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.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
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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