation).
Uncle Chet was an oil millionaire, Then he wasn't. Then he was again, and donated a building to Upper Iowa University in Fayette, Iowa (I've been to see it). Then he set up the family trust, and hit the deepest dry well in California history (meaning then, he wasn't). The December 1949 issue of The Saturday Evening Post wrote him up. I'm still an heir of the oil well trust: last year I got about $100, mostly from settled lawsuits and lost trust members. I had met him at my grandma's, and he was really something: tall, with a prominent nose and hawklike visage. And he snorted at me, which made me howl with laughter, and he used to steal my oatmeal. By 1960 his hair was white and he must have been about 70, but he was still a powerful presence. He and Auntie Jen lived in a home in the Hollywood Hills. I remember talking baseball with Uncle Chet, and losing to him at checkers. My mom's cousin, her husband and their boys were around, but I recall absolutely nothing about any of them. Wendy and I visited Chet and Jen in 1978, and also got to know mom's cousin Helen and husband Wayne, but Auntie Jen was lost to Alzheimer's and Chet was almost a shell. But you need to know this: they lived in a mobile home next to Helen and Wayne's home, and much of their beloved furniture was in there. When I walked in, Uncle Chet rose from his chair, fixed me in his old man's gaze, and said, "I used to SNORT at you." We laughed, and it was a good thing.
We did manage to find the Grand Canyon on the way home. I think this was also the trip that took us to Durango, Colorado, and over the Royal Gorge bridge. We headed east into Kansas, but turned north into Nebraska to find a motel with a pool (Kearney): it was too hot to talk about, and even my dad would pay for that luxury. I believe I took up reading the AAA guides on that trip.
Road Trips
Where have you been?
Have you traveled with your family? On your own? For business? For pleasure? Some of each? Did you go to visit family in another city or state? Did you want to go, or have to go?
Did you go with expectations? Of what you would see, or of how it would be? How did those turn out? If you had a bad experience, did it color your memory of the whole trip? If you had one great moment, did it save any number of tribulations?
What do you remember? Were you paying attention? Do you remember things that relate to your age, especially if you were a child?
I remember our one big road trip as a family, when I was ten. This was high summer, 1960. We drove from Appleton, WI, to California to visit relatives. I am aware that, since memory is a goofy thing, bits of other things may have jumbled in. I remember US Highway 30, and that we didn't go through Omaha but somewhere north of it. I remember a sad cheap motel in Fremont (?), Nebraska. I recall getting up early and driving for an hour before breakfast; I remember driving in the dark with the brights on, and the gradual dawn. I remember, for no reason at all, Grand Island, Nebraska, and the road west. Signs for some attraction, "Harold Warp's... (something about cars). We went through Estes Park, CO, and I remember the cold, mineral-tasting water at a restaurant and staying at a motel along the Big Thompson River as it flowed out of the Rockies. We went through Rocky Mountain National Park, and we made a side trip to some old lodge called the Bald Pate Inn, which was a place my parents had been to, perhaps on their honeymoon. I remember pulling up next to a cattle truck at a stoplight in Greeley, CO, and catching a little spray when an animal took a whiz. We closed the windows as fast as we could crank!
The car was a 1956 Ford sedan, which had been my grandfather's car. I also remember that we had a 1957 Studebaker sedan, two-tone copper and black, which we sold when we received Grandpa's car (Grandma didn't drive). For this long trip, we got a Coleman gallon jug, which we kept filled with ice water; there was a cup inside the top but we used the top, too, to drink from. It had a little spout on the side. I think that similar jugs are still sold. Not that it was hot on that trip but I still think of Coleman jugs as sources of blessed cold water. We got some metal screens that you could clip to the window frame to block the worst of the sun. These were great: left side of the car westbound, right side eastbound. I don't recall if we used cartop carrier bars, or had stuff on top. But I remember my favorite accessory: a burlap bag, almost watertight. It held about a gallon, and we hung it on the front bumpers. As we drove, the wind from our passage cooled the water, not to cold, but to cool enough to drink or to pour into the radiator. Very few cars had air conditioning in those days - this one did not.
Did we go to Denver? No. Did we go to Salt Lake City? No. We went to Delta, Utah, and the only reason we stopped there was to get my glasses repaired. Did we drive through some wonderful mountain scenery? Yes. My father saw the rail line and talked about the wonderful VistaDome route in the Denver & Rio Grande that ran from Denver to Grand Junction. Did we take it? No.
Did we go to Las vegas, or even Reno? No. We stayed in Tonopah, NV. ("I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah. I've driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, took all the back roads so I wouldn't get weighed. So if you give me weed, whites and wine..." a song lyric, the only other mention of Tonopah I've ever heard). We showed up on the east side of Yosemite National Park. One of the highways on the way to the park had the best set of up-and-down hills - roller-coaster-like - that I've ever seen.
I do remember driving through Yosemite, but only enough to plant a wish to go back that I was able to fulfill with Wendy and Laura. When I was ten, it was all mountains and waterfalls and huge trees. I have as clear a memory of the road over the coast range, through Mount Madonna County Park and down to Watsonville. This was the first serious twisting mountain road I remember, and I've driven it on my own just to be sure. Then we went to Aptos, CA, near Santa Cruz, and I met my Aunt Fran, Uncle Bob and most of my cousins for the first time.
TBC.
Have you traveled with your family? On your own? For business? For pleasure? Some of each? Did you go to visit family in another city or state? Did you want to go, or have to go?
Did you go with expectations? Of what you would see, or of how it would be? How did those turn out? If you had a bad experience, did it color your memory of the whole trip? If you had one great moment, did it save any number of tribulations?
What do you remember? Were you paying attention? Do you remember things that relate to your age, especially if you were a child?
I remember our one big road trip as a family, when I was ten. This was high summer, 1960. We drove from Appleton, WI, to California to visit relatives. I am aware that, since memory is a goofy thing, bits of other things may have jumbled in. I remember US Highway 30, and that we didn't go through Omaha but somewhere north of it. I remember a sad cheap motel in Fremont (?), Nebraska. I recall getting up early and driving for an hour before breakfast; I remember driving in the dark with the brights on, and the gradual dawn. I remember, for no reason at all, Grand Island, Nebraska, and the road west. Signs for some attraction, "Harold Warp's... (something about cars). We went through Estes Park, CO, and I remember the cold, mineral-tasting water at a restaurant and staying at a motel along the Big Thompson River as it flowed out of the Rockies. We went through Rocky Mountain National Park, and we made a side trip to some old lodge called the Bald Pate Inn, which was a place my parents had been to, perhaps on their honeymoon. I remember pulling up next to a cattle truck at a stoplight in Greeley, CO, and catching a little spray when an animal took a whiz. We closed the windows as fast as we could crank!
The car was a 1956 Ford sedan, which had been my grandfather's car. I also remember that we had a 1957 Studebaker sedan, two-tone copper and black, which we sold when we received Grandpa's car (Grandma didn't drive). For this long trip, we got a Coleman gallon jug, which we kept filled with ice water; there was a cup inside the top but we used the top, too, to drink from. It had a little spout on the side. I think that similar jugs are still sold. Not that it was hot on that trip but I still think of Coleman jugs as sources of blessed cold water. We got some metal screens that you could clip to the window frame to block the worst of the sun. These were great: left side of the car westbound, right side eastbound. I don't recall if we used cartop carrier bars, or had stuff on top. But I remember my favorite accessory: a burlap bag, almost watertight. It held about a gallon, and we hung it on the front bumpers. As we drove, the wind from our passage cooled the water, not to cold, but to cool enough to drink or to pour into the radiator. Very few cars had air conditioning in those days - this one did not.
Did we go to Denver? No. Did we go to Salt Lake City? No. We went to Delta, Utah, and the only reason we stopped there was to get my glasses repaired. Did we drive through some wonderful mountain scenery? Yes. My father saw the rail line and talked about the wonderful VistaDome route in the Denver & Rio Grande that ran from Denver to Grand Junction. Did we take it? No.
Did we go to Las vegas, or even Reno? No. We stayed in Tonopah, NV. ("I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah. I've driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, took all the back roads so I wouldn't get weighed. So if you give me weed, whites and wine..." a song lyric, the only other mention of Tonopah I've ever heard). We showed up on the east side of Yosemite National Park. One of the highways on the way to the park had the best set of up-and-down hills - roller-coaster-like - that I've ever seen.
I do remember driving through Yosemite, but only enough to plant a wish to go back that I was able to fulfill with Wendy and Laura. When I was ten, it was all mountains and waterfalls and huge trees. I have as clear a memory of the road over the coast range, through Mount Madonna County Park and down to Watsonville. This was the first serious twisting mountain road I remember, and I've driven it on my own just to be sure. Then we went to Aptos, CA, near Santa Cruz, and I met my Aunt Fran, Uncle Bob and most of my cousins for the first time.
TBC.
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