Verging on Pertinence

In today's NYT front page Travel section article on nudists vacations, some things stuck out (Bad Pun Alert! apologies, in advance). Attention all Naturalists, be ready to shed your attire and your (already de-valued) dollars as opportunities are cropping up for birthday suit holidays. One of the interesting things about the article is the picture. There are, count 'em, 13 people sans maillot, in the large picture and yet, miraculously, not one naughty bit. Well, a tail, yes, but not a bit. How'd the photographer do that? Photoshop and an electronic eraser? "Lots of photos. Lots.", quipped the ever-loving wife, who tartly added that the movement au natural was for "people who want to love their bodies in spite of themselves."

In my more youthful days (or is that daze), I'd frequented nude beaches in Croatia and in Greece, so it's not from a non-participatory angle that I've approached this subject. While nude sunbathing is o.k., nude swimming is not something I'd recommend. Nor nude diving, as in "diving from cliffs". Trust me on this. How I've been able to have kids is a true miracle of Nature. An especially painful body-surfing episode on Crete's Red Beach (Yes, that Red Beach) sans Speedo let me know that a little bitty piece of cloth would have been most protective when a wave rises up to smash you face first into friction-laden rocks. The thing about youth and nudity was that gravity was a much kinder mistress back then. Also, the young engine required and processed instantly any caloric intake. No stations along the way situated on different parts of the body, waiting for the locomotive to pull in and take away the sedentary loads. Au natural, like youth, was wasted on the young. So, while my mind is still open to many new possibilities, the door has been closed on leaving my clothes behind. It is you, gentle readers, that I am concerned about. there is so much our eyes and our hearts can take at this point.


A well-placed ad,
Castaways Travel is selling a sail down the Danube in the nude, from Budapest to Vienna to Nuremberg, July 20 to 27, on a 75-cabin river boat. Rates from $2,199 to $2,799 a person (800-470-2020, danubeadultcruise). , at the end of the article was actually the item that set me off about the whole naturalist thing. There you are, strolling along the banks of the Danube, perhaps just after having taking in a slice of the world’s most famous chocolate cake, the Original Sacher-Torte at Café Sacher. What could make the schlagge in your stomach curdle more than an entire cruise ship of over-35 nudeniks stretching and kvetching? Could this be more off-putting than the plunge of the US dollar against the Euro? Cake and nudity, not a good mix.

Labels: People, Trips

On a recent foray into Philly with my daughter, I unfortunately drove into a situation involving two seperate expenditures of cash and depletion of my goodwill toward men.

Expenditure and Goodwill Erosion #1
In search of scant parking spaces around the TLA, I was approaching an intersecting street crossing South Street, the main drag of the “Alt/Cool” section of the City of Bro-Love. The light was turning quickly from yellow with tinges of a red dawn already shining my way. On the corner were four of Philly’s finest in riding shorts, strapped pistols, and straddling pitch-black mountain bikes. On my car’s backside was a cellphone in hand motor-mouthing, SUV-driving, not-paying attention driver.
What to do?
A) Slam on the brakes to obey the signal and prevent the occifers from writing me up for running a red light, while almost guaranteeing a solid hit to my Camry by the aforementioned $&^*^*# driver?
B) Continue on through the now turning red light, but at a reduced rate of speed while looking up South Street to ensure I’d get through without being broadsided?
C) Press the ejection seat buttons and propel my daughter and myself through the sunroff my car doesn’t have?
D) Veer off to the left and plow into innocent pedestrians?

Surmising the consequences of safety and eventual financial layout, I opted for choice B.

It wasn’t but a matter of a minute or so when I glanced in my side mirror and saw three dark bicycles struggling and bouncing up the street in my general direction (Note: Philly’s streets are well-known for their debilitating potholes). One rider passed me and pulled over the car in front of me (who had driven through a completely yellow light…poor sucker.). Another shallow-breathing guy rapped on my window and asked for the usuals. As I was digging through the glove compartment for my insurance card and registration, I heard him yell to the cop who’d stopped the cart in front of me (with a touch too much of glee, I’d say), “Hey, this is a first. Two cars, one light. You bet your ass, we’re going to ticket both of them.”

His delight was a balloon I couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to deflate or prick. So, to the cost of the concert tix, processing fees, indulgement fee, sight fee, I’ll just add on the cost of a traffic ticket. I’ll discuss my parking woes on this fine night in another post.

Well, at least I won't have to fret about auto body repair bills or having to file a claim for damage to my car as I wasn't rear-ended. More importantly, my daughter and I were able to walk away form the ticket sans a scratch. I mentioned this little bit to the officer as he handed me his excrutiatingly penned script, to which he opined, “Guess I saved you a bundle, bub.”

Bub, indeed.

A bub and his money were soon parted.

Labels: Domestic Burdens, Philly, Trips

As I think of picking up one's kids from college, I'm spacing back to my own college days back in the last century. Admitting here that most acts and thoughts, even ones involving giving of one's self or one's possessions, are self-referential, I've been reminiscing of days of yore when I had plenty of occasions to stick out the thumb and pray for the mobile samaritan. Trips from college back home to the land of good (and free) eats were taken many different ways. Train, bus, hitchhiking, bulletin board group drives, or pickup by my father. Planes were out of the question as airfares were more expensive than the other alternatives and I tended to carry back crates of stuff back and forth. An embarrassing amount of stuff. I enjoyed most of my trips there and back, but the most memorable ones, the good, the bad, and the truly ugly, were ones when sticking the thumb up landed me in vehicles filled with characters. I try to tell my kids these stories but I usually get a quizzical look.
"Tata?", they ask," Don't you always tell us to never hitchhike and to never pick up a hitchhiker?"
"Yes....", I reply in shame and gloom.
As I drive to the holiday rendezvous with the kids, now there and soon back, I can't help but notice that a lot of other parents have been force-feeding this NO! to hitchhiking warning to their kids. You just don't see 15-25 year olds hitching any more. I understand, really; I mean I have no regrets in hammering this point in to my kids. But it's a change in transportation behaviour that's regrettable. I still remember certain rides and drivers with a smile and a sigh. Just some solo driver looking for a traveling companion to talk to while racing through the lonely miles ahead.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Trips

It was getting dark on Sunday morning when we did the non-touristy thing, namely drive to the top of the Duquesne Incline and go down and then up. $1.75 each direction for a 3-4 minute ride. Exact change only!!! And that exactness is stuffed into a metal tube, not handed over to the attendant who is instructing you how to pay. He is inside a considerably thick glass and wood box where he pears at you through the green painted wiring surrounding the permanently closed glass windows. One begins to feel that there are gases from some ancient coal mine seeping into the Incline waiting area lulling you into a carbon monoxided sleep. When you get to the waiting station on top of ???, there are pictures and postcards sent to the Duquesne Incline (yes, that's how the postcards are addressed: Duquesne Incline, not to a person c/o Duquesne Incline. It's the Little Engine that Could come to life. The postcards all are pictures of funicular or other transverse railway. Listed as the #2 postcard is one from Zagreb, Croatia. Both the funicular railway and the two stations, one at the top of the hill and one at the bottom, are maintained in a manner to preserve a certain age, I'd say early 1900's. It's not cutesy; it's still grimy so no Disneyfication has taken place. Even the folks working there have a hard physicality about them; this mode of transportation is for daily use and not some amusement park ride. The dark wood of the inside of the funicular cars are polished and aged. Clean and battered. The ride is not smooth nor quiet; the car bangs a bit from side to side and yet is eerily quiet as it ascends or descends from one station house to the next. The views open up as the car climbs up, regardless of the weather conditions. If anything, I'd want the ride to slow down significantly. But that's missing the point. The funicular transports residents from the top of the hill to their jobs at the bottom and across the river. It's not some ride to nowhere.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Pittsburgh, Trips

Taking a posting muligan here.





Three Rivers, Duquesne Incline, and a personal touch will be coming your way as soon as the items get loaded onto Flickr. Like, tomorrow.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Pittsburgh, Trips

Heading south and then east from the Cloisters, we stopped over at Columbia University. Jasna wanted to see a real, as she spoke it, "Campooos" (rhymes with "moose"). Her studies had been in the Land of Croats, where university connoted a glom of non-descriptive buildings and inadequate, if any, landscaping. Not having been on Columbia's "campooos" in a long time, I was a bit nervous that disappointment would greet us at the gates (Nice sets of photos from this site of Columbia U. and NYC). It was all she had asked for. Urban setting, beautiful grounds, imposing buildings, vast array of nationalities and intensities walking around with purpose, and all this despite the hard rain that opened up on us. We passed by the Popin Physics Laboratory, unaware on that day of its past importance. I wonder now if Mr. Ahmadinejad was given a tour of that particular building when he was on campus a short while ago; funny enough to cry.
The showers let up as we drove further south and east on the island to the United Nations building. Do you want to get depressed about the state of the world today? Easy enough. Simply go to 1st Avenue between 42nd and 48th streets. You'll see a building of world importance in a state of misery. Allegedly, massive renovations are in store. Shortly. But right now? Well, maybe it was the gray day, but in this visitor's opinion, the entire UN "Campoos" reminded me of old Stalinist architecture/landscaping. It wasn't like this 20-30 years ago. There was an energy to the place, a positive vibe that made world problem solving a possibility (Yeah, yeah, let's all break out in "Kumbaya"). Now though, police and construction yellow tape all around. Trees in need of pruning, grass in need of cutting (and color), safety and security entrance facilities in need of a new non-Stalag look, and cleaning crews on the inside in need of hiring. There's a feel of walking in the huge foyer as if one is in a dying Howard Johnson's, the colors and the verve leaching through the leaky window panes.

After the driving, the walking, the viewing we ended up eating at this fine place, close to the UN. No preplanning on our parts; simply noting the Zagat sticker and perusing the menu posted outside. Our first choice, Saju, unfortunately did not open until past 6:00 PM and we were too famished to wait another 2 hours.

Fabio, as in the Fabio of Fabio Piccolo Fiore, is the chef and owner (partial owner as it turns out). An appealing gentleman of Sicilian descent who came to the States from Rome 15 years ago to make his mark, he stands a solid 6 ft. of smile, charm, and quick tongue. How much truth lay unsifted in the wordy mound he shoveled our way is not important. His performance was a short stage show he threw in along with the excellent meals he served up. Fabio's need for a promotional firm to represent him was obviously nil. Why pay out money for a natural talent he could display as a solo act?
Things were a little slow with customer traffic as it barely 5 PM, so Mr. Fabio felt customer relations were in need of coddling. Having three women at a table and only one guy looked like good odds to him as well. However, I can safely say that not even free desserts brought by the chef himself were enough to convince the women of his innocent intentions.

The early evening ended with my cousin and her daughter heading off to a Broadway show and us wasting a good 45 minutes trying to get out of the city through the Holland Tunnel. Well, all can't be pleasure when visiting the Big City especially if you're planning on leaving with money still in your pocket.

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Trips

A favorite cousin and her daughter arrived in the States recently to do a quick tour of NYC, Boston, and Washington DC. The whirlwind trip was a reward of sorts by my cousin to her daughter for getting through law school. Regardless of the jaded learning that law school unloads on a person, my cousin's daughter (let me call her Jasna) was all wide-eyed about NYC. Jasna's been in quite a few places and countries in her short time on Earth, so I was surprised at her ebullience. My ever-loving wife and I spent a Saturday with her and my cousin in NYC, doing the tour guide thing. Stayin away form the traditional Empire State Building, Central Park, Guggenheim Museum, MOMA, SOHO, and Greenwich Village items, which I knew they did or would do on their own, we agreed to do visit some of the places they would not have (relatively) quick access to.

Channeling my (very) younger self, we took the car into the city so as to do the taxi-like careening I was still capable of after all these years. The car of choice was my 180,000 miles (and still running) 1999 Camry. Nicked, dented, and put upon, it has that "Go ahead, hit me attitude" made from steel from the last century that you need to be encased in while driving in the City, unless, of course, you have unlimited funds for repairs and an auto insurance policy that is, let's say, "understanding". I was considering undoing one of the front headlamps and leave it hanging by its wires off the side of the car, giving it that detached orbital socket effect that is so persuasive when you're about to be in a merge-jam with a new Beemer/Benz/Bentley. But, it was a low light kind of day, so I actually needed my headlamps to be pointing straight.

So, we drove up, down, across and sideways around Manhattan. Up in Harlem and then by the Hudson River to tour the Cloisters, which is part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a foggy and misty day which negated one of the pleasures of being at the Cloisters, the gorgeous view of the Hudson in all directions. It's a fabulous site, a perfect setting, grounds, and building to contain the Met's medieval art collection. I thought it a bit pricy ($24 each with admission and guided headset tours), but cheap if you consider that you can park for free while there and then, if your head hasn't exploded from taking in all of the exhibits, a "free" entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art if you go the same day. The last time I was here was in the early '80's. A friend and I attended a horn and piano recital in one of the many small enclosed gardens on the site. An intimate setting with grand acoustics. If anything, the Cloisters have improved. There are more rooms open to the public. Restoration of some of the larger rooms lets one wander for hours in a world of stone walls and floors. A great place to have an iPod with Gregorian chants selections. That or Tortoise's TNT.
If tapestries are your thing, the Cloisters is your place. Low lighting, absolute quiet save for the occasional high-heeled pitpatting on the stone floors echoing through the many chambers. Well-preserved stain glassed windows are another attraction. The self-guided tours are well-done as are the stories aside some of the paintings, windows, gardens, and tapestries. I've only been there in the summer and, now, in the fall. Because of the location, the attention to both the exterior visitation points and the interior presentation, the Cloisters are certainly a site worth seeing in all of the seasons. In the two times that I've been there what surprised me the most was that the Cloisters were in Manhattan, a place usually associated with bruising walking, high levels of noise pollution, and the helter-skelter of intense perambulation. The Cloisters are another world and I'm not talking about a medieval one.

(Additional posting on NYC - A Limited Tour to follow...it is, after all, NaBloPoMo)

Labels: NaBloPoMo, Reviews, Trips

(Link from Pamdora's Box, a blog, as the author puts it, of "Art Adventure". Great pix and descriptions.)

I should know myself by now that if I'm asking, "Hey, should I bring the camera?", it is a rhetorical question to be always answered in the affirmative. This last weekend proved that point. Once again. The only solution is to repeat the weekend again. From start to finish.

The details.
A friend and his can-do-it-all-and-still-look-radiant wife were intimately involved with the production, fine-tuning, and composing of the musical, Gemini, the Musical at the New York Musical Theater Festival, going on in NYC from Sept. 17th through Oct. 7th. The ever-loving wife (ELW) and I arrived in NYC in the late morning, driving through unpredicted buckets of rain dumping inches of water as we wended our way through Delaware and Jersey. The same downpours caught up with us in NYC during the early afternoon prompting that instantaneous NYC phenomenon, the Umbrella Salesman. A photo op, if there ever was one accompanied by the post-downpour result one always sees in NYC, the filled-to-the-gills trash can of temporary water protection. I happened to be strolling by one such vendor when a tourist with a camera asked to take his picture.
"Five dollars", the umbrella-pusher said.
"Five bucks?"
"Yes, $5 and I'll throw in an umbrella with the picture."
The tourist pulled out a five, clicked a few quick pictures, and walked off opening an umbrella that soon caved in under the weight of some raindrops.
The rainstorm disappeared and the sidewalk swallowed up all of the 'brella merchants and their bags of merchandise. The only evidence they were ever there were the packed trash cans.
We meandered around Thompson, Bleeker, Christopher, McDougal Streets, among others, searching for CD/Record stores and cafes/restaurants. Every place was packed with folks who initially rushed in for weather protection and then stayed for drinks and observations. Bleeker Street Records had the largest selection and was low on the dinge factor. Not that I have anything against dinge if it's coupled with potential dirty jewels to be discovered. I was surprised by the reply I got when I asked one of the folks at Bleeker Street Records If I could listen to one CD, opened already, prior to buying it. It was an off-brand recording of a live Little Feat, form the mid-1970's when Lowell George was still alive and kicking; a recording I hadn't come upon before.
"Nope.", he replied.
"But, it's already open and you've got these CD players available.."
"Nope. And.." (anticipating my next question)"...we don't take returns. You could just burn a copy and how would we survive..."
I zoned out here as I completed the sentence in a low mumble,"...Why, by simply providing the simplest of customer services, I guess."
There were enough frothing clients in the place to counter my simple request, so I walked out without a purchase, an act so foreign to the ELW that we had to repair to a small cafe so she could sit, sip, and re-think her impression of my CD purchase mania.

Realizing that my out-of-character behavior was causing my wife to have doubts and resulting in us spending excessive amounts of cash on demitasses of espresso, i bolted over to Generation Records on Thompson Street and purchased an older English production of extended cuts of the Talking Heads. The world was back on its axis, the ELW's faith in her opinions were restored, and I had another CD to throw on the pile. Such a simple act of monetary exchange; so many issues resolved.

I was, until last Saturday, a mojito virgin. I've had the packaged mixes version which were, as expected, awful. In search of a meal before the show and given the opportunity to pick, we settled on the restaurant Cuba on Thompson Street, which just happened to be down the street from Generation Records. No better place, I figured, for an authentic mojito than a Cuban restaurant. The attentive wait-staff were impeccably dressed in guayaberas, the mojitos ($10) were sublime with a slow-acting kick, the appetizers and entres were fresh and delicious, and the seating was close without being confining (for the ladies: the bathrooms were spotless and private). We'll certainly go back again, perhaps for the Thursday Salsa night.
(to be cont'd.)

(N.B.: As we were walking around this part of the Village looking for an eatery, I noticed that on Sept. 29th at Terra Blues Club on Bleeker Street, Mr. Clarence Spady, a blues musician out of Scranton, PA who hardly ever plays outside the Scranton area, will be playing. He's a terrific performer and this is a great chance to catch his act.)

Labels: Trips

Yesterday turned out to be a gorgeous summer day, negating the threatening weather reports of rain showers for mid-afternoon. This was a good thing because the family was parked in section 116 on Turn #4 at the Monster Mile. While some precipitation would have been welcome to cool our bodies, any rain that would have halted the Busch Series Dover 200 would have stalled the race rhythm. There were enough human elements that had precipitated caution flags and even two red flags that had already slowed the race down without Nature arriving with raindrops.
I'd discussed some of the intricacies of race day with some of the folks I work with to get a feel for the faux pas and the yee-haws. Out of the 450 or so folks at our facility, a conservative guess would be that over 80% have attended at least one of the races in Dover, while at least 40-50% attend one of the two annual races held here in the capital of the state. I had a great pool of fans to draw the needed information. Their pooled advice sounded like this.

1) Come early. If the race starts at 3:00, come at least 2 hours before.
2) Sit in the area of Turn #4 or Turn #2. This is where the law of physics and pent-up adrenalin combine for a slingshot effect that will catch your breath as the cars zoom by.
3) Come early. Yes, re-stated again. And, if you're coming early, come early enough to catch the qualifying heats for race positions.
4) Bring lots of water bottles and a sherpa to lug said bottles around. If a sherpa's not available, be sure to make an appointment with a professional masseuse; you'll be in need of some kneading. The water is for drinking and for pouring (onto one's pate and back). It gets hot, make that broiling, sitting out on the aluminum stands and there are no vendors strolling about because it's TOO LOUD for them to be sceaming about their wares. So, for us newbies it was quickly evident that ...
5)...we should have brought a seat cushion if you don't want to have a hot flat backside by the race's conclusion,
6)Bring ear-plugs or ear protective devices because it gets jet engine loud when the cars are running. Funny how the crashes are almost silent because the roar of the engines shooting by is so deafening. The Ever Loving Wife noted that I must be in Spousal Heaven as her wit and her Social Observational Points, though shouted in my general direction, were lost in the atmos due to the things plugged in both ears. She did have to tap me on the shoulder quite a few times at the conclusion of the race to let me know it was o.k. to remove the noise blockers. My ears tingled in anticipation of her pent up opinions. At least I wasn't wearing these! (Which I didn't simply because I didn't realize they existed). A NASCAR race is a gadget delight of a competition. You've got this to watch as you watch the race in person (Not sure if the controls to this gizmo allows you to control the race car as well). There's this item as well, though I did not see any in operation during the race. Perhaps they're pulled out of the Cleaning Garage after the checkered flag is waved.
7) A couple of tubes of SPF 30 and a hat are de riguer. Also, a shirt with a collar you can pull up around your neck. There's a reason red necks are associated with racing and it has nothing to do with attitude.
8) A book or magazine suitable to to lug along, but nothing along the lines of this or this. People with varied opinions were well-observed on race day. But, there's a point where you should stop making your point. I brought along this book, which Mr. Whisky Prajer has repeatedly recommended and which I have duly repeatedly started and then repeatedly mis-placed (WP, I swear it's not the book! It's quite enjoyable and, from the half I've read, highly recommended. BTW, did you know it's also been made into a film?) In between reading, watering, sweating, and shifting one's derriere on the hot and non-conforming seating (since we forgot to bring cushions), one can catch the qualifying heats for race position for the Busch 200.

Since this was our first live exposure to a NASCAR race, the speed and the noise were eye-opening and ear-shattering (even with the earplugs). The Dover racetrack, named the Monster Mile for its length and its steeply banked turns, is one of the shortest on the NASCAR circuit. This translates to the need for drivers to come out of the turns at maximum speed so as to minimize their time through the short straightaways. That's why Turn #4 is the most coveted place to sit. Maximum speed shooting through the turn and pit row right at the end of that turn. Lots of burning rubber and "incidents".

My prevous exposure to NASCAR racing was of the sofa-sitting tv-watching variety. I admit that I was one of those buffoons who mouthed off about what the interest was in seeing cars go around in circles. Over and over again. For hours on end.
I had no interest in going to a live event until recently. Since the tickets were already purchased and re-selling them offered minimal return, I persuaded the fam to come along, noting that it's a part of Delaware tradition that we had seriously neglected. Watching and thoroughly enjoying the race, I was immediately reminded of another sport.
Ice Hockey.
Bear with me please.
The first time I saw an NHL game, I saw it live. The rushes, the defensive battles, the kick saves. I saw the entire rink all of the time, so if there was a hard check into the boards and a change of possession, my eyes tended to dwell a bit longer on the guy who was checked, to see his reaction to being summarily dumped. When I saw an NHL game on tv afterwards, I noticed that the camera never lingered. It stayed with the puck and not necessarily with the action. The beauty of the game is dimmed by the tv camera.
I saw my first NASCAR race on tv, where the camera almost always stayed with the leaders, only straying back to the stragglers in the pack if there were wrecks. Seeing a race live made me appreciate the entirety of the race, of the track. Your eyes aren't cameras being directed by ESPN; you can linger and stare independently of the front pacers of the race. Just like a hockey game, there are things of interest happening all over the track. The limitations of television in broadcasting a race are incredible. The heat of the tracks, the shudder of the stands as a pack of cars slams through a curve, the smell of oil, gas, and burning rubber, and the energy of the crowd as a favored car passes another are all missing while sitting and eating chips on a sofa.


The eventual winner, Car #60 driven by Carl Edwards, crossed the finish line first, albeit on a dual checker and yellow flag. The latter was typical of the whole race as exuberance, a very narrow track, and the unforgiving nature of the Dover track on any little mistakes resulted in quite a few dings against the wall and minor pile-ups at various corners. Mr. Edwards celebrated his victory with his now-famous backward flip off of the roof of his car. Mr. Edwards reflects the new type of athlethic driver v. the drivers of the bygone eras when NASCAR style racing was more of the seat-of-the-pants style and certainly a lot more dangerous even though the average speeds were 30-40 miles less. A series of pictures of the race are viewable here, from the NASCAR site.


Oh, yeah. The strapping fellow at the top with a back broad enough to be rented out as a billboard? Quite the interesting and helpful fellow. He was there as part of a son-begats the son-who begats the son continuum of NASCAR racing. Quite the attentive dad to his own young heir to fandom and more than helpful in doling out advice and insight about the tactics on the track.

Turns out the only red neck that I saw was my own, where I'd neglected to spread on the SPF 30. A great day was had by all.



N.B.: Click on any of the pictures to see a larger version.

Labels: Delaware, Only in America, Trips

(Cincy Feet)
On a Westward (Ho!) expedition recently, ostensibly a road trip to see, smell, touch, and hear the progeny, added benefits of new museums and eateries to visit were thrown in. Here follows a very subjective travelogue.

The Ever-Loving Wife and I have been blessed. Blessed that neither of the kids went through that stage of the teenage years when Solipsism was the religion of choice for them. No need for missionary work on their sole-centered souls. They both have continued a fortunately un-natural curiosity in others. How they came upon this life view is beyond me; I recall with embarrassment and regret (for all of the lost days)of my own bellybutton gazing in the teen years.

All that wasted inward energy when I could have been running barefoot in the uncut grass. But, enough about me; let's talk about my trip.

Traveling of any sorts, especially on any trips extending past a couple of days, always results in a great case of what the French call "le espièglerie". A giddiness layered in thin coats of adventure topped with a dollop of childlike wonder. I can stare down at the
passing waters of a river in a strange city for hours while acknowledging I'd be ignoring the gurgling streams in my own city. It's what moving one's carcass a few hours from base will do to me.

Cincinnati, parked on the muddy (when we went) and swift and deadly currents of the Ohio, was one of our stopovers. Cincy has not been usually associated with positive national headlines in the 5 years or so, what with the 2001 riots and the travails of the Bengals. We spent 3 gorgeous days there, encountering only friendliness and pride from the folks we dealt with. From the over-the-top concern of the staff of the Underground Railroad Museum to the interactive staff of the Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame (great exhibit was in place for Pete), to the can't-beat-working-here staff of the Montgomery Inn (sloppy ribs, great river view, and, did I mention, ribs), we were always greeted and engaged by folks who took an obvious pride in their city. The Purple People Bridge, one of many bridges spanning across the Ohio River to Kentucky, takes you from Pete Rose Way across to Newport, Kentucky. No cars, no exhaust fumes, all pedestrian power. Newport on the Levee is a painfully clean current mode of shopping center. Big on experiences of the dining variety with a faux village layout that suggests downtown shopping where no downtown exists. Worth a visit for a look, but then a quick return to Cincy via the Purple People Bridge is suggested to prevent the Mallaise that will surely strike you down if you stay too long.

Speaking of bridges, there is this one, the John A. Roebling Suspension Bridge, connecting Covington, KY and Cincinnati. Look familiar? Sounds familiar? Mr. Roebling went on to design and begin supervision of the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge after "trying out" his ideas in Cincinnati.

The Contemporary Arts Center, located in downtown Cincy, was fairly empty of visitors but packed with entertainment. John Pilson's visual works were on display. His take on life/work in the concrete stacks of NYC where he "reconsiders the banal, daily routines office workers as quixotic deviations into sublime moments", made for an interesting alternative reaction to the depression of fluorescent lighting and wall-to-wall grey carpeting. The museum itself, designed by the Iranian Zaha Hadid, winner of the Pritzker Prize in 2004, is relatively plain on the outside, blending in well with the business offices and skyscrapers on the same block. The first floor seems to be a bank lobby without the bank tellers. When you start climbing the long shallow steps to the second floor, however, an odd experience starts sinking in. You must really concentrate on your stair-climbing and what this concentration does is cleanse your mind of what you've seen on the previous floor. Unlike many staircases, the three in this museum are bathed in natural light from the glass ceiling three stories up. It was a cloudy overcast morning when we came in, but the light streaming in was intensified by the way only a shaft of rectangular sky illuminated the staircases. You won't trip but you will be lifting your feet a lot higher to the next step than is necessary. This high-stepping continues throughout the climb from floor to floor; a pleasant discombobulation.

The final museum we had a chance to visit was the fairly new Underground National Railroad Museum Freedom Center, located a few streets from the banks of the Ohio River. The ELW and I loved the museum. Two main levels provide informative layouts of interactive exhibits as well as a clear presentation of the historical beginnings and continuation of slavery and its depressing practices. There are quite a few spaces available before and after exhibit spaces where one can comfortably sit and mull over what you've just seen and read. There's an objectivity to the written/visual presentations that leaves one with a heavy heart. But, the light and space of the museum allows you to recover...or not; I noticed some folks go through the first few rooms and then just sit in the expansive glass-wall room on the second floor and just stare out at the Ohio River and the John A. Roebling Suspension Bridge. The staff of the museum, right across the board, were one of the friendliest and most enthusiastic I'd ever encountered in a museum. They were as interactive as some of the cutting-edge technology the museum held. We left the museum in a jumble of emotions. Sadness, guilt, empathy and pride in the human condition.

In a few days, off to Pittsburgh and a new museum favorite, the Carnegie Museum of Art, located on one of the main drags, Forbes Avenue, between the University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University. The museum always has an interesting current exhibit in place. When we went, a modern Japanese print exhibition was on display. The permanent exhibits are laid out in a historical way as opposed to, say, the Barnes Foundation methodology where the date of the artwork is not as important as the resulting visual stimulation of parking pieces 400-500 years apart next to each other. I am not a self-educated museum buff like the delightful Mr. Donald Pittenger of 2 Blowhards is. While I use my brain as does he, my museum ratings are based on the level of headache pain I leave with when I exit a museum. It must be the lack of safety valves in my cranium that are the cause of my problems. I can still feel the head-pulsing and nausea I experienced after a Picasso show at NYC's MOMA back in the late '70's. Does that mean that if I leave a museum without my head throbbing that the exhibits were mundane, totally lacking in stimulation? Perhaps. I've gone to the Carnegie Museum quite a few times and I've left with a smile, questions, insights, and no headaches.

Michael Blowhard recently went to Pittsburgh and the Warhol Museum and posted his observations here. I'd agree with him entirely as to his experiences on Pittsburgh as a truly livable and interesting city and his take on the Warhol Museum. I had my own 2 cents about the museum here(if you like Yoko Ono even the tiniest bit, please don't click).
If you prefer cold to hot weather, meandering streets to long straight avenues, distinct neighborhoods to malled communities, then Pittsburgh is the place for you, if only for a visit or two,

Now home again, sitting at the desk, music spilling on the planted feet, it's a longer time spent regurgitating the 5 day 1,300 mile trip than I'd thought. Still have the sweet aftertaste of the Montgomery Inn's ribs rolling around the back of my throat and the smooth and rich gelato tastings of Madisono's dancing in my head.


Note Bene: clicking on all of the pictures, well not all at once, will allow you to view them as larger versions of themselves...if that's something you're in dire need of.

Labels: Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Trips

Ah, Spring! Newness abounds, including a return to (hopefully) regular posting here. I wish I could lie here and say that the last month of life at this end has been a hissing-tires-on-a-Mobius Strip-of-a-highway kind of experience and have that serve as justification for not posting. But, I’ve got one of those lie-detector keys set up on the keyboard that would immediately shock me with a surge of honesty, so I begged off driving down that road of mis-direction. It was just a really bad combo-case of tushery and agraphia that did me in. Bits of words strung together evoked large yawns. A blogging sin!

With Spring, comes thoughts of longer trips and imagined forays to places not explored before. Don’t think I’m the only one thumbing through travelogues and poking around Travelocity or Expedia in search of cheapness and destinations. Hillbilly, Please, a blogger who defines the phrase voracious reader, makes some comments about Bill Bryson, a well-favoured travel writer who gets my lather up after only a page or two of his navel-gazing. Her suggestion of this book is one I’ll gladly pass on to you. Thick with humour, history, and misery. Sits quite well alongside Shipping News,The Colony of Unrequited Dreams, and An Innocent in Newfoundland: Even More Curious Rambles and Singular Encounters. What could be better?

I tend more to Tony Horwitz, Tim Cahill, or Pico Iyer, or the ever-dependable and always indispensable Mark Twain.

This site, Rolf Potts’ Vagabonding, offers an excellent intro to travel writers. Embarrassingly, I recognized only a handful of these folks. Another book list to start!

Thanks to all my faithful who poked and prodded the blog-corpse until I was shamed into punching the keys again. If there were a cozy shack on the edge of a wave-crashing cliff serving ice-cold draughts, I’d be buying you all a round.

Labels: Trips

Time was dictated by the meter. Or, rather by my feeding of the meter. A one hour max on the street meters meant an hour spent at a corner Starbucks. Rent there for a chair, a table, and window view onto Forbes Avenue consisted of a Vente Some Caffeine Thing and a coffee cake requiring heavy chiseling to separate the cake from the marbleized cap of a topping.
Another hour feeding of the meter was spent two blocks away at the ground floor gray-toned cafeteria of the Carnegie Museum of Art. More libations here, but this time some healthy green tea concoction loaded with honey. Ah, honey, the nectar of any bear preparing himself for hibernation. We've gone to this museum a few times before and enjoyed it immensely. The museum is especially easy to lose oneself in and lose track of time. With my time handcuffed by the meter, I opted to sip and read.
A third hour was spent gnoshing a lunch at Pamela's, also on Forbes Avenue in the Squirrel Hill section of town. Pamela's is home of a breakfast special christened the "Big Lincoln", an early morning choice guaranteed to torpedo any plan you had toward eating in moderation.

Why all the meter hopscotching? A day trip westward to Pittsburgh and back eastward. It's Thanksgiving Break at the daughter's university so I was more than happy to go pick her up. A vacation day from work. Five hours of uninterrupted time with her. A great way to begin the first of many days of celebration as we enter that time of the year, Holiday Alley.

Apologies for a short entry. These 10 hour drives are hard on the creative juices.

Labels: Pittsburgh, Trips