tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25914802187700441992024-03-04T23:10:01.632-05:00The Wandering WahooA mostly humorous look at life through the eyes of a middle-aged gay doofus hipster-wannabe. Entries cover topics as varied as judging a beauty contest at a county fair to visiting historic sites to the best sex toy shop in Philadelphia. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-74894513045951536372023-08-30T15:27:00.020-04:002023-09-02T22:10:08.787-04:00If It's Tuesday This Must Be Hudson<p>Sometime this spring, I decided I would leave State College during the Arts Festival. I thought the new team would do better by not having me metaphorically looking over their shoulders. Plus, it’s usually beastly hot and town would be dreadfully crowded. While heat and crowds make a memorable festival, they also make it a great time to get out of Dodge. </p><p>As I was mulling over what to do, I got an email from the <a href="https://classicalamericanhomes.org/" target="_blank">Classical American Homes Preservation Trust</a> announcing a tour of historic estates of the Hudson Valley. It sounded promising. </p><p>The Classical American Homes Preservation Trust (CAHPT) was established by Wall Street bigwig <a href="https://classicalamericanhomes.org/about/#our_founder" target="_blank">Dick Jenrette</a>, one of the founders of the investment bank Donaldson, Lufkin, & Jenrette. DLJ was purchased for megabucks by Equitable Insurance in 1985. Jenrette became chairman of Equitable’s board and retired in 1996.</p><p>Instead of scarfing up hideous modern art, mega yachts, or professional sports teams in the manner of today’s hedge fund guys, Jenrette indulged a passion from a seemingly simpler time. He purchased and restored several architecturally significant historic homes, filling them with museum-quality decorative arts and art. </p><div style="text-align: left;">The mission of the Classical American Homes Preservation Trust is to “preserve, protect, and open to the public examples of classical American residential architecture with their surrounding landscapes and scenic trails, as well as fine and decorative arts of the first half of the nineteenth century.” Jenrette endowed the organization generously at his death in 2018. Today the organization owns historic homes in New York and the Carolinas.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yD6wchXa8yjr9TLEBbOtqWH81yqcsx-nbgdg42C11OF2hPvgjK0gcw1Ist1EKw2sis_X7NlkOm17S3w097E9NhueOMiDh3PxnR-xD1_9_jj5ieqo00M191L5y_RJ0d66xNrAxfwYE9oyFQaH994SI4ayUKN0whohwrl0ZnEnuF-lzVdOy0sWN2S1yq8w/s640/Dick%20Jenrette%20b&w.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="640" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yD6wchXa8yjr9TLEBbOtqWH81yqcsx-nbgdg42C11OF2hPvgjK0gcw1Ist1EKw2sis_X7NlkOm17S3w097E9NhueOMiDh3PxnR-xD1_9_jj5ieqo00M191L5y_RJ0d66xNrAxfwYE9oyFQaH994SI4ayUKN0whohwrl0ZnEnuF-lzVdOy0sWN2S1yq8w/s320/Dick%20Jenrette%20b&w.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I first became aware of Dick Jenrette when I was in college. One of my architectural history classes went on a field trip—traveling overnight by train—to Charleston, South Carolina. One of our stops was the <a href="https://classicalamericanhomes.org/sites/roper-house/" target="_blank">Roper House</a>, which Jenrette purchased in 1968. </div><p>At the time, I gotta admit, I thought the house belonged to another famous—no, make that notorious—Jenrette, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Jenrette" target="_blank">Congressman John Jenrette</a>. </p><div style="text-align: left;">For those who don’t recall their 1970s scandals, Congressman John Jenrette was convicted of taking a bribe in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abscam" target="_blank">Abscam Scandal</a> and served 13 months in the federal pokey. But more importantly, he famously boinked his wife Rita behind a column on the steps of the US Capitol during a late-night Congressional session. The musical comedy group, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capitol_Steps" target="_blank">The Capitol Steps</a>, took its name from this famous boinking.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Regular readers of this blog will remember that <a href="https://nypost.com/2023/04/20/who-is-rita-jenrette-american-model-turned-italian-princess-evicted-from-533m-villa/" target="_blank">Rita Jenrette</a> was a hot tub friend (like a Facebook friend, but from the 1970s) of <a href="http://www.thewanderingwahoo.com/2012/05/sharon-mccarthy-in-four-minutes.html" target="_blank">my late friend Sharon McCarthy</a>, a former Congressional wife. Sharon asked me to be one of the speakers at her funeral so I told the story of Rita J showing up at Sharon’s house wearing a mink coat over, well, absolutely nothing. On second thought, it could have been a sheared beaver. The coat I mean!!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzcufA6rHHe6N_68DEcinhndEFpAHMr_C0TuRJEUSu2orlfiwooP8N6VNJQ6yU2_0OkXJDOgyFowC78SLa3yK7okrcj4Wd89sfT26xcI9-0e5bd5UrIsftG51s1QiTY6Ji8A6bhBqoHrqKlfh-m6XGULOJwHXLwyQ6O3Itwb0lASQFIiDfQNNA9MYHUwH/s1439/Roper%20House.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1151" data-original-width="1439" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzcufA6rHHe6N_68DEcinhndEFpAHMr_C0TuRJEUSu2orlfiwooP8N6VNJQ6yU2_0OkXJDOgyFowC78SLa3yK7okrcj4Wd89sfT26xcI9-0e5bd5UrIsftG51s1QiTY6Ji8A6bhBqoHrqKlfh-m6XGULOJwHXLwyQ6O3Itwb0lASQFIiDfQNNA9MYHUwH/s320/Roper%20House.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway, back to the Roper House. It's a historic “single house” near The Battery in Charleston. Folks watching from the roof would have had a 50-yard line seat for the shelling of Fort Sumpter in 1861. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-MKAK9l8FRLAkDgJG4wJ_7Z7-MTzfUSoFGBURTEqfGNitFNN_bWwKcEcsYheMf27RiR0LPflNBiKc7-G1ZFzuqXp07lQ-XzR3Q9Du5z-0IG_S2EW192isAGZxgbWGgPsFkJ5BJrtNtidT4GGOYksxE8T54f9KCplY3U0um9AsozdnrFzJZshFOoKxw_R/s935/Prince%20Charles%20and%20Dick%20Jenrette.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="935" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-MKAK9l8FRLAkDgJG4wJ_7Z7-MTzfUSoFGBURTEqfGNitFNN_bWwKcEcsYheMf27RiR0LPflNBiKc7-G1ZFzuqXp07lQ-XzR3Q9Du5z-0IG_S2EW192isAGZxgbWGgPsFkJ5BJrtNtidT4GGOYksxE8T54f9KCplY3U0um9AsozdnrFzJZshFOoKxw_R/s320/Prince%20Charles%20and%20Dick%20Jenrette.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">When Prince Charles came to Charleston on an official visit in 1990 <a href="https://classicalamericanhomes.org/discoveries/king-charles-iiis-1990-visit-to-roper-house/" target="_blank">he stayed at The Roper House</a>. Its garden was destroyed by Hurricane Hugo a few days before Charles’ arrival, but Dick Jenrette was able to have the garden replaced in time for the royal visit. A few years later, Prince Charles wrote the introduction to Jenrette’s book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Adventures-Old-Houses-Richard-Jenrette/dp/0941711765" target="_blank">Adventures with Old Houses</a></i>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Dick Jenrette was a man who got things done. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The e-news that I received from CAHPT promised “an exclusive, three-day tour of the Hudson River Valley’s greatest homes. Special access to the region’s architectural wonders, sweeping vistas, and compelling histories will make this a tour to remember.” It sounded just like a UVa architectural history field trip. What wasn’t to like? <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVxbqcbXQ3FY2KrTIwvJ3wLxmdKHCQwyAo8bmp8JCi79RFV8y5EYcJO0-b4vuMrknC9Mqj5yHcAMzlsPN0F7XNK2-JkBkf5MMhm5_rKEOKC2NijViqMb2yk0fWZPg1I9n87KAMZTkbUQU3eSiLUiD9zihRKE57-Wi3HNIIf0P73iiZpfVc3lVnD6V0V4Z/s864/If%20Its%20Tuesday%20It%20Must%20Be%20Belgium.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="581" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVxbqcbXQ3FY2KrTIwvJ3wLxmdKHCQwyAo8bmp8JCi79RFV8y5EYcJO0-b4vuMrknC9Mqj5yHcAMzlsPN0F7XNK2-JkBkf5MMhm5_rKEOKC2NijViqMb2yk0fWZPg1I9n87KAMZTkbUQU3eSiLUiD9zihRKE57-Wi3HNIIf0P73iiZpfVc3lVnD6V0V4Z/w269-h400/If%20Its%20Tuesday%20It%20Must%20Be%20Belgium.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I’ve never been on an organized tour, preferring to go it alone. As alluring as the commercials for Viking River Cruises are, when I think of tours, my go-to is the 1969 film, <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064471/" target="_blank">If It’s Tuesday This Must Be Belgium</a></i>. starring <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suzanne_Pleshette" target="_blank">Suzanne Pleshette</a>. (Yes, Suzanne Pleshette. Seriously.) </div><p>But an opportunity like this wasn’t going to come around too often. So, using the “how bad could it possibly be?” font, I signed up. </p><div style="text-align: left;">The trip didn’t get off to an auspicious start. My drive to tour HQ in Poughkeepsie coincided with a huge storm and so what normally would have been a four-hour trip took more than six. On arrival, I’d planned to do the <a href="https://walkway.org/" target="_blank">Walkway Over the Hudson</a>, an old railroad bridge that has been turned into the world's longest elevated pedestrian bridge. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It’s almost a mile long and over 200 feet above the Hudson River and I’m deathly afraid of heights, so it was going to be a challenge. When I got to the bridge it was raining cats and dogs. The bridge was closed. Oh well. There’s always a plan B.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Em7oA4n9rYEiIAJfn9imZOrXzBrE9yvZGYIrQe5prv49GqnUkxu91rngKMe_gxjgnq-8TdBxACw5O0Nt0_zQblQD296l2tSxR1cnrMsGg3X1d_3auPjemM_Xjvc3S3ieGZPW5c7Uv0xTyKFAxFhbqNhyU9cNoQauaF7jNdgl8_CeuPgz46eEGjHQG2iT/s854/Hyatt%20Place%20Poughkeepsie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="854" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Em7oA4n9rYEiIAJfn9imZOrXzBrE9yvZGYIrQe5prv49GqnUkxu91rngKMe_gxjgnq-8TdBxACw5O0Nt0_zQblQD296l2tSxR1cnrMsGg3X1d_3auPjemM_Xjvc3S3ieGZPW5c7Uv0xTyKFAxFhbqNhyU9cNoQauaF7jNdgl8_CeuPgz46eEGjHQG2iT/s320/Hyatt%20Place%20Poughkeepsie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The tour hotel was the Hyatt Place Poughkeepsie, conveniently located on Route 9 next to its architectural cousin, a self-storage facility. </div><p>I checked in just in time to hear the person in front of me in line go on and on (and on, if you wanna know the truth) about the indignity of housekeeping servicing rooms every third day. As I rolled my eyes I thought, “I bet she’s on the tour….” </p><p>The tour was to start at 8:45 on Monday. As I checked out the people eating in the hotel’s breakfast nook, I wondered which of them would be on the tour. </p><div style="text-align: left;">The woman who complained about not having daily maid service? The overdressed guy in starched Oxford cloth? The two older women in sensible shoes? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I was still mentally sorting diners into yays and nays when our thirty-or-maybe-twenty-something-on-Grindr tour leader gave a quick welcome to the group and passed out tote bags. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k1lRhwOCByJaitRshfWN6aIGa6qcLF7B3KrOTDYvhi-QgENMsfNlPdCspq8pUmNicQGlHqvs0wpSLcDFBl511PjI7svOQ35mBv338fi67Hi7hc7F4K_cATSseUriXSiHiWoYlp_hqP3-Zx77z7F8kgNky0wI8KvXnlN1O4FdAEGS16h0iC_8wmK_hX_c/s3024/CAHPT%20Tote.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k1lRhwOCByJaitRshfWN6aIGa6qcLF7B3KrOTDYvhi-QgENMsfNlPdCspq8pUmNicQGlHqvs0wpSLcDFBl511PjI7svOQ35mBv338fi67Hi7hc7F4K_cATSseUriXSiHiWoYlp_hqP3-Zx77z7F8kgNky0wI8KvXnlN1O4FdAEGS16h0iC_8wmK_hX_c/s320/CAHPT%20Tote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">A tour tote bag…NOW things were getting serious. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Bags in hand, it was time to load the tour bus. As I experienced a little junior high PTSD, I wondered if this was going to be like the Presbyterian church, and you’d be sentenced to sit in the seat that you picked out at random forever. Mindful that I didn’t want to get stuck next to the guy I’d already decided was insufferable, I took a seat by myself. Sometimes intimacy issues come in handy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Spoiler alert: just as in junior high, the good kids sat up front, leaving the rear to the fun folks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbl-ulZg8w5k3nqWrT01iOUMsGx_SEx6Roo7iyn2SWEAx8twoTDn3RMHUXULQZVVuYeP9A_KAaOrYQpETUWZWz9y-SN0fan9hHRHYNsKnifKLk4nocogL1cbQrdzrq5pKJbQp2u5MiEFPMg-m2NnqjnqE02Jm4BX-JeOPfDKA2ogcpFHIcPE4BaoNmIWP/s2193/Locust%20Grove%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1754" data-original-width="2193" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbl-ulZg8w5k3nqWrT01iOUMsGx_SEx6Roo7iyn2SWEAx8twoTDn3RMHUXULQZVVuYeP9A_KAaOrYQpETUWZWz9y-SN0fan9hHRHYNsKnifKLk4nocogL1cbQrdzrq5pKJbQp2u5MiEFPMg-m2NnqjnqE02Jm4BX-JeOPfDKA2ogcpFHIcPE4BaoNmIWP/s320/Locust%20Grove%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Our first stop was <a href="https://www.lgny.org/" target="_blank">Locust Grove</a>, the former home of Samuel F.B. Morse, inventor of the telegraph. Later owners, the Young family, greatly expanded the house. The house was in the Italianate style, though one wag pointed out that the less you know about Italy the more Italian it looks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7vfF126jE5i1y319eCVdZHTRDyZW829f2wXsVHpjHZBHM7Yf49lFAFJV9sInhD5APSxM2sACRM7uAbZgATiXXsUETmrB4kszam9_33IBQjunP_x9dcTGxbKAdHsI9r9MCq_rI1GN8lgnih32BtLd8_RHHBGSIDNpgvk1IlnF4oMtK4KGRdnuNuo1R0ER/s3581/Locust%20Grove%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3581" data-original-width="2864" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7vfF126jE5i1y319eCVdZHTRDyZW829f2wXsVHpjHZBHM7Yf49lFAFJV9sInhD5APSxM2sACRM7uAbZgATiXXsUETmrB4kszam9_33IBQjunP_x9dcTGxbKAdHsI9r9MCq_rI1GN8lgnih32BtLd8_RHHBGSIDNpgvk1IlnF4oMtK4KGRdnuNuo1R0ER/s320/Locust%20Grove%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fortunately for historians of American material culture and unfortunately for us, the Young family never threw a thing away and our docent decided to tell us about every single object in the house starting with the cold meat fork and ending with the bouquet of stuffed songbirds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Bird bouquets, apparently they were a thing. (There’s probably a gay angle to bird bouquets but I’ll leave that bit of scholarship to someone else.) Our tour guide had never heard of the show business adage, “always leave them wanting more” and so fortunately there was no time for the gift shop...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTyPyW_6xlly5viA6xrn0Q5aC-0VbnhbOCOZmW7akXWCW7AUyXrPo9SXKlxv1a8EIGjORXclmeeUKGIBy_19PycldpPdaccKftzQPRJeoCnWaccvB7HbKzr2KvURkaYHn9-UmB70aLuWP-HmI5s_Rrj7EPAjECAbEHgIkFwXQFbtxCLDkP9bWRnmmPXLQ/s3274/Locust%20Grove%20Pet%20Cemetery.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3274" data-original-width="2619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTyPyW_6xlly5viA6xrn0Q5aC-0VbnhbOCOZmW7akXWCW7AUyXrPo9SXKlxv1a8EIGjORXclmeeUKGIBy_19PycldpPdaccKftzQPRJeoCnWaccvB7HbKzr2KvURkaYHn9-UmB70aLuWP-HmI5s_Rrj7EPAjECAbEHgIkFwXQFbtxCLDkP9bWRnmmPXLQ/s320/Locust%20Grove%20Pet%20Cemetery.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">...but it did take time away from communing in the pet cemetery. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIwrjfId8v8fMnt2JbKYn-G4VTcumvdJgkt4iQbZYb2kd_rajP-XXMBL9Lmq_uJp0WWn2nqZyq6JAxixBM7OQCTEoPKn9djh_8COBxlqsbJfRwGgPgnglVz0NnTnCcwd7fkv4vX2ai2AEnDRULZGBBUkoyg5IG53X5si4_AwTJ0Me5HGd7Xohu_puRvN4/s3024/Hyde%20Park%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIwrjfId8v8fMnt2JbKYn-G4VTcumvdJgkt4iQbZYb2kd_rajP-XXMBL9Lmq_uJp0WWn2nqZyq6JAxixBM7OQCTEoPKn9djh_8COBxlqsbJfRwGgPgnglVz0NnTnCcwd7fkv4vX2ai2AEnDRULZGBBUkoyg5IG53X5si4_AwTJ0Me5HGd7Xohu_puRvN4/s320/Hyde%20Park%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our next stop was the only place on our tour that I’d been before, Hyde Park, the home of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifA53_E3ssmZeRxB9QwpdYg2E_5zL05zKrc-xi6FGxvZNMsf4Nyxbq5F0bBtP33ut6tztEJH2ig5EY41BDlubZANaMYHIJ1jgVzqOlxRHsNUdXGrMLKt2FQ2dUVYMntuOYsLEREs8Ffx6bEBHkV3MWz_b-KyGv-h4arjyF0i7ZWoJz83P0O-HSFFzO1IML/s2239/Hyde%20Park%20Drive%20In.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2239" data-original-width="2239" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifA53_E3ssmZeRxB9QwpdYg2E_5zL05zKrc-xi6FGxvZNMsf4Nyxbq5F0bBtP33ut6tztEJH2ig5EY41BDlubZANaMYHIJ1jgVzqOlxRHsNUdXGrMLKt2FQ2dUVYMntuOYsLEREs8Ffx6bEBHkV3MWz_b-KyGv-h4arjyF0i7ZWoJz83P0O-HSFFzO1IML/s320/Hyde%20Park%20Drive%20In.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's conveniently located right across the street from the Hyde Park Drive-In Theatre. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After watching the introductory movie in the visitors’ center (it’s no <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4u_RZh9tc4" target="_blank">Williamsburg: Story of a Patriot</a></i>, the famous Colonial Williamsburg film) we trooped over to the big house while a Park Service ranger gave us the lowdown on the site. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTqgukbiLTVxDgM9k8GzlFJumYjXuR4dp1nZhbRzmsvCO_x_b1wLdwY1Gy_DlMCZQdyHvLsMEBeMsZPjJ3vvGRNs9VExsnLfmndMAdD511tMgi06OFAeuc0We5uq7IsIBXgr7hR7ONBGkaWxxp549DukMGNRKxrD4ZBva4nZMYRMuDzJ5lARZJLhihiwI/s3780/Hyde%20Park%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTqgukbiLTVxDgM9k8GzlFJumYjXuR4dp1nZhbRzmsvCO_x_b1wLdwY1Gy_DlMCZQdyHvLsMEBeMsZPjJ3vvGRNs9VExsnLfmndMAdD511tMgi06OFAeuc0We5uq7IsIBXgr7hR7ONBGkaWxxp549DukMGNRKxrD4ZBva4nZMYRMuDzJ5lARZJLhihiwI/s320/Hyde%20Park%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The house is a grand Colonial Revival redo of an older house by FDR himself--he was a bit of an amateur architect. Interestingly enough, the house was the property of FDR’s mother, world class battleaxe <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Roosevelt" target="_blank">Sara Delano Roosevelt</a> until her death in 1941 when the house passed to the President.</div><p style="text-align: left;">The ranger told us that Sara’s father made money in the “China trade” which I wanted to point out was a euphemism for selling opium to the Chinese. If we’re calling a spade a spade (and sometimes calling a spade a fucking shovel) when it comes to slavery in the South, it seems appropriate to also do it when we’re talking about commercial activity above the Mason Dixon Line. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmx3UAg-4HfyhxmzZnNnCw5Wv0HSGDYXiyDkuqQEcRsAAy5VntBdCfyDeObW4-vHHlkLrJ_JK4934F4Vz6Eb-WE7fdMQQZ5HiVfVOVm63Wm7OZk4Go5cZ2zWxlu3yEgfeZ_hlXnMRiWuWxwOGU7Uu1tOnFmCifDorSTMOVdWXu3R684Y4vgbUTKc3kyuh/s3626/Hyde%20Park%203.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3626" data-original-width="2901" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmx3UAg-4HfyhxmzZnNnCw5Wv0HSGDYXiyDkuqQEcRsAAy5VntBdCfyDeObW4-vHHlkLrJ_JK4934F4Vz6Eb-WE7fdMQQZ5HiVfVOVm63Wm7OZk4Go5cZ2zWxlu3yEgfeZ_hlXnMRiWuWxwOGU7Uu1tOnFmCifDorSTMOVdWXu3R684Y4vgbUTKc3kyuh/s320/Hyde%20Park%203.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>To his credit, the ranger did not describe every single object in the house. He spent some time reminding us that Roosevelt used a wheelchair and as a result was focused on fire safety since he couldn't just run out of a burning building. As they say on LinkedIn, our ranger added value to our visit. Who needed to hear about Sara’s whatnot shelf filled with porcelain whatnots? Not me! But I would have been OK with more info about the case of stuffed songbirds...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4MaMmd3pYzp2ZujKLWpaBLsuWpwT7ze_5cNoYVIqObFyNu3HQjGJut8REeJNHBNqOaCBqwSmrVq2b6-43BPd7wiKh0Udvb54TK7Ny21hJ7jz9CHt8YIJV0vM5izW439n1oN7dWe_T1xNdKLclbe33i0aWyKYJmKJ_7YKroQooREqQAza5Xvz7qn8bNfz/s2308/FDR%20Grave.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2308" data-original-width="2308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4MaMmd3pYzp2ZujKLWpaBLsuWpwT7ze_5cNoYVIqObFyNu3HQjGJut8REeJNHBNqOaCBqwSmrVq2b6-43BPd7wiKh0Udvb54TK7Ny21hJ7jz9CHt8YIJV0vM5izW439n1oN7dWe_T1xNdKLclbe33i0aWyKYJmKJ_7YKroQooREqQAza5Xvz7qn8bNfz/s320/FDR%20Grave.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Confident of his place in history, FDR made arrangements to give the house to the American people while he was still living there. He, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleanor_Roosevelt" target="_blank">First Lady Eleanor</a>, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fala_(dog)" target="_blank">First Scottie Fala</a> are interred in the front yard. Try that in suburbia! As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, the rich are different.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSuWzdMxuGleuOFfHpftkIdloAPxCk3lLBAUU-CcN9YFympU4tJyp0SsJ-oYOgJ4Ppt_D4znBSZkxdiKEGZ5l4NSyzZ9KFkRZZE0pXdmFOPuDq8KejNrt-_TrQoo1zBoXwGIWC_FFKfmscgboIJ8uqaKuDcosFqB8BnVGIECDRmERqaa7TGHrUMZ9TtSF/s2498/FDR%20Library.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1998" data-original-width="2498" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSuWzdMxuGleuOFfHpftkIdloAPxCk3lLBAUU-CcN9YFympU4tJyp0SsJ-oYOgJ4Ppt_D4znBSZkxdiKEGZ5l4NSyzZ9KFkRZZE0pXdmFOPuDq8KejNrt-_TrQoo1zBoXwGIWC_FFKfmscgboIJ8uqaKuDcosFqB8BnVGIECDRmERqaa7TGHrUMZ9TtSF/s320/FDR%20Library.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Having had my fill of the house, I stopped at the <a href="https://www.fdrlibrary.org/" target="_blank">Presidential Library</a>, which was a short walk from the house and not included in the price of the tour. Unique among Presidents, FDR designed and built his Presidential Library while he was still in office. And that was interesting but not as interesting as the fact that they used to have high school proms at the <a href="https://www.nixonfoundation.org/" target="_blank">Richard Nixon Presidential Library</a> in Yorba Linda, California.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdkQCLk0hvvt56LhL4YU0uRto-WjOpwuh8igqR0ZxWO7awtk3b9XR60VCSZpBJPLPbPnBCpk3P98_ayJ0xXhWdx9BxtxkDgnX64xy7bN8ouF8veIGr_vCwHR0PYBLssT9sfs_N0N0Ruyynnmi6TqNPceinQ3IC2nUCsmSWAuNpVwk1ymSZ5YJwvie0h55/s2898/FDR%20Beer%20Mugs.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2898" data-original-width="2898" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdkQCLk0hvvt56LhL4YU0uRto-WjOpwuh8igqR0ZxWO7awtk3b9XR60VCSZpBJPLPbPnBCpk3P98_ayJ0xXhWdx9BxtxkDgnX64xy7bN8ouF8veIGr_vCwHR0PYBLssT9sfs_N0N0Ruyynnmi6TqNPceinQ3IC2nUCsmSWAuNpVwk1ymSZ5YJwvie0h55/s320/FDR%20Beer%20Mugs.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The FDR Library had the usual exhibits of personal effects, campaign ephemera, newsreel footage, and so on. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28mW-jt7IEcSdpOrDL26WjU_xP-z9pUqFsIpsPljnyN2eQUkXhPZyUGmNCOjgoboCfFYU36dVQeHK0Vv7LRJ_nuWzyEtQq5HCHU_WI_K4oVvgLztzfd1lKUNW_mmNo0sJ4PsWUpHJXAaJurDPc2ivvuhgKXX6Z3ttZ2VBrX3N5m4wh6uh4a8RoeqT98r-/s3510/FDR%20Four%20Freedoms.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3510" data-original-width="2808" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28mW-jt7IEcSdpOrDL26WjU_xP-z9pUqFsIpsPljnyN2eQUkXhPZyUGmNCOjgoboCfFYU36dVQeHK0Vv7LRJ_nuWzyEtQq5HCHU_WI_K4oVvgLztzfd1lKUNW_mmNo0sJ4PsWUpHJXAaJurDPc2ivvuhgKXX6Z3ttZ2VBrX3N5m4wh6uh4a8RoeqT98r-/s320/FDR%20Four%20Freedoms.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The scripts obviously weren’t written by my grandparents who were out and proud as voters for Hoover, Landon, Wilkie, and Dewey. But as they say, it’s the winners who get to write history. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH-ngpaihDoOwgTUnqcFmV7Vo8DYCoLD0PGmc1Y44kwwJb-ZUSx9e4EedYnsPNouuBjRqeFvVSVJlw3XLBIEECsIIOts_vxc2Z34m_MefRef8COISzSII5tNUFntCVB8kSn2neyGT3QjmIiEhW0vpI02GMcyatIGGt4f_Geyvpwdf1Kf1nPnbm-3egs8Y/s3780/FDR%20Ford.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH-ngpaihDoOwgTUnqcFmV7Vo8DYCoLD0PGmc1Y44kwwJb-ZUSx9e4EedYnsPNouuBjRqeFvVSVJlw3XLBIEECsIIOts_vxc2Z34m_MefRef8COISzSII5tNUFntCVB8kSn2neyGT3QjmIiEhW0vpI02GMcyatIGGt4f_Geyvpwdf1Kf1nPnbm-3egs8Y/s320/FDR%20Ford.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The most interesting object in the library was FDR’s 1936 Ford Phaeton, which is what they used to call a four-door convertible. In my childhood, during the time when my father was interested in old cars, he had a 1936 Ford 3-Window Coupe and a 1937 Ford Phaeton, so the President’s ride was familiar to me. </div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">However, the Presidential Ford had been modified by a local mechanic to operate with hand controls since the Prez could not use his legs due to the effects of polio. The car had a gizmo attached to the dash that would dispense LIT Camel cigs. While <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Claybrook" target="_blank">Joan Claybrook</a> wouldn’t have approved, my mother would have been all over that like a cheap suit. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j4wnha6kTpurGKHfKGmXrmuiecK5O4O8R3t0IKYkPT4ryfLXfZEi2ar80A31YcvD93i7wZTgCLj1Is2x0_C440BoKfJOV9DX4Z-19ELUzds4Eq2yR_yjdmnFlA-SFqKrZ-w0IUL0JXt_zBBEH4JKHcVU1LBIPybD0UEbhb_hZeUHMUEeNUe-B9hLabOU/s3780/BJF%20Garden.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j4wnha6kTpurGKHfKGmXrmuiecK5O4O8R3t0IKYkPT4ryfLXfZEi2ar80A31YcvD93i7wZTgCLj1Is2x0_C440BoKfJOV9DX4Z-19ELUzds4Eq2yR_yjdmnFlA-SFqKrZ-w0IUL0JXt_zBBEH4JKHcVU1LBIPybD0UEbhb_hZeUHMUEeNUe-B9hLabOU/s320/BJF%20Garden.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I just had time to walk out the back door of the visitors’ center to see a <a href="https://www.beatrixfarrandsociety.org/beatrix-farrand/" target="_blank">Beatrix Jones Farrand</a> garden. Farrand was an early twentieth-century landscape designer and cousin of Edith Wharton. Farrand worked for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abby_Aldrich_Rockefeller" target="_blank">Abby Aldrich Rockefeller</a> and a slew of other A-listers. This garden was a rectangle of lawn surrounded by a perennial border and hedge. Nice, but nothing to knock one’s socks off. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2WqZfVHxFbiw1obNt9X2M2Sy0Pv7v4Bb8ncNrh-qXQVf9_wZAU3h4if8QgH6mOLnEwA6Z6n7zx93fXLaRxb6OAlZe92t-de5bpY2WYty-apU3bWsM3RCXb6XKhX0MJdKFpKYD-8NKohAR2e0GGBo2jvzr1t52TsX6P9206lB6MGL_QJxLARGen52aH2Xi/s3780/Staatsburgh%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2WqZfVHxFbiw1obNt9X2M2Sy0Pv7v4Bb8ncNrh-qXQVf9_wZAU3h4if8QgH6mOLnEwA6Z6n7zx93fXLaRxb6OAlZe92t-de5bpY2WYty-apU3bWsM3RCXb6XKhX0MJdKFpKYD-8NKohAR2e0GGBo2jvzr1t52TsX6P9206lB6MGL_QJxLARGen52aH2Xi/s320/Staatsburgh%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Having had our fill of FDR, it was back on the bus for the short drive to <a href="https://parks.ny.gov/historic-sites/staatsburgh/details.aspx" target="_blank">Staatsburgh</a>, the home of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogden_Mills_(financier)" target="_blank">Ogden Mills</a>, a Gilded Age financier, and his wife Ruth. Ruth was a descendant of the prominent <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Livingston_family" target="_blank">Livingston family</a> and the property had been in the family since the dawn of time. This gave Ogden and Ruth a social leg up on arrivistes like the Astors and Vanderbilts and so they loaded up on ancestral portraits to, as my father used to say, show them where the crow pissed in the buckwheat. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1KWZMdVfdIJbJAw1Ge7tbrt2gfed1ojjiay6yWLW8bojypsRlui4GIfJKeEDJ600izMq1xJVusXjTnsnbcypSV3de8NyS2YkzMstf-UXvegntzsQiAA_dDBsOSTx3DLsScsQOaC7iu9OFeh1QGSbs6CjAoDkFHKrvEGVUDLphCbVjnfo_L1h-0uB8nfp/s3780/Staatsburgh%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1KWZMdVfdIJbJAw1Ge7tbrt2gfed1ojjiay6yWLW8bojypsRlui4GIfJKeEDJ600izMq1xJVusXjTnsnbcypSV3de8NyS2YkzMstf-UXvegntzsQiAA_dDBsOSTx3DLsScsQOaC7iu9OFeh1QGSbs6CjAoDkFHKrvEGVUDLphCbVjnfo_L1h-0uB8nfp/s320/Staatsburgh%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">As Ogden and Ruth found it, the house wasn’t nearly grand enough, so they had <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McKim,_Mead_%26_White" target="_blank">McKim, Mead & White</a> turn it into a Newport “cottage”—which is to say, like a mansion, but on steroids.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJdCGQCHpucOota1J770PSoex_UumTP3ox53GbkSmX3oWx1l9IfwhQfJMDiwqTD5-e7e9YicxitN4MZfGRcZeiInuI0EEXduUd0XRfz7CBTrd7zzcRBm370H-Q58FcGls2BSN9zpte-EO9Rp8-Wwy-pq9p_VVW3jatzvN_Yq6IgBdZhyRZ3h9sIhNVdTJ/s3780/Staatsburgh%203.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJdCGQCHpucOota1J770PSoex_UumTP3ox53GbkSmX3oWx1l9IfwhQfJMDiwqTD5-e7e9YicxitN4MZfGRcZeiInuI0EEXduUd0XRfz7CBTrd7zzcRBm370H-Q58FcGls2BSN9zpte-EO9Rp8-Wwy-pq9p_VVW3jatzvN_Yq6IgBdZhyRZ3h9sIhNVdTJ/s320/Staatsburgh%203.JPG" width="256" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today Staatsburgh is rundown and for all its heft, only a small portion of the house is open to the public. While I enjoy a house museum, as far as Newport cottages are concerned, I think if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0v6xr7U4hyquKtU_8UzHp4DgSC6seoRUigSYKcTSzONxJ_Q4ZsP0k8dU-0MiW1G9yBieGIpqe8AoXT9J5o9BwlIO4bdQMFm4biP0T3RN5wlL5a009oN0WNnHQXzQcbyi00KLg-euGhho3VlqPlinPiipmPH_ce356WQc63rzOfHOzPgSf_2YvuQOfRDN/s1754/Staatsburgh%20Zack.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1754" data-original-width="1317" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0v6xr7U4hyquKtU_8UzHp4DgSC6seoRUigSYKcTSzONxJ_Q4ZsP0k8dU-0MiW1G9yBieGIpqe8AoXT9J5o9BwlIO4bdQMFm4biP0T3RN5wlL5a009oN0WNnHQXzQcbyi00KLg-euGhho3VlqPlinPiipmPH_ce356WQc63rzOfHOzPgSf_2YvuQOfRDN/s320/Staatsburgh%20Zack.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our docent, whose name may or may not have been Zack, was much more interesting than the house. He was an elfin sort wearing fashionably skinny trousers, statement socks, and sporting a handlebar mustache. </div><p>I wasn’t sure which church Zack went to, but I was reminded of my friend Martha—yes, Martha of the good books and borax mine fame--that she’d never date anyone with what she called an “ostentatious presentation of self”. Meaning wackadoodle facial hair, excess piercings, tats, and well, you get the picture. </p><div style="text-align: left;">I looked over Zack and his handlebar mustache over and thought, <i>What happens to that soup strainer during oral sex?</i> (with whatever gender—just call me Mr. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Belonging!).<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After Staatsburgh we boarded the bus for the short ride to <a href="https://classicalamericanhomes.org/sites/edgewater/" target="_blank">Edgewater</a>, Dick Jenrette’s home and the crown jewel of the tour.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVHmyJOUjOij4xf9aqHkLZzh29D0TBU4ZbiBJj61LZF599d9jJ7EgE0ptTaBEABD9X2aqAoN48dgdtI-4G9tFu6Z6R3BbyLLdg5OuuEvwAA0XQHEWlN8Zdv_ERvcHhci-4JhWQBf8pE68CSWSEWlY1RF0suXWcT7DaLMGq09H3hwGToyy_gNj01bHAaJa/s3024/Edgewater%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVHmyJOUjOij4xf9aqHkLZzh29D0TBU4ZbiBJj61LZF599d9jJ7EgE0ptTaBEABD9X2aqAoN48dgdtI-4G9tFu6Z6R3BbyLLdg5OuuEvwAA0XQHEWlN8Zdv_ERvcHhci-4JhWQBf8pE68CSWSEWlY1RF0suXWcT7DaLMGq09H3hwGToyy_gNj01bHAaJa/s320/Edgewater%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Edgewater is a temple-fronted Greek Revival house set on an immaculate lawn that sweeps from the portico to the east bank of the Hudson River. The main house has been attributed to architect <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Mills_(architect)" target="_blank">Robert Mills,</a> a protégé of Thomas Jefferson. With the addition of an octagonal library designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Jackson_Davis" target="_blank">Alexander Jackson Davis</a> in 1854, the volume on the house was turned up to 11. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGyItW59Se0em0vFILU9Xapo72bj58SRAS3Fb6OrbOb44vP6UjHCfD6aBR1F6rkap6kLNXJVQv5rGVnW8mfViW69PfWOCt-0wX22TuqyuQVqj7GbBDgTO_6F4P7B9nQhOdmK4tIThUEP4Iu20bF78GsAjAc7xroCXAcVvT_L_KUW0iCTvHT6Qt09uyVG4/s3537/Edgewater%2014.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3537" data-original-width="2830" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGyItW59Se0em0vFILU9Xapo72bj58SRAS3Fb6OrbOb44vP6UjHCfD6aBR1F6rkap6kLNXJVQv5rGVnW8mfViW69PfWOCt-0wX22TuqyuQVqj7GbBDgTO_6F4P7B9nQhOdmK4tIThUEP4Iu20bF78GsAjAc7xroCXAcVvT_L_KUW0iCTvHT6Qt09uyVG4/s320/Edgewater%2014.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Powers of description fail me, but the interior of the house looks like what Jackie Kennedy might have done to the White House if she’d had good taste and a crapload of money. I mean, really. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0C0UkaOJ1U1StAfwPWCaVKETlHE2twFDlk4DJQNFPDXpGzBPj8kLMYT1fQLr3HIOfI1Pjjdpp_qAp32KjuwPmbGfWRm519DPXxnwV7jeezvGeNMMoz-TifE2ULSQ1aWQyfgGqcHjQM1Cwhsv0kj7_D2iEhcxKJYvTVKh8ZUsa-hy2x0kLXA9B-zK98ip/s3780/Edgewater%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0C0UkaOJ1U1StAfwPWCaVKETlHE2twFDlk4DJQNFPDXpGzBPj8kLMYT1fQLr3HIOfI1Pjjdpp_qAp32KjuwPmbGfWRm519DPXxnwV7jeezvGeNMMoz-TifE2ULSQ1aWQyfgGqcHjQM1Cwhsv0kj7_D2iEhcxKJYvTVKh8ZUsa-hy2x0kLXA9B-zK98ip/s320/Edgewater%204.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here’s a suite of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duncan_Phyfe" target="_blank">Duncan Phyfe</a> furniture; there’s a pair of Gilbert Stuart portraits; not to mention gilded French mantle clocks, Bohemian glass, a library of 20,000 books, AND a powder room with circa 1980 chocolate brown Kohler fixtures. It was all quite something. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqJC8fZneR-3ANiNhZCwCSCLKVhfkMmvShxrB6eoLGPGa__WOEkGhaGRutZxqrUBTeFFkyambACm6bEWit4hT7mZjxOQ9fKWUPhHQEuyja1xShxI23IUgUv9pt03oVMdVCIFVxRAI7upjS0bi3ua8YJ7bqqwYrxyFma2g-6ndklPc7pZqfLc_DJ62f19_/s2401/Edgewater%2013.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2401" data-original-width="1921" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqJC8fZneR-3ANiNhZCwCSCLKVhfkMmvShxrB6eoLGPGa__WOEkGhaGRutZxqrUBTeFFkyambACm6bEWit4hT7mZjxOQ9fKWUPhHQEuyja1xShxI23IUgUv9pt03oVMdVCIFVxRAI7upjS0bi3ua8YJ7bqqwYrxyFma2g-6ndklPc7pZqfLc_DJ62f19_/s320/Edgewater%2013.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>It was news to me that Dick Jenrette lived here with his partner Bill Thompson. A partner?! How’d I miss this? I have the book about his houses and I certainly don’t remember any partner. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Plus, I didn’t know that there were gay Wall Street titans. PLUS, he would have been a honcho on Wall Street as the AIDS epidemic was at its worst. My politicized 1990s AIDS-activist-March-on-Washington self started to have the vapors. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I snapped out of it, the docent said that Dick and Bill met shortly after they both served in the armed forces during the Korean War (when my father was posted to the Hamptons, but that’s for a different story). Had anyone raised an eyebrow at their relationship, the story was going to be that Bill was Dick’s butler. I was this close to blurting out <i>“Because screwing the help is a much better cover story!” </i> Oy! I thought it was about the saddest thing ever. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1jNgkxdORhWdBpQobs71WVCvWjCyIWF7uhO-mbIwyRVk3XvZzku7PXv2od6tPf98CR3Fi_5GvNRBSSXSk440_tsYW3aCgTmCe_0pD3x42xWT9HVvSoBsS0HGxlDBRTe9sHPy8w1sq2KI2efpRvbtj5-fgS41fwoe4bENXukt2usE-OPjbA8ldzPJ3VA1/s3780/Dick%20Jenrette%20Portrait.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1jNgkxdORhWdBpQobs71WVCvWjCyIWF7uhO-mbIwyRVk3XvZzku7PXv2od6tPf98CR3Fi_5GvNRBSSXSk440_tsYW3aCgTmCe_0pD3x42xWT9HVvSoBsS0HGxlDBRTe9sHPy8w1sq2KI2efpRvbtj5-fgS41fwoe4bENXukt2usE-OPjbA8ldzPJ3VA1/s320/Dick%20Jenrette%20Portrait.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I also thought it was a bit odd that there was a large oil portrait of Bill in his own bedroom and one of Dick in his own bedroom. I would have thought that Bill would have had Dick’s portrait in his room and vice-versa. Hey, I’m bad at relationships, what do I know? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1Sfjmk0H0AQpqIdnPNF9HD81NW8BRbWqq35nslTDIaRZwbcbfZe5oFf9FnOb9RAd2w0SN54DIf9s45N9G9PACCytV8c7FTjWzvuORY_lB_4s4RaVIkDEqRsKGhCK_nTv5QNwBR20H83PE5LNfWcvY6IpS454rc6F9R1ZH0P2iZ8FjOBN9zTPKM7HotMT/s3780/Edgewater%2015.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1Sfjmk0H0AQpqIdnPNF9HD81NW8BRbWqq35nslTDIaRZwbcbfZe5oFf9FnOb9RAd2w0SN54DIf9s45N9G9PACCytV8c7FTjWzvuORY_lB_4s4RaVIkDEqRsKGhCK_nTv5QNwBR20H83PE5LNfWcvY6IpS454rc6F9R1ZH0P2iZ8FjOBN9zTPKM7HotMT/s320/Edgewater%2015.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Somewhat later one of the foundation insiders said that Dick enjoyed what he called Drunk Decorating, as is moving the furniture and art around after a few cocktails. And he skinny-dipped in the pool, where he, I mean they, built a small neoclassical temple as the pool house. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDFk7WJEU9MVVEfsca2mt4z5oeTNCENp5kC95zo6Nwvjl-IhjA82jRCSKlb9QuDUbv3Taq1rerAT1YDuwIWvOW90KgOLiyhEO6zFnqAqDrSZzoeMu-1r-2x4ald7jJvOL4iNLlSEUv-vYBrQ6L6043e4i_IelAdAbhs2lc9oIYepAUZpvjSOJNsAsyzqh/s900/Pool%20House.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="900" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDFk7WJEU9MVVEfsca2mt4z5oeTNCENp5kC95zo6Nwvjl-IhjA82jRCSKlb9QuDUbv3Taq1rerAT1YDuwIWvOW90KgOLiyhEO6zFnqAqDrSZzoeMu-1r-2x4ald7jJvOL4iNLlSEUv-vYBrQ6L6043e4i_IelAdAbhs2lc9oIYepAUZpvjSOJNsAsyzqh/s320/Pool%20House.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The pool house is now the mausoleum for Dick and Bill’s earthly remains. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu22itmnamE-mJs_8pkFMONDC6CgfDO97IjKoe3gEs211AQL_euVCnY17Xo3MlQvTPmbzLflC2-1Ey1jxVx-R49rRXGsKtmZEpT1dfNW_qzqGz9tNoQAiY94BmNkIKVs733_vE--beo2EUY5dVp2qLtFKZob655LeYRRIdFPRVgWTNdt91kBLkhzx1oyDc/s675/GV-in-Dining-Room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="675" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu22itmnamE-mJs_8pkFMONDC6CgfDO97IjKoe3gEs211AQL_euVCnY17Xo3MlQvTPmbzLflC2-1Ey1jxVx-R49rRXGsKtmZEpT1dfNW_qzqGz9tNoQAiY94BmNkIKVs733_vE--beo2EUY5dVp2qLtFKZob655LeYRRIdFPRVgWTNdt91kBLkhzx1oyDc/s320/GV-in-Dining-Room.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, and did I mention that Dick and Bill bought the property from none other than <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gore_Vidal" target="_blank">Gore Vidal</a>? True fact. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbrLRKbMhZ5XGuxPWCx4lEuZJ2mbfcB2sk_waB9lTurA4wbFT_XQs3kk-HTN-uahFlSA6ZVApRXXP9gr6XxKwSU0z2RFNIQllVZ8KIViQWGvUA1I3MzlWl95Qnqx2wjtcWoKSaoJkCOEsJp-ZniZKo5Xyx2K9JB8o4JlKatcHZip5zdBqWegacxqD5VSF/s3780/Beekman%20Arms%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbrLRKbMhZ5XGuxPWCx4lEuZJ2mbfcB2sk_waB9lTurA4wbFT_XQs3kk-HTN-uahFlSA6ZVApRXXP9gr6XxKwSU0z2RFNIQllVZ8KIViQWGvUA1I3MzlWl95Qnqx2wjtcWoKSaoJkCOEsJp-ZniZKo5Xyx2K9JB8o4JlKatcHZip5zdBqWegacxqD5VSF/s320/Beekman%20Arms%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">After getting our fill of Edgewater, we loaded ourselves back on the bus so that we could have dinner in Rhinebeck at the <a href="https://www.beekmandelamaterinn.com/" target="_blank">Beekman Arms</a>. The property has operated continuously since 1766, making it America's oldest continuously operating inn. Sometime during the evening, we all had to stand up and give the proverbial elevator speech on who we were and so on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Of course, I don’t remember what anyone said, other than the folks at my table. But at the end of the tour, I made some notes on the spreadsheet of tour participants. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here’s a sample of my notes on seven of my tour mates:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> Trumpy gay from Richmond, UVa '80. Wants to shoot the homeless.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> Ginger bear. Works in logistics. Went to Liberty University!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i> “I’ve known Robert Kennedy Jr. personally for over 20 years. Not only is he a kook, he’s an IDIOT.”</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i> Married to the guy with badly dyed hair. Complained about lack of maid service at hotel.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> Ichabod Crane but with better clothes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> Went to Wellesley, but older than Susan. Didn't ask about Hillary. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /> The guy you’re glad you didn’t sit by on the bus.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A fun group, no?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The second day our first stop was the <a href="https://thomascole.org/" target="_blank">Thomas Cole National Historic Site</a>. Cole was an English immigrant to America and the founder of the <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/hurs/hd_hurs.htm" target="_blank">Hudson River School </a>of painting. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5cWEo-3vUKEsZuFcAuP8pECx_PHK_0hQWh8lp_bErwhlm3m1du591z61D44BGeq4fXyF-A5-wAFixVX46_AX6LM__xpPuAXhXwxaOEHw8g6XEBADMiu4bcscQwvT-4UL9Gm5oe89uaGdy3xBqDzJjvsGDUjPnYAmLV_D7cKe6ir4Dlows7Q8i8An0-zK/s795/Course%20of%20Empire.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="795" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5cWEo-3vUKEsZuFcAuP8pECx_PHK_0hQWh8lp_bErwhlm3m1du591z61D44BGeq4fXyF-A5-wAFixVX46_AX6LM__xpPuAXhXwxaOEHw8g6XEBADMiu4bcscQwvT-4UL9Gm5oe89uaGdy3xBqDzJjvsGDUjPnYAmLV_D7cKe6ir4Dlows7Q8i8An0-zK/s320/Course%20of%20Empire.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">If you took Latin in high school, his series of paintings <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Course_of_Empire_(paintings)" target="_blank"><i>The Course of Empire</i> </a>might have been an illustration in your Latin book—they’re chock-a-block with togas and classical columns. Wiki says they portray pastoralism as the ideal phase of human civilization and express the fear that empire would lead to gluttony and inevitable decay. Sounds about right to me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguErKKC3WszIDYzOSLT8619ucMjbbg-JksLUMXoAc9FFkz_uXeZEs0ba0vzwOHN0FVQaPoeoJW3giFpSjhAvOdb472rg3JxyOUf868UsOSOtpH7j2HVvHi0d6ta9x_-Zo2qEqS3-h-QJHSqc3jxVmh5Z9ZtfIesblrIF9EAIfQuQ2Mp0JMZUZR46Ji8_7I/s2018/Thomas%20Cole%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2018" data-original-width="2018" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguErKKC3WszIDYzOSLT8619ucMjbbg-JksLUMXoAc9FFkz_uXeZEs0ba0vzwOHN0FVQaPoeoJW3giFpSjhAvOdb472rg3JxyOUf868UsOSOtpH7j2HVvHi0d6ta9x_-Zo2qEqS3-h-QJHSqc3jxVmh5Z9ZtfIesblrIF9EAIfQuQ2Mp0JMZUZR46Ji8_7I/s320/Thomas%20Cole%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cole’s house is modest, and there aren’t too many artifacts from his time there. The curators employ modern means such as sound and video rather than having a docent point out everything right down to the proverbial cold meat fork. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNhK1YDdPsbL0-lgvHwUQ7R9yKsjyYSu5953Qiv3fGNRhMR2y_PlHUy3Pr6CRbRMW-_P10vEn2EMHxSx8uOXNFbiqd_CemGw-uM3jiGrOo7ZpzcvZwTox7msPIzX3pptgunGwuFcvLcYbPvjgSutbECocVdpYx2l2RDhhilk3I0c3MMdwo4YR_DOmYMrW/s3585/Susie%20Barstow%20Gallery.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3585" data-original-width="2868" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNhK1YDdPsbL0-lgvHwUQ7R9yKsjyYSu5953Qiv3fGNRhMR2y_PlHUy3Pr6CRbRMW-_P10vEn2EMHxSx8uOXNFbiqd_CemGw-uM3jiGrOo7ZpzcvZwTox7msPIzX3pptgunGwuFcvLcYbPvjgSutbECocVdpYx2l2RDhhilk3I0c3MMdwo4YR_DOmYMrW/s320/Susie%20Barstow%20Gallery.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The gallery in the backyard of the site was showing an exhibition of the works of 19th-century American artist Susie Barstow. The Cole site is a gem I’d never have seen if it weren’t for the tour. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx0j8t7UMVX7OV6keMSRCcxcnBOYQNd3_Z4vm75z8oQNg2Bh3II5HUGrkYYjG6bofWFFL-0A7ZlgyVHG38T9HLalvueyxh39HBTmVE7Z1_44arVMcFMffcG9DQX4u9wHH1Iz82wADzIg-HCXm8AWNoXV8M4qdVKKeuVlVuPOJ1iEa1spt7y99VB1y6d15/s3410/IMG_1810.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3410" data-original-width="2728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHx0j8t7UMVX7OV6keMSRCcxcnBOYQNd3_Z4vm75z8oQNg2Bh3II5HUGrkYYjG6bofWFFL-0A7ZlgyVHG38T9HLalvueyxh39HBTmVE7Z1_44arVMcFMffcG9DQX4u9wHH1Iz82wADzIg-HCXm8AWNoXV8M4qdVKKeuVlVuPOJ1iEa1spt7y99VB1y6d15/s320/IMG_1810.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">That day’s lunch was on our own in the town of <a href="https://visithudsonny.com/" target="_blank">Hudson</a>, which is a colony of NYC’s Chelsea. The town seems to exist to sell tchotchkes to the affluent, attractive, and fabulously gay. That’s all well and good, but not much is open if you’re looking for a sandwich on a Tuesday at noon. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_ivburxZUb8jXghtVQFsLjiIhjDHy4Ayhu0_PYt0YwlukaCpv-G3qjXs2Upl7IbgFqXHG4QavoYxp-TThEtkbdlVdRnpMQApyUN7hok8oKpgsrTg9iHA7d0C-hy83DvSTWiXg22n7xGoh1W5co368nzb5DZRpYnv-leXdb25tQI3XX69oKxOlnM_Cjdn/s3024/Oliver%20Bronson%200.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_ivburxZUb8jXghtVQFsLjiIhjDHy4Ayhu0_PYt0YwlukaCpv-G3qjXs2Upl7IbgFqXHG4QavoYxp-TThEtkbdlVdRnpMQApyUN7hok8oKpgsrTg9iHA7d0C-hy83DvSTWiXg22n7xGoh1W5co368nzb5DZRpYnv-leXdb25tQI3XX69oKxOlnM_Cjdn/s320/Oliver%20Bronson%200.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Post lunch, our next stop was the <a href="https://www.historichudson.org/bronsonhouse" target="_blank">Oliver Bronson House</a>, designed by Alexander Jackson Davis. It’s not open to the public since it’s on the grounds of a state prison, the Big House to end all big houses. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi751uUqgTA3ZarK6RqDyYww9ntrIjOLlkp8od9t0SR_qIzcB2hJXBqX976Dzok7buppiAShPWC1fCH5zTvh_670xVBIRnCU103FNEM_QjttOa29ZFaxFd-OWJmAj2_qxixiqjUAuut_HAbaVf3q9Slch2LVZhMcIhIk6cxZp8yoDcbrvsqFSQaJeDFZcGS/s3780/Oliver%20Bronson%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi751uUqgTA3ZarK6RqDyYww9ntrIjOLlkp8od9t0SR_qIzcB2hJXBqX976Dzok7buppiAShPWC1fCH5zTvh_670xVBIRnCU103FNEM_QjttOa29ZFaxFd-OWJmAj2_qxixiqjUAuut_HAbaVf3q9Slch2LVZhMcIhIk6cxZp8yoDcbrvsqFSQaJeDFZcGS/s320/Oliver%20Bronson%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Although the Bronson house had been lived in until perhaps the 1960s, in the house’s current state there were no mod cons: it looked like Miss Havisham had just moved out. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYCdrhOzpg-II0t8AwKTu7cThxbFFnYWjA4rqxQkSH9S6uvX8s1zBTRh3OT3lnGGCB04l-ojjJ2dfSSnRTUiGKyowBAgm5cImTXiY2rOK_afCqLDJviJ21Ulst7UU1aQf3WAmYzjqyEaB44LBpLBznl4npgksXMgIITByrVozEk_WW9kwiBlQkx55iiac/s3748/Oliver%20Bronson%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3748" data-original-width="2998" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYCdrhOzpg-II0t8AwKTu7cThxbFFnYWjA4rqxQkSH9S6uvX8s1zBTRh3OT3lnGGCB04l-ojjJ2dfSSnRTUiGKyowBAgm5cImTXiY2rOK_afCqLDJviJ21Ulst7UU1aQf3WAmYzjqyEaB44LBpLBznl4npgksXMgIITByrVozEk_WW9kwiBlQkx55iiac/s320/Oliver%20Bronson%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">That made it easy to appreciate the home’s design and craftsmanship and frankly gave the place a bit of a romantic air. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMT5c1C4kJ4aGvhCcD0yV32u8fKBpDyq2QPJOFSLl3gXOGI6K3Cds7ZjsEGgOLYOcSW28_hUO-Ycx9OuZjx1GL5M1Jj8SYU1c1gA9dngfCihwgxbm8Bjmvm1dYp3UcRLXrYyhLE2bZ16hdmgSuS9rXK_3KKFXjtRWUekzyCZxqvRmlZ9zIqlaW68_aFJjd/s4032/Oliver%20Bronson%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMT5c1C4kJ4aGvhCcD0yV32u8fKBpDyq2QPJOFSLl3gXOGI6K3Cds7ZjsEGgOLYOcSW28_hUO-Ycx9OuZjx1GL5M1Jj8SYU1c1gA9dngfCihwgxbm8Bjmvm1dYp3UcRLXrYyhLE2bZ16hdmgSuS9rXK_3KKFXjtRWUekzyCZxqvRmlZ9zIqlaW68_aFJjd/s320/Oliver%20Bronson%204.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The house has a complicated backstory, which of course included Dick Jenrette in a walk-on role having something to do with its preservation some years back. I can’t give you a whole lot of details since in the heat, humidity, and post-lunch stupor, much of it was lost on me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfqFaOEb7zU3DJm_zseE0Jvwdv38nSbxV-g91Uf1fBcT75ifzvFpdW8KwmFmB6JcMqtshST0TPNfOZAwDUUA34wwTPU8dqOHhUPR0Vw9x4esPtFoKPwsqokZkyRDVy2CT-hvwL9CJCu92Vv-7rssKPriejd9IzsSGJaERO1ET0yVqT8XqTYid7wasPR-v/s1908/Olana%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1908" data-original-width="1908" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfqFaOEb7zU3DJm_zseE0Jvwdv38nSbxV-g91Uf1fBcT75ifzvFpdW8KwmFmB6JcMqtshST0TPNfOZAwDUUA34wwTPU8dqOHhUPR0Vw9x4esPtFoKPwsqokZkyRDVy2CT-hvwL9CJCu92Vv-7rssKPriejd9IzsSGJaERO1ET0yVqT8XqTYid7wasPR-v/s320/Olana%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our final stop that day was <a href="https://www.olana.org/" target="_blank">Olana</a>, the home of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederic_Edwin_Church" target="_blank">Frederick Edwin Church</a>, the Hudson River School painter and student of Thomas Cole. Olana and its landscape were preserved in the 1960s through the efforts of lots of folks including Gov. Nelson Rockefeller and (are you sensing a theme here?) Dick Jenrette. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4aeNs-dio4KRcr1ZWITw6dbx2aW-7a9BrYGW2OTwCB3DJbxTA2Cs0TsTwz9nRJnJA5SJN3wYSnU-VlNg6XzeEGbg1U8Q4Bt4vDRDu_TcHFv2QCeqS-lW2idv-oy4ucakn4Kb1As9g36X2bkwRc91SvPTLZCHyrEHcyVWCdIb_u9awDKrlOnuUFVgQpgv/s8412/Olana%203.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3834" data-original-width="8412" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4aeNs-dio4KRcr1ZWITw6dbx2aW-7a9BrYGW2OTwCB3DJbxTA2Cs0TsTwz9nRJnJA5SJN3wYSnU-VlNg6XzeEGbg1U8Q4Bt4vDRDu_TcHFv2QCeqS-lW2idv-oy4ucakn4Kb1As9g36X2bkwRc91SvPTLZCHyrEHcyVWCdIb_u9awDKrlOnuUFVgQpgv/w400-h183/Olana%203.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Church was rich, talented, and entrepreneurial so his home was many times the size of the Cole house. Church paid as much attention to Olana’s grounds and views (it’s atop a mountain) so even though it was hotter—and more humid—than a steam bath, the site manager took us on a mid-afternoon trek down and up the mountain. We experienced every vista, tree, bush, flower, and even individual blades of grass in all their glory. I don’t know how I missed the paragraph in the tour brochure that as an added bonus there would be a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bataan_Death_March" target="_blank">Bataan Death March</a> reenactment. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lcKc80JwEadDwtelSLGLLSkKepG2HUdjM_oNtw_DsKtiTWSpa150sW4Iq79Xj9pIJH4wZZiJizX9PML7B1OSNgNeM3SI8pLbnEDH9H41erOSeuMrt2lwHLtJxmLLAgRuQc9jss632Cp7Toth5DZwq1Zysz1yL9fMbBFrvmK2CYcPTgHnMHO39enDriQ4/s3780/Olana%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lcKc80JwEadDwtelSLGLLSkKepG2HUdjM_oNtw_DsKtiTWSpa150sW4Iq79Xj9pIJH4wZZiJizX9PML7B1OSNgNeM3SI8pLbnEDH9H41erOSeuMrt2lwHLtJxmLLAgRuQc9jss632Cp7Toth5DZwq1Zysz1yL9fMbBFrvmK2CYcPTgHnMHO39enDriQ4/s320/Olana%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Church—who paid for a substitute rather than serve in the Civil War—had traveled extensively in the Middle East and decorated Olana in the style of a seraglio/opium den. In today’s world, he would be the person who decorates his house for Halloween to such an extent that the local TV station covers it. So, while I’m glad it's been preserved, in that moment I would have traded it for a tall gin and tonic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGc4mBwVlkvMkE4wP7P6RtJSmMcMOGQG2VE4o4cfjCG1Fu3Cu2CwYvWc-jZ_Dz9j1B1_WJ6sRvMHJPRx8apo0bpeXZBxWLGIfcYb7ur5yIzfYpmfpmQZpdouUcg6Hyt711npaGnFC6rysNNsAuFwLWrTL0n_upfqKNLa3htDlnjA78F4rnIe1zsNM-znC8/s980/William%20Farmer%20&%20Son.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="980" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGc4mBwVlkvMkE4wP7P6RtJSmMcMOGQG2VE4o4cfjCG1Fu3Cu2CwYvWc-jZ_Dz9j1B1_WJ6sRvMHJPRx8apo0bpeXZBxWLGIfcYb7ur5yIzfYpmfpmQZpdouUcg6Hyt711npaGnFC6rysNNsAuFwLWrTL0n_upfqKNLa3htDlnjA78F4rnIe1zsNM-znC8/w320-h213/William%20Farmer%20&%20Son.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Determined to keep the gay economy of Hudson humming, my buds from the back of the tour bus and I went back for dinner. We enjoyed a delightful meal at <a href="https://www.wmfarmerandsons.com/" target="_blank">a testosterone-forward place</a> where I’m sure the hiring process included a swimsuit competition, graduate-level instruction on hair product, and the submission of an essay on the topic, “What My Tattoos Mean to Me Personally”. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp91sGlLUBa01CCz3XHCHDPDNfu7wWcStF9ptmS6j1vXNc3VoLVGtL859eCbdcLY5NNUMQb-9Mmi86Sr2g4RcYqENg_tjwPFSdS55-dKEE_OywtgfH-QcSDFU1fByNwVtQasjITveU9njV8hauAGQ9F2vK3_ghYpa-HkWrC7xupr3CFDpe96wDA012HUo/s3780/Wilderstein%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp91sGlLUBa01CCz3XHCHDPDNfu7wWcStF9ptmS6j1vXNc3VoLVGtL859eCbdcLY5NNUMQb-9Mmi86Sr2g4RcYqENg_tjwPFSdS55-dKEE_OywtgfH-QcSDFU1fByNwVtQasjITveU9njV8hauAGQ9F2vK3_ghYpa-HkWrC7xupr3CFDpe96wDA012HUo/w256-h320/Wilderstein%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Wednesday’s first stop was <a href="https://wilderstein.org/" target="_blank">Wilderstein</a>, a few miles from Hyde Park. Wilderstein was the home of <a href="https://www.fdrlibrary.org/suckley" target="_blank">Daisy Suckley</a>, FDR’s fifth cousin, close personal friend, archivist, and at least according to the 2012 biopic, <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1477855/" target="_blank">Hyde Park on the Hudson</a></i>, a woman who gave the President a handjob in the front seat of his 1936 Ford Phaeton. In addition to the occasional “happy ending”, Daisy also gave FDR his Scotty dog, <a href="https://www.fdrlibrary.org/fala" target="_blank">Fala</a>. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhddsGQkF5Yne3_IyXunAkhVTJO-zjIa7zhnmwUb9-a750FzsQzNS6QhIf5_kdICond0i6J34bWKTltOVmGopXBy92yhQ8tjO4hioFGq6be8CvXVoJLa81N-TT_6F-icqzp2fNJBUvWemleP2imvIMe6Tjed6lRmsktJDfa7zfDb74AdBzN9y8cyD_Z05m/s3024/Wilderstein%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhddsGQkF5Yne3_IyXunAkhVTJO-zjIa7zhnmwUb9-a750FzsQzNS6QhIf5_kdICond0i6J34bWKTltOVmGopXBy92yhQ8tjO4hioFGq6be8CvXVoJLa81N-TT_6F-icqzp2fNJBUvWemleP2imvIMe6Tjed6lRmsktJDfa7zfDb74AdBzN9y8cyD_Z05m/w320-h320/Wilderstein%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Wilderstein is a grand Victorian pile, that remained largely unchanged over the years due to the Suckely family’s downward mobility. No photos were allowed in the house, but the docent, who had some years on her, thoughtfully took us outside for what she called the “money shot” of Wilderstein photography. In the immortal words of Dave Barry, I am not making this up. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Wilderstein gift shoppe was quite a treat since the staff member totaled purchases using pencil and paper and I’m pretty sure she didn’t get an 800 on her math SATs. Her attention to 19th-century retail authenticity gave me time to watch part of the orientation movie which featured vintage footage of Daisy and her sister yammering at each other like Big and Little Edie in <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0073076/" target="_blank">Grey Gardens.</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyi5cvyBc8O48RIJHvU4BBrItHIZcYCbmCaJuFvxOHr-uswnM1jOCCn-_4meDeDS152FW75Nt9u3QMttdtMNgk2ERIb1m4MA0Ll4eiOUGS9_Zxtvi6B5Fbj5I6CJiq6J-lztORWNEzgb_1ME_AUwovp8Gomn9jKsVgQrXSp94xzi5VJS4tnTtg1luLQeYy/s3024/Rokeby%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyi5cvyBc8O48RIJHvU4BBrItHIZcYCbmCaJuFvxOHr-uswnM1jOCCn-_4meDeDS152FW75Nt9u3QMttdtMNgk2ERIb1m4MA0Ll4eiOUGS9_Zxtvi6B5Fbj5I6CJiq6J-lztORWNEzgb_1ME_AUwovp8Gomn9jKsVgQrXSp94xzi5VJS4tnTtg1luLQeYy/s320/Rokeby%204.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rokeby_(Barrytown,_New_York)" target="_blank">Rokeby</a>, our next stop was even more Grey Gardens than a film clip of Daisy and her sister. Rokeby’s a large vaguely French pile in a setting worthy of Erskine Caldwell’s novel, <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tobacco_Road_(novel)" target="_blank">Tobacco Road</a></i>. Cars on blocks, rusting hulks of farm equipment, old tractors, whatever, it’s all there, and it’s been there for a long time. And the next time a car, tractor, or whatever dies, I have no doubt it’ll remain where it breathed its last. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0xEwg7fCXOWkkR6TM6GO2LZF0dsxvvETixiHJFTWb3AvzsB5mWAuR9kzsLbqR02d_QcO0DwSJC_mMbYPfAqemBTo5EdGDqbDB8U5HsR4VTxHYAh-BnWvsHMeDvRuacFIe2Yazz1re9pQs8X4XYwiQoJK_-9V-DlXkk9NcygMud8tBA626I3FpfdBniIb/s3780/Rokeby%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0xEwg7fCXOWkkR6TM6GO2LZF0dsxvvETixiHJFTWb3AvzsB5mWAuR9kzsLbqR02d_QcO0DwSJC_mMbYPfAqemBTo5EdGDqbDB8U5HsR4VTxHYAh-BnWvsHMeDvRuacFIe2Yazz1re9pQs8X4XYwiQoJK_-9V-DlXkk9NcygMud8tBA626I3FpfdBniIb/s320/Rokeby%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">Rokeby dates to the early 19th century and has an octagonal library attributed to…drum roll please…. Alexander Jackson Davis. In the 1870s Rokeby was the home of Margaret Astor Ward and John Winthrop Chanler. After they both died of pneumonia they left a pile of money and instructions that their servants should rear their ten kids at Rokeby. The kids were known as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Astor_Orphans" target="_blank">The Astor Orphans</a>. I don’t know about you, but I think this makes interring FDR in the front yard at Hyde Park look completely normal. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfD57tA8IkI6kgra-5Ktbpye_XtbRzsZWwkuJ66aEScdslZqcw4yy0W-YFW9ypkxvmANYNwuuKABhDMaMfS2G3GPS0t0bBfC3dgSxEdbP1Z9iONE6uLckRZexM2A6GkBqLPMl4nFpMDnkK_5eac7DWbaQRin7K6aehzEu-Dd8M06LZZ-raV1uyuP0uPr/s3100/Rokeby%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3100" data-original-width="2480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfD57tA8IkI6kgra-5Ktbpye_XtbRzsZWwkuJ66aEScdslZqcw4yy0W-YFW9ypkxvmANYNwuuKABhDMaMfS2G3GPS0t0bBfC3dgSxEdbP1Z9iONE6uLckRZexM2A6GkBqLPMl4nFpMDnkK_5eac7DWbaQRin7K6aehzEu-Dd8M06LZZ-raV1uyuP0uPr/s320/Rokeby%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">At some point, family friend <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_White" target="_blank">Stanford White</a> was called in to tart the place up a bit, and Stanford White Jr. offered some advice along those lines too. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyUooMYRar2lreRcDGl-IOqogQv4wKFDEBQPj8AYvgxAC8JNKiqvPj0nBilhtTIryAnwiAzUlNbh5tTWJJ_C76H6ugobtJ93cm1qOitNiaG_OKa5TleaH7CuXZQ6xydRvwIXzmOre3ujD35TbRuKc5Kbm5uriFcLgfMLbSNHvnnyvgz210wZNgY9EikDE/s3780/Rokeby%205.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyUooMYRar2lreRcDGl-IOqogQv4wKFDEBQPj8AYvgxAC8JNKiqvPj0nBilhtTIryAnwiAzUlNbh5tTWJJ_C76H6ugobtJ93cm1qOitNiaG_OKa5TleaH7CuXZQ6xydRvwIXzmOre3ujD35TbRuKc5Kbm5uriFcLgfMLbSNHvnnyvgz210wZNgY9EikDE/s320/Rokeby%205.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">While our visit was limited to the ground floor, Rokeby was tidy, but a time capsule from I don’t know, 1920 maybe? It was quite something. </div></div><p>In 2013, the Chanler’s great-great granddaughter Alexandra Aldrich wrote a well-received memoir <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Astor-Orphan-Memoir-Alexandra-Aldrich/dp/0062207938/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">The Astor Orphan</a></i> about growing up at Rokeby. Apparently, three families of descendants still live on the third floor, busy with not cleaning up all the junk that litters the property. Rokeby was a welcome reminder that history is, well, messy both figuratively and literally. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA3Hnd5W7l7BmUUfdZ9-LS12Vai5_FM6QtJ94hSImgSXQ3vOcMa5ipI17G1lZ9jPlovhoGXJj3Kzri8pi6ZsJaXqoaUZY1hDCpKWfgVTLiBsesxuOUNg9hZgUH1aFtoIjJ-Ohf1G5bnSRdAUDAJjVDTqsRD6_5KjM5uMFt7be1UmDzxXVDTrwbcW8CcNT/s3024/Montgomery%20Place%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA3Hnd5W7l7BmUUfdZ9-LS12Vai5_FM6QtJ94hSImgSXQ3vOcMa5ipI17G1lZ9jPlovhoGXJj3Kzri8pi6ZsJaXqoaUZY1hDCpKWfgVTLiBsesxuOUNg9hZgUH1aFtoIjJ-Ohf1G5bnSRdAUDAJjVDTqsRD6_5KjM5uMFt7be1UmDzxXVDTrwbcW8CcNT/s320/Montgomery%20Place%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">After Rokeby, there was one more place to visit, <a href="https://www.bard.edu/montgomeryplace/" target="_blank">Montgomery Place</a>, adjacent to the campus of Bard College in Annandale. One of our tour mates worked in PR at the time that Montgomery Place was opened to the public and shared a charming story about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brooke_Astor" target="_blank">Brooke Astor</a> (a friend of….you guessed it, Dick Jenrette) arriving by helicopter for the dedication. The mansion is now closed for maintenance but our excellent guide gave us the lowdown on the grounds and house without going into numbing detail. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNr3Pv3YuO0Z_NlGDGC8njzmZu4mu9rszDL8MXWEDuorYOyFKGB51-lrDQ93scD7_8OSms8tdYTi1CwlquGm_riQNsahOUGq45uXFOjZc0STDYnDjkriGSylpQovsZF7w8UjrazR4NGyc2VaHTeaO3wl4rWRl2vIxH2CmlYPAZuZ6hw4DPveJwIp_xEnUp/s3157/Frank%20Gehry%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3157" data-original-width="2526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNr3Pv3YuO0Z_NlGDGC8njzmZu4mu9rszDL8MXWEDuorYOyFKGB51-lrDQ93scD7_8OSms8tdYTi1CwlquGm_riQNsahOUGq45uXFOjZc0STDYnDjkriGSylpQovsZF7w8UjrazR4NGyc2VaHTeaO3wl4rWRl2vIxH2CmlYPAZuZ6hw4DPveJwIp_xEnUp/s320/Frank%20Gehry%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Since we were right there, we had an unplanned detour through the campus of Bard College. I’m not sure what I was expecting but the campus was quite a surprise. It wasn’t manicured to within an inch of its life, but it did have a huge <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Gehry" target="_blank">Frank Gehry</a> building, which is something I bet college presidents brag about when they get together. (“My Gehry is bigger than yours….”) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />There was much discussion on the bus about Bard being the alma mater of Walter Becker and Donald Fagen, the founders of my favorite band <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steely_Dan" target="_blank">Steely Dan</a>. Their song <i><a href="https://youtu.be/GCX635Z7_PE?si=T_7p3s_ERQAXMVG2" target="_blank">My Old School</a></i> references Annandale, though when I first heard the song, I thought they were singing about the Annandale in northern Virginia rather than New York. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I don’t think there are many tour groups that can elide effortlessly from Duncan Phyfe to Walter Becker and Donald Fagen. I don’t know how I picked this one, but as they say, even a blind hog can get an acorn. Thank you, Dick Jenrette for making it all possible. </div>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-10826139060124549372023-08-21T15:35:00.003-04:002023-08-29T23:02:00.445-04:00O Canada (and part of New York)!<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNM24WyS2lCyPweo7lTdOy2C4jd2Ji-g1lc9MC1KOxN7T8q-Yi64QxHLsgpXrpt_knOWT2XYcp1kpZQ2ObcofFRe9vtrQ9-efSTllvlVDAdVCp5OMf6HR4cVtfBae6IptPm_eJ0D-uBc20FgL1Gr3tCUaBB-8yT_XNMWEAZKtRYaFwlbcxfOMrmad1VXiG/s1046/Canadian%20Flag.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1046" data-original-width="837" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNM24WyS2lCyPweo7lTdOy2C4jd2Ji-g1lc9MC1KOxN7T8q-Yi64QxHLsgpXrpt_knOWT2XYcp1kpZQ2ObcofFRe9vtrQ9-efSTllvlVDAdVCp5OMf6HR4cVtfBae6IptPm_eJ0D-uBc20FgL1Gr3tCUaBB-8yT_XNMWEAZKtRYaFwlbcxfOMrmad1VXiG/s320/Canadian%20Flag.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>I’m just back from Canada. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />If you don’t count walking across the bridge to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls in 2018, the last time I went to Canada was a brief trip to New Brunswick and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campobello_Island" target="_blank">Campobello Island</a>—where FDR came down with polio—in 1979. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Cut to 2023, so when a good friend invited me to her family’s summer cottage in Ontario, I said count me in! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UvbjavnokrPNTXpUddRRJ8ix0tG3EVo9ayog_-_9OcyXgXBdyLiGiJVc9Sl6C2NDLpG2FefyIJ2CHO04pMfkhVKfxdiyAJtXTHUn0phJH0XpOTizec4icQ-vlu88vFwXLT6QqTwCEFCN1ihsvmCliaCgj6U8NZcuJJz4W2aBw3vhqtZmGeuuUx46dSH7/s653/Justin%20T.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="522" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UvbjavnokrPNTXpUddRRJ8ix0tG3EVo9ayog_-_9OcyXgXBdyLiGiJVc9Sl6C2NDLpG2FefyIJ2CHO04pMfkhVKfxdiyAJtXTHUn0phJH0XpOTizec4icQ-vlu88vFwXLT6QqTwCEFCN1ihsvmCliaCgj6U8NZcuJJz4W2aBw3vhqtZmGeuuUx46dSH7/w320-h400/Justin%20T.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">What I know about Canada wouldn’t fill a thimble: <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/jennaguillaume/ohhhh-canada" target="_blank">PM Justin Trudeau is hot,</a> Canadians are like Americans but nicer, and they aren’t even fat though they eat a grisly French fry dish called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poutine" target="_blank">poutine</a>. Oh--and they have a <a href="https://youtu.be/LLFLEVPcqkY" target="_blank">tuneful national anthem</a>! Who doesn’t like to sing that one? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My, it’s a long way there. My GPS said it was about eight hours to where I was headed. And that doesn’t count the time spent waiting at the border to do whatever they do there. When I went in 1979, I didn’t need a passport. As they say, Thanks Osama (bin Laden).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Since a good houseguest brings adult beverages, I stopped at the <a href="https://nb223.dutyfreeamericas.com/" target="_blank">duty-free store in Buffalo</a> to pick up some hooch. I’d never bought anything at a duty-free store and was surprised by how Soviet it was, unlike the sparkling duty-free shoppes in airports in Mexico. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The store was dim, the selection of booze limited, and I made the mistake of asking the clerk something innocuous like “<i>How are you?</i>” In case you’re wondering, she was tired and hates her job and went on about that at some length. I’m guessing she won’t be named Employee of the Month. Ever. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />After buying my booze I made a quick stop at the men’s room since who knew what Canada’s embrace of the metric system was going to do to a urinal. I wasn’t taking any chances. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUj_K6e9B5wdfISSKK0sJ61YW033dZ4-5Y4qAD-4jrW3zAQSfEmcWvTq_A6JCujDz43_QlZTh7XK49Mz-sSyW-zy6rgnXzfwVUed_7razfe4D13frqNkcZ5OwCWgbmkrztTtTD5qku83TOPhWS3KWaCN9YJvG-_YwLwWiBOtlD01SEUqDD97RwIC343Ih/s3528/Border%20Crossing.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3528" data-original-width="2823" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUj_K6e9B5wdfISSKK0sJ61YW033dZ4-5Y4qAD-4jrW3zAQSfEmcWvTq_A6JCujDz43_QlZTh7XK49Mz-sSyW-zy6rgnXzfwVUed_7razfe4D13frqNkcZ5OwCWgbmkrztTtTD5qku83TOPhWS3KWaCN9YJvG-_YwLwWiBOtlD01SEUqDD97RwIC343Ih/s320/Border%20Crossing.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I pulled up to the border crossing at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peace_Bridge" target="_blank">Peace Bridge</a> and edged my way into the sea of cars waiting to go across the border. And then I waited and waited and waited. I have a knack for picking the wrong line. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I finally got to the checkpoint, the Canadian border guy asked where I was going and I replied, in my best <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upEn5msShdk" target="_blank">Pepe LePew</a> accent, <i>Pointe au Baril</i>, which he corrected to English, as in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pointe_au_Baril,_Ontario" target="_blank">Point O’ Barrel</a>. Upon hearing my answer, he seemed a bit friendlier which I took to mean that he was relieved I was not going to some sort of B-list terrorist spa or maybe a podiatrists’ convention. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He asked me a few more questions--did I have any alcohol, tobacco, or firearms? W<i>ho’s your favorite Beatle? What’s the capital of North Dakota?</i> And so on. By the end of the interrogation/speed dating, I had full-on Stockholm Syndrome and had pretty much decided that why sure I'd delay my trip to have a short and lacking in emotional involvement affair with him. Before my three-second reverie ended, he thanked me for my time and told me that I was good to go.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Because I wanted to arrive at C.’s place in the morning, I stopped for the night at a hotel in Generica, which is one of those words that’s the same in both American and Canadian English. My chain hotel (yeah, I like the points) was no great shakes but it had one of those breakfast-by-morning-bar-by-night areas off the lobby. My evening beers and morning eggs were top-notch. Yay Canada! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I was out the door early to commune with my now metric (WTF?!) GPS. A stop for gas was a treat since the gas pump wanted me to say how much gas I wanted in advance. Canadians are apparently polite AND good at knowing this sort of stuff. I was no good at guessing--as my father used to say, I wasn’t cleared for clairvoyance. Plus, gas is sold in liters and Canadian money, so yeah, American tourists have a math problem on their hands. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7QmMzwvBkRVBCJpIlRe_5j77Dic6E3_Tjxb-fkELeSEdCI_xxPUTwi3g7Y21Zl65Yo7DLffJPnnHybtrXqBy5bcE7G4oL6YZxn9A-1nFiguv3SoTbT2x7rNYlIVN8WizMHn1VUuoQ5q1V1h3zJK2W__6Nn5Y5LJqQJbaKZq_0Ot700y2Y0OvhSPEpMS8/s2247/IMG_2148.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1797" data-original-width="2247" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7QmMzwvBkRVBCJpIlRe_5j77Dic6E3_Tjxb-fkELeSEdCI_xxPUTwi3g7Y21Zl65Yo7DLffJPnnHybtrXqBy5bcE7G4oL6YZxn9A-1nFiguv3SoTbT2x7rNYlIVN8WizMHn1VUuoQ5q1V1h3zJK2W__6Nn5Y5LJqQJbaKZq_0Ot700y2Y0OvhSPEpMS8/s320/IMG_2148.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">What started as a crowded multi-lane expressway in Generica ended up as a deserted two-lane highway in the town of <a href="https://www.parrysound.ca/" target="_blank">Parry Sound</a> 130-ish km later. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I almost stopped in front of a spiffy new <a href="https://www.timhortons.com/" target="_blank">Tim Hortons</a> (Canada’s favorite roadside coffee shop) to take a selfie for IG, but by the time I decided that maybe it wasn’t a pretentious dick move, the opportunity was gone. </div><p>But I had to check in with C. when I got to Parry Sound and what better place to do it from a different Tim Hortons? Determined to spread my tourist dollars around and about, I had a coffee and a donut. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQjz0d0SUwi2idKknNJvLYaawflHgYcwhc0-MiFKx5FYBVofR06WWLBNRWuZLoD4Kru3jrwKI10otB8ga4FhAALMvXtTnSBbDrphfGT5f1iVJgKfROTKuzT7FhGBwrJB1It0a2VXAgVJdwaefOrngXj1RKYqQhwP9f65CCGG4Cgj_502fH3nrReyZ1BZz/s3780/Tim%20Hortons%20Guy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQjz0d0SUwi2idKknNJvLYaawflHgYcwhc0-MiFKx5FYBVofR06WWLBNRWuZLoD4Kru3jrwKI10otB8ga4FhAALMvXtTnSBbDrphfGT5f1iVJgKfROTKuzT7FhGBwrJB1It0a2VXAgVJdwaefOrngXj1RKYqQhwP9f65CCGG4Cgj_502fH3nrReyZ1BZz/s320/Tim%20Hortons%20Guy.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Added bonus: I stood in line next to this guy, who kindly let me take a photo of his shirt. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tCGn_zbf0HXHPbfSG9V7NhGafkbchO-SDExG1ZVNr2cd88Pg3Qm0NhKeh0ekxq_wRZXVl62rhdhLoCI_fcDMEppj1eCVm_-6saemuPsc1cKQZG-nJxK8WE1nOPW1ql2o31U9QdUkU6VzGhr917eho_cQtq-QtL-4R3iSLjuatTTmTSqtyKyXFDWekmMo/s2785/At%20Tim%20Hortons.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2785" data-original-width="2228" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tCGn_zbf0HXHPbfSG9V7NhGafkbchO-SDExG1ZVNr2cd88Pg3Qm0NhKeh0ekxq_wRZXVl62rhdhLoCI_fcDMEppj1eCVm_-6saemuPsc1cKQZG-nJxK8WE1nOPW1ql2o31U9QdUkU6VzGhr917eho_cQtq-QtL-4R3iSLjuatTTmTSqtyKyXFDWekmMo/s320/At%20Tim%20Hortons.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">And, pretentious dick move be damned, I took a selfie too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Having checked in, I followed my GPS to <a href="https://www.desmasdons.com/" target="_blank">Desmasdon's Boatworks</a>, a large marina in the middle of nowhere. I was to meet C. here since the rest of the trip would be by boat—her place is on an island. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I headed to the office to sign in my car. An earnest young man showed me the way to visitors’ parking in a golf cart and gave my backpack and me a lift back after stowing the car in a far-off lot. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The earnest young man had seemingly walked right out of a <a href="http://www.bruceweber.com/portfolio/athletes-portfolio" target="_blank">Bruce Weber</a> photo shoot. He had an athlete’s body; his blonde waves stuck out from under his baseball hat; he wore stylish but still butch sunglasses. Trying to be friendly but not creepy, I asked if he were a local. In a pronounced Canadian accent, he said no, but that his family had been “cottaging” there for a long time. I don’t know about you, but I don’t often hear the word cottage used as a verb. As I like to say, travel is very broadening. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwaS6yYhyZCMYkY24tCdn9AeiHebudOgfSVO_RS9-0UO_pxoQNp55STPUMxbG5d8gbLmofHqr4Se42fIwzs3npGm3423c3t_YMgVe5Mc093e7L-ECgYy-qF6kvcWT7kByaqS0xnjS6w-mm3C9hpuDyweW9mlmD5dhoqZDd57J1PBDiisswltB0LceL1CVU/s1560/Desmasdons%20Boatyard.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1248" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwaS6yYhyZCMYkY24tCdn9AeiHebudOgfSVO_RS9-0UO_pxoQNp55STPUMxbG5d8gbLmofHqr4Se42fIwzs3npGm3423c3t_YMgVe5Mc093e7L-ECgYy-qF6kvcWT7kByaqS0xnjS6w-mm3C9hpuDyweW9mlmD5dhoqZDd57J1PBDiisswltB0LceL1CVU/s320/Desmasdons%20Boatyard.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">C. was at the boatyard, as promised, waiting on the dock. I had one of those <i>How Cool Is It That I Am Actually Doing This?</i> Moments but I worried about using up too much emotional bandwidth so moved on quickly. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">C. had me hop into her boat, help cast off, and we were off into Georgian Bay, or at least some body of water that eventually became Georgian Bay. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbhWFMAhgs_JKf7UP0_336hVmtMbzz5CYbwaAq2ruuH4CbZJq-W1EPba6VsiOdbD2VG91ulx0_wFjhRzb8g3wsC4T0xmyq2opR8Awl3Xluhq10QHcRMX_RJ0Jqo5d7odQGAxHudSnFbQNuZKmYQQ66XOmVhFmywkk2jwVmSVls3tjPDahX0_xPntzRTxZ/s1585/IMG_2158.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1268" data-original-width="1585" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbhWFMAhgs_JKf7UP0_336hVmtMbzz5CYbwaAq2ruuH4CbZJq-W1EPba6VsiOdbD2VG91ulx0_wFjhRzb8g3wsC4T0xmyq2opR8Awl3Xluhq10QHcRMX_RJ0Jqo5d7odQGAxHudSnFbQNuZKmYQQ66XOmVhFmywkk2jwVmSVls3tjPDahX0_xPntzRTxZ/s320/IMG_2158.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">We passed tons of islands. Small ones, big ones, islands with big rocks, other islands with small rocks. Some big islands held a cottage or two. Small or large, the houses didn't shout the way that summer homes at the NJ shore do. It was all very Canadian, low-key, polite, and enough to make me think, "Why can't more of America be like this?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After a while, we tied up at C.'s dock. We walked up the stairs, and then the walkway became a giant rock in sort of a Japanese zen garden kind of way. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fKLTq0WhpIR1EWiIy437Z1ixP20NIvjCMsygl1mAs9lgFy7iVipEXIzQ08cCYN4gxGq2Ux2HHP3Xe7pWYdviVqkIrCD4mvC7HJsBU62NSC5itiglBeUqA-tKzM58MmmmVaT0HgmovF-LiqzRdz4Ify1BS-fUVYXuvHI4CcVZVNJypshEQeIUda26POLw/s3780/Pointe%20au%20Baril%209.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fKLTq0WhpIR1EWiIy437Z1ixP20NIvjCMsygl1mAs9lgFy7iVipEXIzQ08cCYN4gxGq2Ux2HHP3Xe7pWYdviVqkIrCD4mvC7HJsBU62NSC5itiglBeUqA-tKzM58MmmmVaT0HgmovF-LiqzRdz4Ify1BS-fUVYXuvHI4CcVZVNJypshEQeIUda26POLw/s320/Pointe%20au%20Baril%209.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">There were more stairs at the end of the rock, and then a deck with Adirondack chairs, and more stairs up to the house. </div><p style="text-align: left;">The house was a modernist take on a dogtrot house with a generous dollop of hunting camp thrown in for good measure. The entrance was through a central breezeway, with a bedroom pavilion to the left and a pavilion for the kitchen and living area on the right. Large windows on the front façade framed the spectacular view of the bay and islands. At the far end of the living pavilion, a screened-in porch served as the dining area. There were two smaller guest houses on the property. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYS0Ic8VbZNvBd3SetRIWakcGNBEIl5TmdCHSVSeNXO4VThOyEc-fO4flRznCFrRDPz54P703ZF5DvKofi1CJ5SktOH1Ffy3nmbqJcBeuvm1L5cRHMoMyw37uM9RiESRsLtccHSfA1F82RS6aveC_4PLqMGIrhl4ODqmC42bbnvFYO2SMlGiF8N70St9d/s3755/Pointe%20au%20Baril%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3755" data-original-width="3004" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYS0Ic8VbZNvBd3SetRIWakcGNBEIl5TmdCHSVSeNXO4VThOyEc-fO4flRznCFrRDPz54P703ZF5DvKofi1CJ5SktOH1Ffy3nmbqJcBeuvm1L5cRHMoMyw37uM9RiESRsLtccHSfA1F82RS6aveC_4PLqMGIrhl4ODqmC42bbnvFYO2SMlGiF8N70St9d/s320/Pointe%20au%20Baril%2011.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I stayed in the smaller one, a short walk from what Southerners would call The Big House. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">While it was rustic, it was no hunting camp. There were, as my friend Martha says “real books” instead of back issues of <i>Field & Stream</i> and <i>Pennsylvania Game News</i>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsp8shqdpox4fuvsbogkmWykwXShX4BIsd_tNuk7nzS3DcyQ20mqJRCWEgrqPu0UXJs617Z6kzsIgKIycuEdi71bv0sPUBuhbbB2nx3Wgy0Xq6unxIFeUxAdCYxZlvQY1fK2j2YWnJ0uOhp1jmt5sLF8vgjzlfiVFomKv_PWWpnKP3h2SIMvvlC9T8ewWb/s3506/Pointe%20au%20Baril%205.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3506" data-original-width="2805" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsp8shqdpox4fuvsbogkmWykwXShX4BIsd_tNuk7nzS3DcyQ20mqJRCWEgrqPu0UXJs617Z6kzsIgKIycuEdi71bv0sPUBuhbbB2nx3Wgy0Xq6unxIFeUxAdCYxZlvQY1fK2j2YWnJ0uOhp1jmt5sLF8vgjzlfiVFomKv_PWWpnKP3h2SIMvvlC9T8ewWb/s320/Pointe%20au%20Baril%205.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The kitchen had an entablature of tennis trophies while pans were hung on the wall a la Julia Child. There were some tchotchkes, and some—but not too much—statement furniture, leavened by a generous amount of outdoorsy stuff. In other words, just add the J. Crew models and it’s a fashion shoot. </div><p style="text-align: left;">There was some solar electricity but I was glad I had the gizmo that holds a couple of charges for my phone. The fridge was powered by propane and we lit a gas lamp over the sink when we did the dishes at night. Thanks to Elon Musk’s Starlink system there was enough internet to keep my phone happy. I felt guilty appreciating Elon.</p><p>When we weren't eating, drinking, or just yammering, there was fun to be had. I got to tool around on a WaveRunner, which I thought was the best thing ever. It was so much fun. It took me back to my brother Rob and me on our Honda 50s playing croquet mallet polo in our backyard in Park Hills. </p><p>When I was in college one of my friends told me that her mother got a WaveRunner for her 60th or 65th birthday. I thought that was the craziest idea ever. What would someone older than dirt do with one of those? Big surprise: now that I'm her mother's age and then some, I understand perfectly why someone would do that. </p><p>C. gave me some basic instructions, here's forward, here's reverse, don't fall off, and off I went. I'd ridden a WaveRunner before, at the shore, and that time there were lots of waves. This time, the bay was quite smooth, except for the occasional wake. So you could go like a bat out of hell, or just putz around, though going faster was more fun. I had one helluva time…until I decided that I was lost. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMPLu6h4tbOZtTvFh1uEWWyUCVefVY_lrt833PKCF2HtZM03gGWKIo6vWDvmC22rVHH13FhqoufvsM6_V-uDuktxFs1bb5p2lja0ZooUsjtxHJ6WH6zTSlOHqIp8lqUeAfBoYWIFM6cleufOQNuCehkL0VYnrdq2Mt96UXoiZ21J2_n7VFyt7SdVFHtIVn/s2497/IMG_2219%20-%20Copy.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1998" data-original-width="2497" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMPLu6h4tbOZtTvFh1uEWWyUCVefVY_lrt833PKCF2HtZM03gGWKIo6vWDvmC22rVHH13FhqoufvsM6_V-uDuktxFs1bb5p2lja0ZooUsjtxHJ6WH6zTSlOHqIp8lqUeAfBoYWIFM6cleufOQNuCehkL0VYnrdq2Mt96UXoiZ21J2_n7VFyt7SdVFHtIVn/s320/IMG_2219%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">All the islands and all the summer homes started to look the same. Of course, they don't look the same. Each island and each house is unique. But to someone having the time of his life zipping around on a jet ski, well, you’re not exactly paying attention to navigational landmarks. At least I wasn’t. So I had to figure out what to do. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After a few minutes of wondering what to do, I saw a bunch of people getting out of boats at one island—they looked like they were going to a party. I tooled over there and yelled to see if anyone knew where my hosts lived. And miraculously someone did. A very stylish woman in pink capri pants told me to go past the house on the cliff and then keep going, look for the small channel and you’re there. And <i>voila!</i>, as they would say in the French-speaking part of Canada, she was correct! </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWagVZ3d-3wg6ulb_wPFFr5FiR5KZVAALWIU5W-DqBhXwDtl8BRqzABivsy3yzZeZYD856l3caTWR6ur0wFn_1Ko8eOGHeH7OSyVIhiCOjkg4qXJzGdNQbvfiCX58ekkb8KpNd7SNMIz5sIkWaf2oWBhb68pf62BJhFrFY2BVuOzn3r_XAfF1ppof6oY3/s3444/Ojibway%20Club%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3444" data-original-width="2756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWagVZ3d-3wg6ulb_wPFFr5FiR5KZVAALWIU5W-DqBhXwDtl8BRqzABivsy3yzZeZYD856l3caTWR6ur0wFn_1Ko8eOGHeH7OSyVIhiCOjkg4qXJzGdNQbvfiCX58ekkb8KpNd7SNMIz5sIkWaf2oWBhb68pf62BJhFrFY2BVuOzn3r_XAfF1ppof6oY3/s320/Ojibway%20Club%204.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I wasn’t getting lost, we took a couple of cruises in the boat, went to the Ojibway Club for lunch, enjoyed delicious food, and just might have drunk all the gin in the house. </div><p>Mindful of the adage that fish and guests are lousy after three days after two nights I said my alohas, which was a challenge since I’d had a great time. The next morning, C. took me back to Desdamon's Boat Works so I could continue my trip. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Instead of returning the way I came, I went north toward Sudbury, so I could return via Manitoulin Island. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmy07HdFzOPCH3zL2mmSbPVdjw4IW3BbMrvSdZaSLRi6e1w3LyC1BYgwXGQZTIId08O2XadZ-9yzhym00hVkpg4L7pFeY7vLffRkyyP91YjvZAe2OJlQ8wMN1lF3ILvF6bJPRp_RXySyvLTW5hOptzPVvysWLTTfWyytaPfz1YGbS2R1FtNriPxSP1ZHl/s446/Inco%20Superstack.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="446" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmy07HdFzOPCH3zL2mmSbPVdjw4IW3BbMrvSdZaSLRi6e1w3LyC1BYgwXGQZTIId08O2XadZ-9yzhym00hVkpg4L7pFeY7vLffRkyyP91YjvZAe2OJlQ8wMN1lF3ILvF6bJPRp_RXySyvLTW5hOptzPVvysWLTTfWyytaPfz1YGbS2R1FtNriPxSP1ZHl/s320/Inco%20Superstack.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sudbury is hard to miss since it’s the home to a giant smokestack at a nickel smelter. The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inco_Superstack" target="_blank">Inco Superstack</a> has been “decommissioned” but while it awaits demolition, Wiki says at 1,250 feet it’s still the world’s second-tallest freestanding chimney after the Ekibastuz GRES-2 Power Station in Kazakhstan. But I’m sure you already knew that. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I only looked at the smokestack from afar since I’d never go to a nickel smelter without my friend Martha (of the good books fame) who joined me at a borax mine a few years back. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGNlkqmZAPHxrX1xMF0RsJJMThfpfcAS8vhYwS-6XFp0bl2n9DPydXk3MYgviA12BioTswG0W35MR-_z2RDe-xG3o0ullMAqtGffVpa3WcyLBYOZZsUZ2XVHnsHX8FM5q4_IvcENCPFDKEHAZdin2jUe4RdVCjk2WCY-dAmx_zOVAZPj2TgolxOwCo_SG/s1164/manitoulin%20island.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="1164" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGNlkqmZAPHxrX1xMF0RsJJMThfpfcAS8vhYwS-6XFp0bl2n9DPydXk3MYgviA12BioTswG0W35MR-_z2RDe-xG3o0ullMAqtGffVpa3WcyLBYOZZsUZ2XVHnsHX8FM5q4_IvcENCPFDKEHAZdin2jUe4RdVCjk2WCY-dAmx_zOVAZPj2TgolxOwCo_SG/s320/manitoulin%20island.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Plus, I had a reservation on the 3:30 ferry from South Baymouth to Tobermory, which meant enjoying scenic <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manitoulin_Island" target="_blank">Manitoulin Island</a>...<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89YVDEzapdxkemFRQi0IbSRP0MbXx0kaqtItgEuZFZa4d8ICjckQVDOlkoHzuWdx0IRGVPfvizD5JDKPRN3uNw3e4dM8191-611TAU4bYziLDRMZIkcF05NhmeXB_6QDe3nzCInmD6NQuxVev86qKcdF5IN3fi67u23Tu2VF5801d-i53IdK5BxirzaEZ/s3780/Wigwam%20Motel%20and%20Gift%20Shoppe.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89YVDEzapdxkemFRQi0IbSRP0MbXx0kaqtItgEuZFZa4d8ICjckQVDOlkoHzuWdx0IRGVPfvizD5JDKPRN3uNw3e4dM8191-611TAU4bYziLDRMZIkcF05NhmeXB_6QDe3nzCInmD6NQuxVev86qKcdF5IN3fi67u23Tu2VF5801d-i53IdK5BxirzaEZ/s320/Wigwam%20Motel%20and%20Gift%20Shoppe.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div>...or at least what I could see of it from the southbound lane of Route 6. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">C. told me to take time to enjoy some fish and chips, and that they were to Manitoulin Island as lobster rolls are to coastal Maine. I love fish and chips; lobster rolls, not so much. Yes, I have low-end taste buds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYosdXoTGvmZww3vBOkXIrpLvmVfC7erWb8DlefYNnIZiOtWjm8qchqO-REzl_TClLHW1r3kVsQ2elnMKVwtYqx8UUsPV8A6TCvicdxOUMRpVI6ieywuyWxuPgdhGMwXdMxtyP_QrGo79UJEYZnjbvYkX08ggsFAK0AtfoxwShhpg7dzYp7AZvSNKTZs-s/s3780/Big%20Mouth%20Fish%20and%20Chips%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYosdXoTGvmZww3vBOkXIrpLvmVfC7erWb8DlefYNnIZiOtWjm8qchqO-REzl_TClLHW1r3kVsQ2elnMKVwtYqx8UUsPV8A6TCvicdxOUMRpVI6ieywuyWxuPgdhGMwXdMxtyP_QrGo79UJEYZnjbvYkX08ggsFAK0AtfoxwShhpg7dzYp7AZvSNKTZs-s/s320/Big%20Mouth%20Fish%20and%20Chips%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I was waiting for the <i><a href="https://www.ontarioferries.com/" target="_blank">MS Chi-Cheemaun</a></i> I bought fish and chips at the food truck that served the folks waiting for the ferry. They were so good. As in a Wow! level of so good. I even went back to the food truck and told them that they were the best fish and chips I’d ever had---the secret apparently is a touch of dill in the batter—and they rose to the level of religious experience. I think she thought I was a nut. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuVmKXoWvshiEHaQAF28Wf_boJAEsNXVpSHIJqcAlzjV9grgOzm-tzL6xPNa-qydXmLh9k-0XeLC_kDqXwEkVG26Qy1Mjd_jCJo5j3OUK1U72eDMX2jq2eKSabKSX4B7OEkVOMMShXgwYWZ8ottJTPhS7nsFtWC1TYX0n3M-NC_8ZfVD6Ckpb8oAiRGLA/s2227/MS%20Chi-Cheemaun%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2227" data-original-width="1782" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuVmKXoWvshiEHaQAF28Wf_boJAEsNXVpSHIJqcAlzjV9grgOzm-tzL6xPNa-qydXmLh9k-0XeLC_kDqXwEkVG26Qy1Mjd_jCJo5j3OUK1U72eDMX2jq2eKSabKSX4B7OEkVOMMShXgwYWZ8ottJTPhS7nsFtWC1TYX0n3M-NC_8ZfVD6Ckpb8oAiRGLA/s320/MS%20Chi-Cheemaun%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Not too long after I stuffed my face the <i>MS Chi-Cheemaun</i> (“Big Canoe” in Ojibwe) pulled up to the pier. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaC944cHxV9luo8bsMBBnl_cyfRPBzFeuIEEBrCDcI9dRqCMUgysk4mlTve0DIp_GDgKtHgnjFC3r5BNU6RRKxulva_TJWl46deS0c-LrNQHPWxfcm2DkEauLlYSVlTFRxNNhubXs-I4JiwTTy5Bvh8UNm-LnPC0h7jvNLqSGJBAn_c1XmRxq_MqenZsAb/s5384/MS_Chi-Cheemaun_-_2017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3028" data-original-width="5384" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaC944cHxV9luo8bsMBBnl_cyfRPBzFeuIEEBrCDcI9dRqCMUgysk4mlTve0DIp_GDgKtHgnjFC3r5BNU6RRKxulva_TJWl46deS0c-LrNQHPWxfcm2DkEauLlYSVlTFRxNNhubXs-I4JiwTTy5Bvh8UNm-LnPC0h7jvNLqSGJBAn_c1XmRxq_MqenZsAb/w400-h225/MS_Chi-Cheemaun_-_2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">At 360 ish feet, it's about a third the length of the Sudbury smokestack but still has room for 143 vehicles and over 600 passengers. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The ferry was fun but had a pronounced list which was a tad disconcerting. Perhaps it had something to do with one of the last vehicles to come aboard: a tractor-trailer rig—I'd call it an 18-wheeler but in Ontario, they have up to 30 wheels—carrying, no joke, giant rocks. </div><p>Once I became accustomed to the ferry’s list, the people watching was excellent. My fellow passengers included a large man with a white beard wearing a Toronto Blue Jays Tee shirt that said one BJ (represented by the Toronto Blue Jays logo) is better than three Yanks (represented by the NY Yankees logo). Then there was the lady with the neck tattoos accompanied by the guy with gauges in his ears and their feral hippie children. Of course, I checked out the presumably gay couple where one guy was really attractive and the other guy was really unattractive. (It'll never work out.) I decided that the tanned couple from Florida driving a big honkin’ pickup truck towing an Airstream Trailer lived in The Villages. He had a video camera with a mic shielded by a fuzzy cover. It made me think of merkins. </p><p>After an hour and forty-five minutes, we de-ferried in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tobermory,_Ontario" target="_blank">Tobermory</a>. I was glad that I hadn’t booked a hotel there. As Gertrude Stein might have said, not only was there no there there, but the there that was there reminded me of Altoona only smaller and in the middle of nowhere Ontario.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1lrVO3L_HIKsle3aD7FFdGkp_7I-Qd4OIG9OGU5AabJ4c0JSwXaKEznDrRLoDG5bbdrEEoxqxeQKNc9OmQPcjUMcNUvUenOYIUrUGCICOEJvkqNVasNWL0ZlwGOUOVZ9CBDy6Cqs-fVNsw2HUqSal7bw8EnYWKS09-d7aQ5mJxJUGepaJpV6opaAR8Hw/s2062/IMG_2235.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1649" data-original-width="2062" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1lrVO3L_HIKsle3aD7FFdGkp_7I-Qd4OIG9OGU5AabJ4c0JSwXaKEznDrRLoDG5bbdrEEoxqxeQKNc9OmQPcjUMcNUvUenOYIUrUGCICOEJvkqNVasNWL0ZlwGOUOVZ9CBDy6Cqs-fVNsw2HUqSal7bw8EnYWKS09-d7aQ5mJxJUGepaJpV6opaAR8Hw/s320/IMG_2235.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">After about an hour of driving through a part of Canada that's never going to be in a tourist brochure, things started to look up.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7v9AgXv_ZqdqPnGK5MIBQMA4UgLOKcH6G6tBlnCM5UcXrbKgFU_UHSc2C67_FiOtzqD7zaBe5vYD5o_ozbaIujq2tLPnzi3ZLUUum3s9_t7KvzVHgCvc5BzbKl6MaKt0MwB5qSFLAwsG9BkzMIAkO3XaQv3ZrUiBFOAt-3jXCOiUjEunhfAaneDOi7ka/s1473/Ontario%20Farm%20b.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="1473" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7v9AgXv_ZqdqPnGK5MIBQMA4UgLOKcH6G6tBlnCM5UcXrbKgFU_UHSc2C67_FiOtzqD7zaBe5vYD5o_ozbaIujq2tLPnzi3ZLUUum3s9_t7KvzVHgCvc5BzbKl6MaKt0MwB5qSFLAwsG9BkzMIAkO3XaQv3ZrUiBFOAt-3jXCOiUjEunhfAaneDOi7ka/s320/Ontario%20Farm%20b.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Farms became enormous and very prosperous looking—corn taller than an elephant's eye—and the occasional town started to look brochure worthy. After seeing men and women dressed like Amish folks, and signs warning of horse-drawn buggies I figured out that I was driving through Mennonite country. It was passing the "Conservative Mennonite Church” (that’s a thing, I guess) that sealed the deal. No one is ever going to mistake me for Sherlock Holmes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And even weirder, was that in one moment I was driving through farmland, and in the blink of an eye I was at a highway interchange with four or five different chain hotels, fast food joints, and all the other crap of modern life. Unlike the USA, Canada seems very good at containing sprawl.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />The next morning, after a stop at Tim Hortons, I was off to the Peace Bridge and the USA. Fortunately, my Global Entry worked like a charm and I didn’t have to participate in the huge line of cars waiting to go through the border. I held my global entry card so the border guy could see it, took off my glasses so I looked vaguely like my photo and bam, I was good to go. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aMksOmL-LGiRuTYXyzcAKEkJRVBTF1hludBn8OC6a0IUEkDlwFjqLXBAo3KADxWLGejhOzI9Uu3dLE0k-f9-JnyrQnp9Bu65s3PZWVQIDhBjUuMxChEbqH1iJFHQq6af4xx9AsjrTiQ-gXD5ARbXucjHDWRmN1l-UhFrBcjhFi_WQyhJcHbwq_LnBcgv/s3024/Graycliff%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aMksOmL-LGiRuTYXyzcAKEkJRVBTF1hludBn8OC6a0IUEkDlwFjqLXBAo3KADxWLGejhOzI9Uu3dLE0k-f9-JnyrQnp9Bu65s3PZWVQIDhBjUuMxChEbqH1iJFHQq6af4xx9AsjrTiQ-gXD5ARbXucjHDWRmN1l-UhFrBcjhFi_WQyhJcHbwq_LnBcgv/s320/Graycliff%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">My next stop was right on Lake Erie, just a bit south of Buffalo. <a href="https://experiencegraycliff.org/" target="_blank">Graycliff</a> was the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed summer home of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darwin_D._Martin" target="_blank">Darwin Martin</a>. According to the docent, the Martins were the only family to commission two Frank Lloyd Wright houses. Something tells me he also designed two homes for the Herbert Jacobs family. (It's true, I looked it up.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There were about twenty people on the tour, mostly my age or older, and they all seemed normal, as opposed to folks who have been to every Frank Lloyd Wright building that there is and have the tee shirts, baseball caps, and tote bags to prove it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6vzF_ynq5KWEYGCzXJWIHLszeUzVpbCKtS6WfWMw3NXoueVGFVAKU4Vk-VEbuy0jms1HxccvkshmBeWlF3XP1WzyQdXhv5n77GoEFqVndj09e0khZzMTDOKuBVLb4GFEFNhfr07E-66JsZB7VRPgDR8SXyY_ezcluitTPRJmjOqg5UQiQytielbOoos7/s3780/Graycliff%203.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6vzF_ynq5KWEYGCzXJWIHLszeUzVpbCKtS6WfWMw3NXoueVGFVAKU4Vk-VEbuy0jms1HxccvkshmBeWlF3XP1WzyQdXhv5n77GoEFqVndj09e0khZzMTDOKuBVLb4GFEFNhfr07E-66JsZB7VRPgDR8SXyY_ezcluitTPRJmjOqg5UQiQytielbOoos7/s320/Graycliff%203.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The tour was fine, the docent bright and chipper, but the house, at least in its restored state, seems as if Wright was just phoning it in. Our tour occasionally had to make way for a group of Martin family descendants to play through and that was a bit annoying, especially considering the price of the ticket. </div><p>As far as I was concerned, the highlight of the tour was the married couple with the unbelievably cute husband. On a scale of one to ten, he was an easy eleven. Based on this body he was a long-distance runner when he wasn’t being mistaken for a gay dad at Starbucks. As the tour concluded and we were shepherded to the gift shoppe, I noticed a huge scar on his ankle. So that’s what a blown Achilles Tendon looks like. Ouch. </p><div style="text-align: left;">After Graycliff, I set my thankfully back to non-metric GPS for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_Aurora,_New_York" target="_blank">East Aurora</a>, famous for being named by the website <i>Niche</i> in 2015 as the third-best town in New York for raising a family. I mean, who wouldn’t want to go there?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXN31uW8cwTs5spuAHvDDLf0HhF1pGyKjbdQWv4oyKxufw-uDp6v_bGrMpdsWQE-xACKrGlh7SeijWEY5xVxKoP3LDEnBssqvnwyurNbw9i-fCV9Ybs6KW8czdkhG8W3J-S-TZUskzpzxdg1wtugCXhD8iyYLcu6nb4P9nzIKMUrF5w4EfqoSdU46mQtl/s3780/Millard%20Fillmore%20House.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXN31uW8cwTs5spuAHvDDLf0HhF1pGyKjbdQWv4oyKxufw-uDp6v_bGrMpdsWQE-xACKrGlh7SeijWEY5xVxKoP3LDEnBssqvnwyurNbw9i-fCV9Ybs6KW8czdkhG8W3J-S-TZUskzpzxdg1wtugCXhD8iyYLcu6nb4P9nzIKMUrF5w4EfqoSdU46mQtl/s320/Millard%20Fillmore%20House.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">East Aurora was also home to our 13th President, Millard Fillmore, one of our lesser presidents. I wasn't shocked that his home was closed. I made do with a brochure. While East Aurora is the birthplace of Fisher-Price Toys, I really visited because it was where <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elbert_Hubbard" target="_blank">Elbert Hubbard</a> established the Roycroft community in 1895. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-BlM7BYiqgY2UFFblq4DG5aKkvl9ZVsgSKlVRrjTQlMmKrISwM1fyh07bJpOe9alNRTnjHNEqO6qUTTBfmXkYBRuvztt7R12CtbpS8ACy9iSfkOknuhbhNu-dX9UPuSInkysR0E0SzQAfQjBkFEJn4lf7NtYUKy928benprLYUPu3RJD56GJAUkX6xjf/s3780/IMG_2292.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-BlM7BYiqgY2UFFblq4DG5aKkvl9ZVsgSKlVRrjTQlMmKrISwM1fyh07bJpOe9alNRTnjHNEqO6qUTTBfmXkYBRuvztt7R12CtbpS8ACy9iSfkOknuhbhNu-dX9UPuSInkysR0E0SzQAfQjBkFEJn4lf7NtYUKy928benprLYUPu3RJD56GJAUkX6xjf/s320/IMG_2292.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Elbert, not to be confused with Scientology founder L. Ron, was a significant figure in the Arts & Crafts movement in the US. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rLQUFD4QOob_12_c7Cgs0RmiBga6BVtzcdCRFn1-r9oz2AIfyNqQzmPgVOw19Z0Q1JOM-6_A1A3qi_fmjse626bYeaWJhxL-PmeTBFnG8qtrDevfx2UNq8RQVH2253Trx0eiy5-sS6542sgFE-ScNOaeKrKOACSSFi0pS2NH7DZMsoz1x5Tkmc0K-pU_/s3656/Roycroft%20Shops.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3656" data-original-width="2753" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rLQUFD4QOob_12_c7Cgs0RmiBga6BVtzcdCRFn1-r9oz2AIfyNqQzmPgVOw19Z0Q1JOM-6_A1A3qi_fmjse626bYeaWJhxL-PmeTBFnG8qtrDevfx2UNq8RQVH2253Trx0eiy5-sS6542sgFE-ScNOaeKrKOACSSFi0pS2NH7DZMsoz1x5Tkmc0K-pU_/s320/Roycroft%20Shops.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Inspired by William Morris, the Roycrofters made furniture, worked in metals, designed and published books, and so on. It was all fun and games until Hubbard and his new improved wife (apparently, he couldn’t keep it in his pants) Alice perished in the sinking of the <i>Lusitania </i>in 1915. Tastes changed and the community went into a gradual decline until it closed in the 1930s. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJL36HPrygxVWjI-D9Sy3BkbeYiK4y9uQcpXTgFfkI60KcaBTWTJoL2ZtzriP1zYAqL_s7NKALqUZZ-koqMeuCFzBcoIOjccT0wmTTizH95JuOUpGRbMmhg2hejRqbpTVHGLllWYHWNJcwuF3syp8J8sYPd7zly6aQ0pPfLxZ5WN350LqbnU-YhCQobU1M/s3780/Roycroft%20Inn%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJL36HPrygxVWjI-D9Sy3BkbeYiK4y9uQcpXTgFfkI60KcaBTWTJoL2ZtzriP1zYAqL_s7NKALqUZZ-koqMeuCFzBcoIOjccT0wmTTizH95JuOUpGRbMmhg2hejRqbpTVHGLllWYHWNJcwuF3syp8J8sYPd7zly6aQ0pPfLxZ5WN350LqbnU-YhCQobU1M/s320/Roycroft%20Inn%201.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today, <a href="https://roycroftinn.com/" target="_blank">The Roycroft Inn</a> offers sort of an immersive-ish Arts and Crafts experience in the same way that the Williamsburg Inn is an immersive-ish 18th C Virginia experience. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE0wh8ZhHIkH6x0URw9WvvvdQ2UJf4cV4RS81ceE7G_VMx2ynz8Z5R8iCL6j-vFm_hiM6wYPdqbfoK48JHVPamp-suVNq6_4Qi9HdD4bHovG_SnW_vZmiHGkjrnIW4TZIPV2R_VlpVoig1mK5yPgkFOzcdIf12KVXmLPPkGTtU9CfR_ZBDBgstAOCw5sp/s3780/Roycroft%20Inn%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwE0wh8ZhHIkH6x0URw9WvvvdQ2UJf4cV4RS81ceE7G_VMx2ynz8Z5R8iCL6j-vFm_hiM6wYPdqbfoK48JHVPamp-suVNq6_4Qi9HdD4bHovG_SnW_vZmiHGkjrnIW4TZIPV2R_VlpVoig1mK5yPgkFOzcdIf12KVXmLPPkGTtU9CfR_ZBDBgstAOCw5sp/s320/Roycroft%20Inn%204.JPG" width="256" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP7ONSQG4MIgQc3HZR_7CR2gGJxbZab0maiCmXy85rk4rofjBB2xAo60fdaXDb65YEnybkmdewWeBMGa_1WNzrAY7Gfm3Dfin3ZfNnLtxKoR0j_TuYDtHCctzKmSbMd_yDCRGfawdrt77P6jlMdAR5j9ix0CgODdXcsp8IjUFJHeNyJGs3wyvc1s8iw4i/s3780/Roycroft%20Inn%203.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP7ONSQG4MIgQc3HZR_7CR2gGJxbZab0maiCmXy85rk4rofjBB2xAo60fdaXDb65YEnybkmdewWeBMGa_1WNzrAY7Gfm3Dfin3ZfNnLtxKoR0j_TuYDtHCctzKmSbMd_yDCRGfawdrt77P6jlMdAR5j9ix0CgODdXcsp8IjUFJHeNyJGs3wyvc1s8iw4i/s320/Roycroft%20Inn%203.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I stayed on the third floor in the Susan B, Anthony room, which was chockablock with reproduction arts and crafts period furniture. Unfortunately, Elbert Hubbard died before the invention of the docking station, something I think all decent hotel nightstands should have. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After checking in, I set out to explore the town. Who did I run into in the Roycroft artisans’ gallery, but Mr. Blown Achilles Tendon and his wife from Graycliff! It turned out that they were locals, celebrating their 21st anniversary, having left their three kids at home. I was this close to saying “<i>Motel sex!</i>” </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But instead, I asked about restaurants and they gave me the lowdown on the food scene in East Aurora. They gave a thumbs up to the restaurant at the Roycroft Inn, which is where I saw them a third time a couple of hours later. As the maitre d' led me past them en route to my table we enjoyed a good chuckle. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Have I mentioned that he was unbelievably good looking?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I spent the final day of my trip in depressing Jamestown NY, the birthplace of Lucille Ball. Jamestown seems to have peaked sometime before the invention of the shopping mall. Its downtown had more than its share of vacant buildings, and lots of street people. It’s a bit grim. </div><p>My first stop was the <a href="https://comedycenter.org/" target="_blank">National Comedy Center</a>. It’s a museum (sort of) that’s supposed to be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. That is, once you get over the shock of the ticket price. The senior citizen combination ticket, which includes the Lucille Ball/Desi Arnaz Museum is $38. Call me a cheapskate, but that seems like a lot considering that the Metropolitan Museum of Art is only $22. </p><p>The chirpy ticket seller affixed a hospital wristband containing a chip on my wrist and sent me to a kiosk where I could select my favorite comedians, movies, and TV shows so that I could "personalize" my experience. They also wanted to take my picture and my email address so they could email me some of the personalized "content" I created. (I passed on that.)</p><div style="text-align: left;">It was all very noisy and sort of relentless. But yes, I did enjoy a few chuckles even if getting to the museum’s “content” felt unnecessarily complicated. When I entered the galleries, most of the folks from the ticket line had already turned into couch potatoes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sZka_CcMo4McBmKOT6TYUG2JZyKqctcQ6JW6Himv0zja1ktlgT5Jy8LKE4GVWAv9-LM8DPJjzXqh1UtV8FxZPx5v3JceliPVlVp6XRSWJ2BUPSx8bbK_utj4iB2aooe0iwh16EKLTrPU7wPm2chEQt8ZDQRn7-6tSn2Nut7y9bAol0GKhXYVXiGBsXeb/s2887/IMG_2321.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2887" data-original-width="2310" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sZka_CcMo4McBmKOT6TYUG2JZyKqctcQ6JW6Himv0zja1ktlgT5Jy8LKE4GVWAv9-LM8DPJjzXqh1UtV8FxZPx5v3JceliPVlVp6XRSWJ2BUPSx8bbK_utj4iB2aooe0iwh16EKLTrPU7wPm2chEQt8ZDQRn7-6tSn2Nut7y9bAol0GKhXYVXiGBsXeb/s320/IMG_2321.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">They were sitting in darkened rooms in front of screens as they guffawed at their “self-curated” content. In one exhibit, I got to add sound effects to a silent clip of the campfire scene of <i>Blazing Saddles</i>, quite possibly the most Bryant family activity ever. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5vjedx3RWKtHw_vxns9ehy07cHYhK9Wc6B4cm6W3JanR_ISPgdyNfkmdmKCrNTh2PD19XV7MZ7XK1u0G3SIdENjEOJ-MAKTkxYBY9H0TtzFOXW6hDGBGvAp1KbpF8AOZOjTDeE11WMkQw3kktudhhB4f-CeWFMKZD-ypnq0nsDeMiUjAHqE1gfMw70sN/s3780/IMG_2316.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5vjedx3RWKtHw_vxns9ehy07cHYhK9Wc6B4cm6W3JanR_ISPgdyNfkmdmKCrNTh2PD19XV7MZ7XK1u0G3SIdENjEOJ-MAKTkxYBY9H0TtzFOXW6hDGBGvAp1KbpF8AOZOjTDeE11WMkQw3kktudhhB4f-CeWFMKZD-ypnq0nsDeMiUjAHqE1gfMw70sN/s320/IMG_2316.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Center also displayed a few old costumes and props. I had a chuckle at Johnny Carson’s Floyd R. Turbo costume...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fFSBVqueHGlFV2pToYt_4ht7EZKQWut_JcwKMhrGPKU2U5DD03ESRLOnEOXzVWQJwQmEbuou0J9dfyZUPAQlCz9_LBrQSnKPlFyFG9aOS1PcRvouGKFv2nJxkYLOCewXkFaHPRtppO9J7NtG3Z6s5aEDFOAaPNePHOKt3hK-_DquTVJIG1npy9qMxPdJ/s3252/IMG_2216.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3252" data-original-width="2602" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fFSBVqueHGlFV2pToYt_4ht7EZKQWut_JcwKMhrGPKU2U5DD03ESRLOnEOXzVWQJwQmEbuou0J9dfyZUPAQlCz9_LBrQSnKPlFyFG9aOS1PcRvouGKFv2nJxkYLOCewXkFaHPRtppO9J7NtG3Z6s5aEDFOAaPNePHOKt3hK-_DquTVJIG1npy9qMxPdJ/s320/IMG_2216.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">...and got a charge out of one of Betty White's dresses from <i>The Golden Girls</i>, the gayest sitcom of all time. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaQY2XyQMg3yXEEPdc718ytGo0h7pen4CPwCo1TohOmR8wMft7rkF9hFKmyfStOiOi0yr5i0VDO_H1fwW7NNbAlYn7oLbJkuR3teuei3saNwnCgBiAGlsygkzznILX842bHdg3uEOJ5Z-uVPH5AZ8JeHIjqXPiru8-MGwUFe9-PcpxLdxoocapqIu8K7X/s3780/IMG_2324.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaQY2XyQMg3yXEEPdc718ytGo0h7pen4CPwCo1TohOmR8wMft7rkF9hFKmyfStOiOi0yr5i0VDO_H1fwW7NNbAlYn7oLbJkuR3teuei3saNwnCgBiAGlsygkzznILX842bHdg3uEOJ5Z-uVPH5AZ8JeHIjqXPiru8-MGwUFe9-PcpxLdxoocapqIu8K7X/s320/IMG_2324.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Having had my fill of comedy, I walked up the street to the Lucille Ball Desi Arnaz Museum. Visitors enter the galleries through the gift shoppe, so Lucy and Desi get you coming and going. </div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGs1XbPcnEIdzZqB7IkLqqEAZpqleMIm7hfL9Oia-7y5UQgfGmLo5o5qaoXzsHwC1zRjtCCjOhWIlnMZQd6nSqrb9NmzzQz9dKcD3VR_6Ltp33hbCi4tBbM68yEYCbJ2S12zbnh-LyKaBvs7WsRfK44dTEypDjM6gP7khzuAYXEp66apT9Hn8esXj7K8s8/s3657/IMG_2320.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3657" data-original-width="2926" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGs1XbPcnEIdzZqB7IkLqqEAZpqleMIm7hfL9Oia-7y5UQgfGmLo5o5qaoXzsHwC1zRjtCCjOhWIlnMZQd6nSqrb9NmzzQz9dKcD3VR_6Ltp33hbCi4tBbM68yEYCbJ2S12zbnh-LyKaBvs7WsRfK44dTEypDjM6gP7khzuAYXEp66apT9Hn8esXj7K8s8/s320/IMG_2320.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>There’s plenty of “content” for Lucy (and Desi) fans, and boy were the fans out in full force. There was a book signing and maybe there was a bus tour or maybe a retirement community had been evacuated for a bomb threat. Whatever the reason for the crowd the place was packed. Of course, no one there was younger than 65 so that could be a problem for museum attendance in the future. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Lucy and Desi were hard workers, incredibly creative, and for a while at least, a great team. The museum is cheesy but if you're a fan and in the neighborhood, do stop. </p><p>After Lucy and Ricky, it was time to head back home. Jamestown was a depressing note to end on, but the rest of the trip had been great. I heard my first loons, depended on the kindness of strangers, and made memories that will last a lifetime, or at least until dementia sets in. I'm ready to plan my next adventure....as soon as I find my car keys, that is. </p>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-10252312571649445162023-03-29T15:02:00.010-04:002023-03-31T21:49:53.666-04:00Mexico: You're Getting to Be a Habit With Me<p>Hey it’s me. Back after a long hiatus of doing I don’t know what. </p><p>Not writing, mostly. </p><p>Otherwise, I’ve gotten older not wiser, but you already figured that out, I’m sure. </p><p>I’ve also retired from my job. That meant I had to navigate through signing up for Medicare--God, do they send a lot of mail. When I wasn't signing up for Medicare, I've alphabetized my spices and rearranged my sock drawer. And I’ve even refinished a chair I bought at the <a href="https://radio.wpsu.org/2022-12-08/crowds-nittany-lion-inn-furniture-sale-penn-state-history" target="_blank">Nittany Lion Inn’s going out of business sale</a>, where yes, I did cut in line ahead of about 200 people because I was worried that all the toilet brushes would be gone. </p><p>As they say on local news, but the big story is…</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujIDVDMAZscBaPlY-H3Z2qtp9w9ZVL9wucRnIkbixr5hpK01li2Xxxu6JVECNZxPkMzNwf-Le24khdgQ43ngGeXydA513NQda3roS0Zv0Erg4OTZjhJxyiy929z7K0WvmF9T5jzRJMDB7cny2zCbcR0Fkg19KBPjeDSFNrOAYbcdjQS-eGTHG_NsxtQ/s694/mexico.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="694" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujIDVDMAZscBaPlY-H3Z2qtp9w9ZVL9wucRnIkbixr5hpK01li2Xxxu6JVECNZxPkMzNwf-Le24khdgQ43ngGeXydA513NQda3roS0Zv0Erg4OTZjhJxyiy929z7K0WvmF9T5jzRJMDB7cny2zCbcR0Fkg19KBPjeDSFNrOAYbcdjQS-eGTHG_NsxtQ/w400-h336/mexico.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Earlier this month friends (Jeff, Carrie, Pam) and I went to Mexico. I think this was my sixth trip in eight years, so you could say it's getting to be a habit with me. (Thank you <i>42nd Street</i> for this gratuitous show tunes reference.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Rather than doing an all-inclusive resort or packaged tour, we planned our own trip. We spent a few days in San Miguel de Allende before flying to Puerto Vallarta to catch a ride to the beach near Platanitos. We lounged and loitered there in an oceanfront house for a few days. When we were fully lounged and loitered, we doubled back to Puerto Vallarta for an overnight before flying home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://visitsanmiguel.com/" target="_blank">San Miguel de Allende</a>, founded by the Spanish in the 16th century, is in the mountains north of Mexico City. It’s very popular with American tourists and rightly so, it’s a cool place and very gringo friendly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Getting to San Miguel is part of the fun. Sixteenth-century Spaniards didn’t think much about airports, so the nearest one is in Queretaro, an hour or so’s drive from San Miguel. The airport is about the size of the University Park Airport—basically one gate. You just hire a car to meet your flight, chat up your driver whose English is about as good as your Spanish, and in an hour or so you're in San Miguel.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In theory anyway.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3cYZvp2ijY_6MhBeEP3OndwBauDeJnH61CA6S9YPx0GYYM5i_6hUfeeEDOGobTekhPBSJW5TcrLL9YPBw-OJSkyrFpPNS7_joEkaqUWnckCNwfhOtFD4p9pH3ZUtMpVSkBx0MJ_dT8ifFgGV17sfN57ctqBb0mDSzwvTTcgaCDzdVx3hWiIjULiJmA/s2416/SMA%20Cabbies.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1933" data-original-width="2416" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq3cYZvp2ijY_6MhBeEP3OndwBauDeJnH61CA6S9YPx0GYYM5i_6hUfeeEDOGobTekhPBSJW5TcrLL9YPBw-OJSkyrFpPNS7_joEkaqUWnckCNwfhOtFD4p9pH3ZUtMpVSkBx0MJ_dT8ifFgGV17sfN57ctqBb0mDSzwvTTcgaCDzdVx3hWiIjULiJmA/w400-h320/SMA%20Cabbies.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div>I booked a driver to be there at 2:00 pm. Shortly after the appointed hour, a guy showed up, holding a sign that said Richard Brant. I don’t know if anyone has ever spelled your surname incorrectly but it’s happened to me plenty of times. When I was a kid, our cleaning lady never called my mother anything other than Mrs. O’Brien. Bryant doesn’t seem <i>that</i> hard to spell, but the y that sounds like an i is confusing, the whole thing starts with a capital letter, and so on. Go figure. Fortunately, my cousin Kobe made it big in the NBA. Now when folks have trouble with my surname, I just say “like Kobe” and even the deeply befuddled pick up on that. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked over to the driver and said that I was Richard Bryant and after lots of chatter—his good English made up for my abysmal Spanish—away we went. </div><div><br /></div><div>For about fifteen minutes that is. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then there was a flurry of phone calls with his home office. After much discussion, they figured out that they were looking for someone named "Richard Brant" arriving on a Volaris flight, rather than Richard Bryant arriving on American. As travel snafus go, it didn’t come close to having my organs harvested or being kidnapped by the cartel. But I felt a little bad for this guy who just wasted half an hour of his time. </div><div><br /></div><div>As luck would have it when I went back to the terminal, there was a driver holding up a sign on notebook paper that said "Rick". His English was worse than my Spanish, so after a little bad Spanish/bad English to and fro we decided we were the people each of us had been waiting for (would that dating were that easy!) and off we went. Carlos was cute, 25-ish, and grooved to an 80s playlist—which I told him was <i>muy bien.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>The big attraction of San Miguel de Allende is that its <i>centro historico</i> hasn’t changed that much since the sixteenth-century Spaniards left in the nineteenth century. You needn’t worry about anyone paving paradise and putting up a parking lot: the center of town is a UN World Heritage Site. </div><div><br /></div><div>My chums and I rented an AirBnB on a steep and narrow cobblestoned street in the <i>centro historico.</i> We were just a couple of blocks from the town's main square. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8Wi3sImTHHWTwijMrQkX_8Q4Sn13QrddPsN07UCD8bggWrcafSSSfloFY4mggCUcfZWalVLIoZ8uy44VfLHkFwP8JDa67WA7pQoIbYsYjBTfCZrQ53INnMlCMiIoQj6CUWXsa6QuOb9ou6JamC_GqMTL39YPonHj4UX3jIv0OBnWix3GUfmeCzQ6vg/s3780/SMA%20AirBnB.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8Wi3sImTHHWTwijMrQkX_8Q4Sn13QrddPsN07UCD8bggWrcafSSSfloFY4mggCUcfZWalVLIoZ8uy44VfLHkFwP8JDa67WA7pQoIbYsYjBTfCZrQ53INnMlCMiIoQj6CUWXsa6QuOb9ou6JamC_GqMTL39YPonHj4UX3jIv0OBnWix3GUfmeCzQ6vg/w320-h400/SMA%20AirBnB.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The house didn't look like much from the outside, but first impressions can be deceiving. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedpeo4pMdVYlQLSelMshCEw7ZFSA4mhod5IhA1fZxxJCSmx7-kEzPWIbm1qYHtm-zbIqF4ySg7Lv5ygtGbRDL6KHHoLnhPrKn8rm9gRZoJ7X6mGX8T87EaMzWl2fWrRaCWRskuBkUsaLay-C06rOL6LZidmIZVAau4g3Diwoj35R5MH0okUp0TNdvaQ/s4032/IMG_0312.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedpeo4pMdVYlQLSelMshCEw7ZFSA4mhod5IhA1fZxxJCSmx7-kEzPWIbm1qYHtm-zbIqF4ySg7Lv5ygtGbRDL6KHHoLnhPrKn8rm9gRZoJ7X6mGX8T87EaMzWl2fWrRaCWRskuBkUsaLay-C06rOL6LZidmIZVAau4g3Diwoj35R5MH0okUp0TNdvaQ/w300-h400/IMG_0312.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Our house was great—stylish living and dining areas and half bath on the ground floor with three bedrooms and bathrooms on the second floor. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfgyl52S3KxyYeRinGultCs6-d83o5jWLMHrJCvhLwI40z_OYABOFgcKk9MMeWs3FRXhppUb2M3IzQhpO1Py6rejcWBZdhMghUCHGuib-w3NzfE8KLined2ArnK-_CtQxv0NevYwVCh540xveTjrP8oPh-0PCWt0_1rIzwKpj7wy-yXGNR6ipg6BOUXQ/s3024/SMA%20roof%20view.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfgyl52S3KxyYeRinGultCs6-d83o5jWLMHrJCvhLwI40z_OYABOFgcKk9MMeWs3FRXhppUb2M3IzQhpO1Py6rejcWBZdhMghUCHGuib-w3NzfE8KLined2ArnK-_CtQxv0NevYwVCh540xveTjrP8oPh-0PCWt0_1rIzwKpj7wy-yXGNR6ipg6BOUXQ/w400-h320/SMA%20roof%20view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div>The third floor was an uber-cool roof deck with a killer view of the city. AND a washer and dryer. The photos don’t do it justice, it was a great place to stay.</div><div><br /></div><div>My<i> compadres'</i> arrival was delayed by flight issues so the first evening, I explored the city on my own. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZReTuXRgChbMI8tAoDLwFm7Xen_wlkiQrLSEoxBAOSGHkruSoKFIWo1xgqvEQFiOTxMgUkK3PnHdSRMTFuXb-Et9o0qEsNuiuVHujFTOQJ74qaF6-l6hZarbogqk2XC22zx92wSevYGmX7QGelSn7FnpSiYYFU3IuhfCSxUkvTx-unnj3cg867eRZYA/s3501/SMA%20dancers.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3501" data-original-width="2801" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZReTuXRgChbMI8tAoDLwFm7Xen_wlkiQrLSEoxBAOSGHkruSoKFIWo1xgqvEQFiOTxMgUkK3PnHdSRMTFuXb-Et9o0qEsNuiuVHujFTOQJ74qaF6-l6hZarbogqk2XC22zx92wSevYGmX7QGelSn7FnpSiYYFU3IuhfCSxUkvTx-unnj3cg867eRZYA/w320-h400/SMA%20dancers.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It was my luck that some sort of religious pageant was in full swing. Groups of costumed dancers were having the time of their lives processing around San Miguel’s central park, accompanied by LOTS of loud drumming. It was so loud that I was surprised there weren’t street vendors selling Excedrin. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rjN_I_wrlfAl_76eT1E2ueBl8AUznPQcRH25P8Oo_01kKpkaBxPp-GJusq2D0uKBkB3ZRKrcmEQcu9AxQYu7f5rlxAMnpBwArfeaPNP1yuxlrPPCmqOfhVK7yddi-CiB1Uzr2mdpAZk52L8E0_WJPonCHzRhJpjfRpp1zbdhQ_Ta34NGJP8Y5dfytw/s4032/SMA%20aztec.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rjN_I_wrlfAl_76eT1E2ueBl8AUznPQcRH25P8Oo_01kKpkaBxPp-GJusq2D0uKBkB3ZRKrcmEQcu9AxQYu7f5rlxAMnpBwArfeaPNP1yuxlrPPCmqOfhVK7yddi-CiB1Uzr2mdpAZk52L8E0_WJPonCHzRhJpjfRpp1zbdhQ_Ta34NGJP8Y5dfytw/w300-h400/SMA%20aztec.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Some celebrants were dressed as indigenous folks...<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUQOHaDOGNttPYdYVSv_8sg2LJOzKf7KPglhk6YM708gouQCh10p26bxenyxBBBWUffRq6qboq0GZm2UPhK--31tnIgZ47zL8LKzc5Q0Dh5dfjYRtb0CL06PdPqfVP0m1dVYkJ7jZ7-AWLJoUFNKAH6YN6dBQQKAHTzRRFIK7jqB8rL5wg9Gx1AOxQQ/s2408/SMA%20procession.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1927" data-original-width="2408" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUQOHaDOGNttPYdYVSv_8sg2LJOzKf7KPglhk6YM708gouQCh10p26bxenyxBBBWUffRq6qboq0GZm2UPhK--31tnIgZ47zL8LKzc5Q0Dh5dfjYRtb0CL06PdPqfVP0m1dVYkJ7jZ7-AWLJoUFNKAH6YN6dBQQKAHTzRRFIK7jqB8rL5wg9Gx1AOxQQ/s320/SMA%20procession.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>...others, as, well, I don’t know what. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2pJm8ukeulf2FBO86pIRhE1ieKGf1ckM2-DsF__njXAVHt1adea98ab-n5UXw8OW7iomSW4X1pbRimF8oVVBwaZ5PEHIedYs3oHEG6DNx4v86YaE__VavuE05yNCl9CC5kIF3CDuqClis4glx_ag1V8BtBFzy25dL84iECPwrMLF36vI9rTsWoxDP3w/s3486/SMA%20procession%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3486" data-original-width="2789" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2pJm8ukeulf2FBO86pIRhE1ieKGf1ckM2-DsF__njXAVHt1adea98ab-n5UXw8OW7iomSW4X1pbRimF8oVVBwaZ5PEHIedYs3oHEG6DNx4v86YaE__VavuE05yNCl9CC5kIF3CDuqClis4glx_ag1V8BtBFzy25dL84iECPwrMLF36vI9rTsWoxDP3w/s320/SMA%20procession%202.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Some toted banners identifying their parish or patron saint. It was quite something. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdz9e6pkueQaPM_OpoG2GmjrPRY3NsPELAPnAfkKx31Ll1kMUclPmPuV2ZQc9na74wanQwLcjJpxEoxyYVjJyvbOWfLKDj5lalq-u54rnBX68VIrlibhOMeBcsm48LdXkUxoEv6op8uvJ2XNUtAUgO3nJQrXgYt1rmA-LEb5t7JinPFUrrNUaqBx247w/s2687/IMG_0367.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2687" data-original-width="2150" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdz9e6pkueQaPM_OpoG2GmjrPRY3NsPELAPnAfkKx31Ll1kMUclPmPuV2ZQc9na74wanQwLcjJpxEoxyYVjJyvbOWfLKDj5lalq-u54rnBX68VIrlibhOMeBcsm48LdXkUxoEv6op8uvJ2XNUtAUgO3nJQrXgYt1rmA-LEb5t7JinPFUrrNUaqBx247w/s320/IMG_0367.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div>Like Joe Tourist, I took a selfie. </div><div><br /></div><div>There were plenty of gringos at the parade, all older—meaning my age or younger—and more country club than Sam’s Club. The word is out that San Miguel de Allende is the place to be. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I was flying solo for dinner, I asked our AirBnB host for restaurant suggestions. He urged me to go to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/lamezcaleriasma" target="_blank">Mezcalaria</a>, which happened to be right across the street from our rental. Mezcalaria was handsome in an Asian-ish-minimalist-ish kind of way—delightful, really. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our host said that if I were feeling friendly, I could sit at the communal table in the restaurant’s garden. </div><div><br /></div><div>That’s how I had dinner with a lovely couple--an attorney and an interior designer-- who’d just moved to San Miguel from Carmel. They were helpful in giving me the lay of the land, what to see, what to miss, and what the place would be like for aging recently retired doofus hipster wannabes considering spending more time there. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLRWyyAE5VpkdcrmvqMJ5Bk8PmInxQq7H9FMfGJebyV_QY2y8wGR_GQeRyrruf_TLPByno0jXtw52t27o2_dM6mPnOrmdzl1DiuXltbL-Pjf08N6kVZYmaHRuxxXFyUY5eYQGqU7vNXJWgGlNVVwLhgewUyXmE6HwA9zfBOrgshhr4IVaGCiPOP3DMcA/s3780/SMA%20church.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLRWyyAE5VpkdcrmvqMJ5Bk8PmInxQq7H9FMfGJebyV_QY2y8wGR_GQeRyrruf_TLPByno0jXtw52t27o2_dM6mPnOrmdzl1DiuXltbL-Pjf08N6kVZYmaHRuxxXFyUY5eYQGqU7vNXJWgGlNVVwLhgewUyXmE6HwA9zfBOrgshhr4IVaGCiPOP3DMcA/s320/SMA%20church.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>I spent lots of the day--and the next few days--enjoying the architecture of San Miguel's colonial churches...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqWPoVJ6vbky-qdqjnV3C0IXkzIUf2D4MijmYgfNkffvYJHjNSsSN-kAt-PQyM2EYBEI4npqhxvMYhrs_lifx94sgut_9jDF_y85Ou9qyHWHVs3hxM-iJs5phe5ggmY3foau_V3CPcrOmaQcHboYK-PC_c57R6hP2knH9Q2prTbmjOH0o3yPA6vFOamg/s4032/SMA%20Church%20sculpture.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqWPoVJ6vbky-qdqjnV3C0IXkzIUf2D4MijmYgfNkffvYJHjNSsSN-kAt-PQyM2EYBEI4npqhxvMYhrs_lifx94sgut_9jDF_y85Ou9qyHWHVs3hxM-iJs5phe5ggmY3foau_V3CPcrOmaQcHboYK-PC_c57R6hP2knH9Q2prTbmjOH0o3yPA6vFOamg/w300-h400/SMA%20Church%20sculpture.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...and their creepy statuary. </div><p>Shortly after my friends finally arrived, we did as my friends from Mezcalaria suggested and went to CityMarket to stock up on beer, wine, and so on. The cab ride there was a treat—through narrow cobblestone streets, cool buildings everywhere, choice cars (<i>"Look! There's a VW Thing!"</i>), and great people watching. Cars seemed to move through the tangled web of narrow streets as if controlled from above. There was no honking, shouting, bird flipping, or even a raised eyebrow at the other drivers. It was practically Swiss. Amazing! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCYC6t-owrKKhLmXDG6vGtxVlSdXVG1VUlSHT_COWesIIQR1XJoea5M1lHwbMLJElMDKkVOKHB-uoWQaX3zwjgUVVdxUy7oAQ44KaLKKDx-VJJYhXYIWyFjygvMqmLXEa4y7OtRfre4Zx49PSt9GNzKRkrmx5jv9Ul8r65YtUH2cAmoQEsm3-i7OQuw/s3780/SMA%20CityMarket.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCYC6t-owrKKhLmXDG6vGtxVlSdXVG1VUlSHT_COWesIIQR1XJoea5M1lHwbMLJElMDKkVOKHB-uoWQaX3zwjgUVVdxUy7oAQ44KaLKKDx-VJJYhXYIWyFjygvMqmLXEa4y7OtRfre4Zx49PSt9GNzKRkrmx5jv9Ul8r65YtUH2cAmoQEsm3-i7OQuw/w320-h400/SMA%20CityMarket.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>CityMarket was the most upscale supermarket that I’ve ever been to--the love child of Harris Teeter and Harrod’s Food Hall. The supermarket was just so stinking cool--it was like the buffet at Wynn Las Vegas except a supermarket. It's one of my favorite sights in Mexico. </div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as we’d finished shopping, the doorman (yes, the supermarket had a doorman) ran out to the street to hail us a cab for our return trip. While we waited for a cab (elapsed time, 5 seconds, tops) a stylishly dressed woman of a certain age drove up on a four-wheeler. I've gone for groceries on a motorcycle (as in later in this trip) but never on a four-wheeler, let alone on a four-wheeler while dressed to the nines. It was quite something. </div><div><br /></div><div>We did do one super touristy thing—a Sunday afternoon food tour of San Miguel. I’m not usually a fan of guided tours—what’s that line from the old Anacin commercial? <i>“Mother! I’d rather do it myself?”</i> On the other hand, it was all about food and a guy has to eat. Since my default is red checkered tablecloth rather than fine dining, I’m likely to miss a lot in the food world if I don’t make an effort. </div><div><br /></div><div>Between Sunday breakfast and our food tour, we had time to knock about. Mindful of my friend Susan’s remark about being a traveler, not a tourist, a death march somewhere to check a box off a list didn’t seem like a worthwhile endeavor. Plus, what would top CityMarket? Carrie and I decided to let the world pass us by enjoying the plaza in front of the church of San Francisco, while Pam, a practicing Catholic, went to Mass. </div><div><br /></div><div>I should point out that Pam has a very different idea of the meaning of on time than I do. My parents were in the military. If you’re supposed to be someplace at 10:00 am, you’re supposed to be there before 10:00 am. On Sunday, on time means you need to be at church well before the service for a little howdy-do-ing before settling into your pew before the choir and clergy enter and the service starts. For Pam, there is no such thing as on time. She says she’s on time for church if she gets there before the homily. I’m no expert on Catholicism but I’m pretty sure that’s not how they start Mass.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aRSb9VNzystRdAbvPzZsYYKI02mwmP86cG6JfmvvwStH_0d_WbfQgbo5kWOEMAVQHCXcNBYPwy-u5IrZnZapDFwcpZVfW0kzkvIIfV3mIY1K8cmSgUzNgIKlklEJCjr3X_xZlSOQXYQQ_gko7my7gAHVSt5aF-yovHRpeGqAyraMcrSuTl9fAM8KfQ/s3780/SMA%20St%20Francis%201.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aRSb9VNzystRdAbvPzZsYYKI02mwmP86cG6JfmvvwStH_0d_WbfQgbo5kWOEMAVQHCXcNBYPwy-u5IrZnZapDFwcpZVfW0kzkvIIfV3mIY1K8cmSgUzNgIKlklEJCjr3X_xZlSOQXYQQ_gko7my7gAHVSt5aF-yovHRpeGqAyraMcrSuTl9fAM8KfQ/w320-h400/SMA%20St%20Francis%201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>So…Pam wandered into church and texted back that they were at the offertory and that she’d stay for the service unless we were scheduled to be doing something else. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4lSZfS7Ek0cgJqM9EjbNSY1-defldSbrVQi-fLJR9P9gMBLhdILdBfEbBEzqnOblcl4qNa2O8EKl3_qn6rKpNUEgYN5WQwZPpTl1P-eCW6bv07qd8AxqvRnajwYBrAaHIwlwKAyA7M6BN0Bbc2iw5B-iOZJ8qkoukayD2rR9NsakohdovcMIMBeyWw/s3024/SMA%20loitering%20mariachis%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4lSZfS7Ek0cgJqM9EjbNSY1-defldSbrVQi-fLJR9P9gMBLhdILdBfEbBEzqnOblcl4qNa2O8EKl3_qn6rKpNUEgYN5WQwZPpTl1P-eCW6bv07qd8AxqvRnajwYBrAaHIwlwKAyA7M6BN0Bbc2iw5B-iOZJ8qkoukayD2rR9NsakohdovcMIMBeyWw/s320/SMA%20loitering%20mariachis%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>Carrie and I watched a mariachi band hang out and enjoyed a little downtime in the plaza while Pam did her thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a while—I can’t tell you how long—Pam was out of the church and sat down by me laughing. She hadn’t gone to Sunday Mass, she’d gone to a funeral. In her typically scattered way, she hadn’t noticed that she was at a funeral until she walked up to the front of the church for communion and saw the casket front and center. Oops! </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WpheWHsl6U7vx0XeCb_FG9fWvwzi-1DiirigBbe0z9q_gWC1UODBo10Wle3bgnUCee_Ndcx0HpLoRnyQFYg4OoZvCfIby8kGCgJji_xXP-6TbgOa8_iAg7FGMgMwqpqE4tuApONbnElm3IVKbIrL-l_EzpBcOzM_cL0gQ_rIHHFNQKf9aMHCLHVOPA/s3024/Mariachi%20Funeral.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WpheWHsl6U7vx0XeCb_FG9fWvwzi-1DiirigBbe0z9q_gWC1UODBo10Wle3bgnUCee_Ndcx0HpLoRnyQFYg4OoZvCfIby8kGCgJji_xXP-6TbgOa8_iAg7FGMgMwqpqE4tuApONbnElm3IVKbIrL-l_EzpBcOzM_cL0gQ_rIHHFNQKf9aMHCLHVOPA/w400-h320/Mariachi%20Funeral.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div>We were still laughing when they wheeled the dearly departed’s casket out of the church onto the plaza. The mariachi band, finished with its hanging out, struck up a tune for the benefit of the assembled multitude. As mourners gathered around the casket, they opened it up so folks could have one last look and one last cry. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was really something. And as a connoisseur of funerals, I mean, <b><i>REALLY </i></b>something. I turned to Carrie and said in astonishment, <i>“And some people don’t like to travel!”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I thought, this could be the first episode of a documentary series on my future streaming service, The Funeral Channel. <i>Funerals of Foreigners.</i> Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?</div><div><br /></div><div>We were still laughing about Pam later that day when we met our food guide, Victor. He navigated us through sampling the local fare at several different restaurants and even a gelato stand while giving us a spot of local history, and providing oodles of local color. Victor was a contestant on that famous international game show, <i>Mexican or Gay?</i> and as the person with the world’s worst gaydar, I have no idea what the answer was. </div><div><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrSXWYfNYDVUbJLnKrRUk3C_djQLCUMC7Eix2GZJcwbvbDTgWXxIS28Gi8PvgvlbmMAYCf6USrnl51jVbkcFI3CkO1ZxBfgfQil9GxXIDdRNBVFSbGuObDed5ceEYz37c9AYWJgnkLXRht9uUGug6sz2_C3sNV4I5_Q0NDo8afj_NA7ERliZJa_aFlg/s2946/SMA%20Funeral.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2357" data-original-width="2946" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrSXWYfNYDVUbJLnKrRUk3C_djQLCUMC7Eix2GZJcwbvbDTgWXxIS28Gi8PvgvlbmMAYCf6USrnl51jVbkcFI3CkO1ZxBfgfQil9GxXIDdRNBVFSbGuObDed5ceEYz37c9AYWJgnkLXRht9uUGug6sz2_C3sNV4I5_Q0NDo8afj_NA7ERliZJa_aFlg/w400-h320/SMA%20Funeral.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div>Victor was a delightful host. Did I mention that our afternoon's outing was made even more special by running into another funeral? Well it was. This one was more like a parade with lots of flag waving and hoo-haw. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day we opted for a bus ride to the nearby city of Guanajuato to see its <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mummies_of_Guanajuato" target="_blank">famous/infamous mummy museum</a>. Who wouldn’t do that? </div><div><br /></div><div>As I've said (once or twice) travel is educational. The first thing I learned on the way to the mummy museum was that you need an ID to buy a bus ticket in Mexico. Who knew? Not me, that’s who. </div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily we were at the bus station in plenty of time for me to take a cab back to our place, ask the cabbie to wait in my halting Spanish, dash inside for my wallet, and take the cab back to the bus station. </div><div><br /></div><div>The bus was an absolute delight, way way more comfortable than air travel in the part of the plane that I sit in, and about 1,000 times better than taking the Megabus in the USA. After an hour's trek through rural Mexico, we arrived in Guanajuato. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Guanajuato bus station is on the outskirts of town so we took a city bus (positively Soviet in the comfort department, presumably purchased used in Bolivia circa 1948) into the middle of town—fortunately the bus driver told us when to disembark. Then after 20 minutes of getting oriented, it was a simple 30 minute walk straight up in Calcutta like heat, humidity, and smells, to the Mummy Museum. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRj-VF2mT9QkuZvVJKRXlHCj8HzX7flee5_QrZVqmm9NztF3PYVQd-jd7j9VIcjOjVeQjYdiIaM7F9ZsTdtDpJNZz2Okp6xiwui8ajeWAES9HOpG1je2LwL2fUHhKlNxcj-qtXm4E4JAu_RaSSK2OPjQuHa8oHo8F_sIUYO5jyZfLUVX9sUvk4eeT9YA/s3780/IMG_0626.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRj-VF2mT9QkuZvVJKRXlHCj8HzX7flee5_QrZVqmm9NztF3PYVQd-jd7j9VIcjOjVeQjYdiIaM7F9ZsTdtDpJNZz2Okp6xiwui8ajeWAES9HOpG1je2LwL2fUHhKlNxcj-qtXm4E4JAu_RaSSK2OPjQuHa8oHo8F_sIUYO5jyZfLUVX9sUvk4eeT9YA/s320/IMG_0626.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>I was expecting the Mummy Museum to be delightfully macabre in sort of a David Sedaris way. Wrong. It was just plain creepy. These are not mummies like Egyptian mummies, wrapped in bands of cloth and stored in a golden sarcophagus. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gegf4x1uqBKLezPgKAHKOxeeexmdSMYVLrepHY7sN4uZe7lj2US6QERH_R2W1HhoqKY8tX1JfzOK7fxvzItviDysxwjJAc6Mh2ZdSaTiArpciMyS4PstKW0Y1V5PsoDWMB9cOu5y7lSDh1fMUg7Wcd6l3MLfAKCFpJqJzLehImk3q3wAxGU_w8q2sQ/s2454/IMG_0629.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1963" data-original-width="2454" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gegf4x1uqBKLezPgKAHKOxeeexmdSMYVLrepHY7sN4uZe7lj2US6QERH_R2W1HhoqKY8tX1JfzOK7fxvzItviDysxwjJAc6Mh2ZdSaTiArpciMyS4PstKW0Y1V5PsoDWMB9cOu5y7lSDh1fMUg7Wcd6l3MLfAKCFpJqJzLehImk3q3wAxGU_w8q2sQ/s320/IMG_0629.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>No, these are people who died in a 19th century cholera epidemic. <p></p><p>Death by cholera wasn’t their worst bit of luck. Years later, after no one came forth to pay the bill for their “perpetual care” the bodies were disinterred. The climate of Guanajuato is perfect for desiccated human remains so now there are 50-some “mummies” on display. Some of them have labels, which are in both Spanish and horrendous English. One of the mummies may have been buried alive, the jury seems to be out on that. They have another 50 mummies in storage. Why they don't give them a decent burial is beyond me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ms6UURC5qyA9ypfvi6vqcPQFhPLcNOOcrCJvzyDZ_ZKRusgl2YAYvfZWQ72t46vPkF_6T02rXLyClHa81oADUTkivGldBAlXZbkG_T5VIU_2G0ndwhjVhuMvLbt1q-Eq-YaClz1__n7_XC9qP4PTuZk3AwnkgDMgKfnaIWduhvOm9PfF-rHwfT8xug/s4032/IMG_0631.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ms6UURC5qyA9ypfvi6vqcPQFhPLcNOOcrCJvzyDZ_ZKRusgl2YAYvfZWQ72t46vPkF_6T02rXLyClHa81oADUTkivGldBAlXZbkG_T5VIU_2G0ndwhjVhuMvLbt1q-Eq-YaClz1__n7_XC9qP4PTuZk3AwnkgDMgKfnaIWduhvOm9PfF-rHwfT8xug/w300-h400/IMG_0631.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>At the end of the tour there is a coffin thoughtfully decorated with an Instagram logo where you can have your photo taken. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpRhmXy3GNpx7RCGXfAscPDCohHkx_WqFPl37Gb0DBT-lv9wqYNeiXuK2hIIY-hyznW0cSnj_lpqNZq8wZQcfvV75EJ4jYLm8qOVhoPj0-ATNRJ1Xc8KQGfYcv03lnqabEoGIbiTqCR5E8U5r6uKPEtUIlB8Wt0ZNJ7AKfhfBahNCPmkeNFYoA_AjaQ/s4032/IMG_0633.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpRhmXy3GNpx7RCGXfAscPDCohHkx_WqFPl37Gb0DBT-lv9wqYNeiXuK2hIIY-hyznW0cSnj_lpqNZq8wZQcfvV75EJ4jYLm8qOVhoPj0-ATNRJ1Xc8KQGfYcv03lnqabEoGIbiTqCR5E8U5r6uKPEtUIlB8Wt0ZNJ7AKfhfBahNCPmkeNFYoA_AjaQ/s320/IMG_0633.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div>Like so. </div><div><br /></div><div>OK, that part might actually rise to the level of David Sedaris, but the rest of the museum was just sad. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the mummies, we walked back downtown and eventually took a cab to the bus station for our trip to San Miguel. The scenery in the two towns was interesting, the bus rides pleasant, but the mummies, not so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>That evening we had drinks with friends of a friend in Richmond. Peggy told them to look out for my orange UVA baseball hat, and sure enough, they saw me walking through the square and called out to me. It was great fun though I might have had one too many (or so) margaritas. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day we said <i>Adios!</i> to San Miguel and cabbed back to the airport to catch a flight to Puerto Vallarta for the next part of our trip. The flight was uneventful except for the barfing kid in the row behind us. </div><div><br /></div><div>In Puerto Vallarta, our driver, Carlos, had a sign that said "Rick Bryant" so there was no mistaking that we were in the right place.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8TIt9_cMGBZLyD4lOGdxqnpqd8JNVUSG1dBHWf96-RL4lN4LXxlPPh7GPyAgwMBXv7cOm7nZOl_4klXYvRajZkUyrbAPEqGGvOr8CIXGlztbOgwHquuUdrgeCzMLK-7rnoxS4NYnSwVYCrSRFUvVJlUNkYUmooQXYnxXrUF9_CI-GAcSwK5JgSV1Qg/s3698/IMG_0693.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3698" data-original-width="2958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8TIt9_cMGBZLyD4lOGdxqnpqd8JNVUSG1dBHWf96-RL4lN4LXxlPPh7GPyAgwMBXv7cOm7nZOl_4klXYvRajZkUyrbAPEqGGvOr8CIXGlztbOgwHquuUdrgeCzMLK-7rnoxS4NYnSwVYCrSRFUvVJlUNkYUmooQXYnxXrUF9_CI-GAcSwK5JgSV1Qg/s320/IMG_0693.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>After a quick stop for booze—featuring an unscheduled educational experience on the supermarket escalator—we settled in for a long drive to our place at the beach. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMZ6SUEzwol2EidXpj4aR1uD6dBt7lzNJ8p8V21-tn41ZkA9MhfrQRBJXvv0bKWYHcJ1BhQ19vjtOyB8joTCOxtZo8Jg9v6gkhA8ye7MI07Z9XP0tMGtjx-CmLcYRR3zudw7etr7JvXndPoYf5UzRPPaopThIx4oAze9DLs-mFnu_ehhxZpjkEfKV1g/s4032/IMG_0818.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMZ6SUEzwol2EidXpj4aR1uD6dBt7lzNJ8p8V21-tn41ZkA9MhfrQRBJXvv0bKWYHcJ1BhQ19vjtOyB8joTCOxtZo8Jg9v6gkhA8ye7MI07Z9XP0tMGtjx-CmLcYRR3zudw7etr7JvXndPoYf5UzRPPaopThIx4oAze9DLs-mFnu_ehhxZpjkEfKV1g/s320/IMG_0818.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>We went to the same place last year, but this time we opted for a different one of the nine houses. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmx-v4LIgvKJrS1C2OKbjviJafaJZTKcq8b1wx5sMwWCVLjTpc0B6P9JDXATZk8WUN-xuJQwx9FnxWWz2zi-k90GhrCjD-IRk5Uew3yUC9xteExQJT-5msm4Y2oIxEzSLivKTaFiJP60cIL072SwfNOE_6MO9kzKbqxmZT8jkM1ps5Upto30rKTabcug/s4032/IMG_0818.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmx-v4LIgvKJrS1C2OKbjviJafaJZTKcq8b1wx5sMwWCVLjTpc0B6P9JDXATZk8WUN-xuJQwx9FnxWWz2zi-k90GhrCjD-IRk5Uew3yUC9xteExQJT-5msm4Y2oIxEzSLivKTaFiJP60cIL072SwfNOE_6MO9kzKbqxmZT8jkM1ps5Upto30rKTabcug/s4032/IMG_0818.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgc8waCG1EDT2RUIuLIYpUKxQ3ldG-y8GJ_RCbr1k87UGxPlXuS3hqUsgAP5Uf6z-EfE8mjwM8cJfdHAcb2SwGYVwweHtTiGSISIvk2YH9PXQrutUmAzDi6j8nKAJciKZdJL8QeUT2Ykq_hgDKK0V8ipO4JIKYe8JyqIjbhRmqPUCvjyNWJm-kCKkjw/s4032/IMG_0711.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgc8waCG1EDT2RUIuLIYpUKxQ3ldG-y8GJ_RCbr1k87UGxPlXuS3hqUsgAP5Uf6z-EfE8mjwM8cJfdHAcb2SwGYVwweHtTiGSISIvk2YH9PXQrutUmAzDi6j8nKAJciKZdJL8QeUT2Ykq_hgDKK0V8ipO4JIKYe8JyqIjbhRmqPUCvjyNWJm-kCKkjw/w300-h400/IMG_0711.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLMkH3Nwiv2AUMRR9cFPY60NZxXI0QTeRwVLYZFgJoMzZPGu6JPL7QuIev6mhabN5BZ_PpGXXuUV9y9LJq0OM83QbWuNjAt5RpnLWne7CjBBwFSMp8mk3xd_4k61CulfjyC6dYFYeqg24XlPFYVkQMWICNsM7TWQvKwwIJUXqboL0BWmiMsjWjgkX8A/s3780/SMA%20PC%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLMkH3Nwiv2AUMRR9cFPY60NZxXI0QTeRwVLYZFgJoMzZPGu6JPL7QuIev6mhabN5BZ_PpGXXuUV9y9LJq0OM83QbWuNjAt5RpnLWne7CjBBwFSMp8mk3xd_4k61CulfjyC6dYFYeqg24XlPFYVkQMWICNsM7TWQvKwwIJUXqboL0BWmiMsjWjgkX8A/w320-h400/SMA%20PC%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>It had a great Zorro-at-the-beach vibe. </div><div><br /></div><div>We didn’t do much of anything but read, hang out, go to the beach, eat good food, and enjoy a few adult beverages. My cousin Paul and his wife Robyn live around the corner. In my book, bunking in a house-around-the-corner is the best way to visit folks. Paul’s brother David and his wife Carolyn were finishing up a beach adventure as we were starting, so it was a treat overlapping with them too. Paul and Robyn's daughter Chelsea completed the gaggle of Bryants. We toasted <i>"Viva Mexico!"</i> with champagne at 10:00 am.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGca_OcfPNwb1Jf65pRzdeCcp8H80n0rgxWfMJnCYTULwMpywqQiVk5x-QzGU2oASCWM1GxJLXOQhSyzf9cFVErSkZrWaA8w077OfygWSBsgM84UXtyqVnnZI1cngyO_Ge8sFGe6AXiA84M3gVcs76C7FTd97bxM7HbRApLXSUX1DNj_1-UQOQ8VqMuw/s4032/IMG_0788.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGca_OcfPNwb1Jf65pRzdeCcp8H80n0rgxWfMJnCYTULwMpywqQiVk5x-QzGU2oASCWM1GxJLXOQhSyzf9cFVErSkZrWaA8w077OfygWSBsgM84UXtyqVnnZI1cngyO_Ge8sFGe6AXiA84M3gVcs76C7FTd97bxM7HbRApLXSUX1DNj_1-UQOQ8VqMuw/w400-h300/IMG_0788.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>We had great fun with cousin Chelsea. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UOcssiAHHJ9I_EPz6b_4PNdM-IXQ4Qkj91K8k9yn0kL88pWoKJx2lCuozh1hED4fgrKq8t_1lSFH7L3ImSeejdkbjtZeRFFAEZq1vogHyiaH9-LMUp7OO1_ax6onLhXtQ_N-Yt9KniXYVkXGPf3SBZhLG-Xh6cmo4v6-JEn3vzMFgc0M7Omn8cfCrg/s3021/IMG_0776.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2417" data-original-width="3021" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UOcssiAHHJ9I_EPz6b_4PNdM-IXQ4Qkj91K8k9yn0kL88pWoKJx2lCuozh1hED4fgrKq8t_1lSFH7L3ImSeejdkbjtZeRFFAEZq1vogHyiaH9-LMUp7OO1_ax6onLhXtQ_N-Yt9KniXYVkXGPf3SBZhLG-Xh6cmo4v6-JEn3vzMFgc0M7Omn8cfCrg/w400-h320/IMG_0776.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>She took us to a deserted beach...</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUwdbEIjCvT16yGGjlN9r7ByGSEU55bU68Zgs_aoRc_rmj7bL0QTbPH1mq-s7eir0KgdHkr4eRRG4M1mEhPucl8hREK1NeRkwI3SnK07XFx5tRGTatG6EjEgZzbxionDmRq9wzEkxXmCJr41qt-iYAatVVj8zq70KhOukUDcilb9xjnPt6zVdvGxX_g/s3780/IMG_0802.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUwdbEIjCvT16yGGjlN9r7ByGSEU55bU68Zgs_aoRc_rmj7bL0QTbPH1mq-s7eir0KgdHkr4eRRG4M1mEhPucl8hREK1NeRkwI3SnK07XFx5tRGTatG6EjEgZzbxionDmRq9wzEkxXmCJr41qt-iYAatVVj8zq70KhOukUDcilb9xjnPt6zVdvGxX_g/w320-h400/IMG_0802.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>..and then the townie beach where we enjoyed the local fare. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfJmvsxFLNFwWDrHfDtsSF2v8GPGcEY_bDY1ijFLRGNtsJhHolFYsV-iQ5mxsWKH2s_bE5_HVW4RARxdhVDPKhjgpnU9rHTHHmQoq75KTvEEixoUP6MBAN75v_fS1oJlIZ1ICfocllxCDGp6YxH-OWKnHFfjJ1PdfknVsW_fS5dlmDzCC4F-k0jhAXw/s500/Hola%20from%20Puerto%20Vallarta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfJmvsxFLNFwWDrHfDtsSF2v8GPGcEY_bDY1ijFLRGNtsJhHolFYsV-iQ5mxsWKH2s_bE5_HVW4RARxdhVDPKhjgpnU9rHTHHmQoq75KTvEEixoUP6MBAN75v_fS1oJlIZ1ICfocllxCDGp6YxH-OWKnHFfjJ1PdfknVsW_fS5dlmDzCC4F-k0jhAXw/w400-h266/Hola%20from%20Puerto%20Vallarta.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>After five days of hard core relaxing, it was time to head back to Puerto Vallarta for one night before flying back to the USA. We opted for the bus again, and this time I knew to have my ID at the ready. I catch on. Eventually. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcRWbRY2RH-LWxQxwyuZxd86qxiKhC_zRmPGwEpKaAkSi35RJGlbjYGQsAA7lNHUGeLt_atfAPP-tJFAsy2g3BUBQlC7Nz1cyupggUZsL47E199OLXD0BFaRim3NRCtrfYmUJ92swpWY4-4egMTIWA0rBur0CiX4KCayvYRW-cKxnYiyeMiTGzdHtYw/s3351/IMG_0897.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3351" data-original-width="2681" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcRWbRY2RH-LWxQxwyuZxd86qxiKhC_zRmPGwEpKaAkSi35RJGlbjYGQsAA7lNHUGeLt_atfAPP-tJFAsy2g3BUBQlC7Nz1cyupggUZsL47E199OLXD0BFaRim3NRCtrfYmUJ92swpWY4-4egMTIWA0rBur0CiX4KCayvYRW-cKxnYiyeMiTGzdHtYw/w320-h400/IMG_0897.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Our AirBnB was on the top floor of an older oceanfront building in the gay part of town, which seemed to be all of central Puerta Vallarta, from what I could tell. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshvOxXJElaApNCDzoQiXYCdilbz5AgxdMjFcukmCy3Ja-19lYrci3mb-MEQaMvy1yU_4NBmDgpeZS3cSI71oqSV9YTugiNBygvSmDpMzNd1zkDdXMTgp2E1XEwzjYFKM64MBcLQ0M_S6HsSNp-THlpgyy9Nm0xMGheifD-jOK1mBcGKA1xr4FGJIxpQ/s3024/IMG_0901.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2419" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshvOxXJElaApNCDzoQiXYCdilbz5AgxdMjFcukmCy3Ja-19lYrci3mb-MEQaMvy1yU_4NBmDgpeZS3cSI71oqSV9YTugiNBygvSmDpMzNd1zkDdXMTgp2E1XEwzjYFKM64MBcLQ0M_S6HsSNp-THlpgyy9Nm0xMGheifD-jOK1mBcGKA1xr4FGJIxpQ/w400-h320/IMG_0901.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Rainbow flags were practically ubiquitous and there were plenty of stores selling swimsuits that only gay porn stars look good in...or out of, depending on your point of view. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW8XTMDyNJCz2DjccQTOrUJOs3tGcMO7Xj0y5bQeLiBSGRbD3SDTa1iQuh9UqrHTBDagto0tfUVGMN2qrcXiboda_EkmmZTEjcFyHhPNLmyxi8Bbn9S0w_dqk7OOj4dwldJB-m3jOVD9s5pc5gjq7ZS_vokuBEMwr-kGB03eGpKqbruP3TJzcrLFq-g/s2816/SMA%20Where%20Leather%20Meets%20Fur.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="2253" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW8XTMDyNJCz2DjccQTOrUJOs3tGcMO7Xj0y5bQeLiBSGRbD3SDTa1iQuh9UqrHTBDagto0tfUVGMN2qrcXiboda_EkmmZTEjcFyHhPNLmyxi8Bbn9S0w_dqk7OOj4dwldJB-m3jOVD9s5pc5gjq7ZS_vokuBEMwr-kGB03eGpKqbruP3TJzcrLFq-g/w320-h400/SMA%20Where%20Leather%20Meets%20Fur.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div>Who doesn't want to go to "Where Leather Meets Fur" for a paloma? </div><div><br /></div><div>After taking a walk along the oceanfront promenade and dinner at an outdoor restaurant, we went to a cabaret to see my favorite drag act, <a href="https://kinseysicks.com/" target="_blank">The Kinsey Sicks.</a> The Kinseys performed at the Festival last summer and I was tickled pink to see they were performing in Puerto Vallarta.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULKdbVTlFihRxN77bH996nGqSgg66lfRyFaFv-5Bd-vR5nP9_8k4MN2YnQfTKotz96suLMrgpRaeprJlL8wA8numuGHTzwiIq2QDPiTvcPYpNtOAJxLljxGuBjKnhmWnq8B91hov8vUW6QS1c4m40gP0AA-ztAHOV8_dXVBHFJLff51Z5RR1gc9r5Sw/s1007/Drag%20Queen%20Story%20Hour%20Gone%20Wild.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="815" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULKdbVTlFihRxN77bH996nGqSgg66lfRyFaFv-5Bd-vR5nP9_8k4MN2YnQfTKotz96suLMrgpRaeprJlL8wA8numuGHTzwiIq2QDPiTvcPYpNtOAJxLljxGuBjKnhmWnq8B91hov8vUW6QS1c4m40gP0AA-ztAHOV8_dXVBHFJLff51Z5RR1gc9r5Sw/w324-h400/Drag%20Queen%20Story%20Hour%20Gone%20Wild.jpg" width="324" /></a></div>They were debuting a new show, <i>Drag Queen Story Hour Gone Wild</i>. I guess debuting a new show in Puerto Vallarta is the drag version of a Broadway show starting out in New Haven. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tAIts01MzWmiMMz_OP7qo6xANK9C0UhwUqwZbdmKEd7DsLOwX9V9j-m2B_nKDdkijM1hSf69SzDA3OfQUJuMYsUY4lf7lrtg_vMmgcoxxMnypdBALiQvPLLgZe53NM0mnLvnjLiBsGDY_cqTYzekL_y0LneG85la7xqxlp4hOkHObe9pKjSATdlEKw/s1668/IMG_E0884.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="1668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tAIts01MzWmiMMz_OP7qo6xANK9C0UhwUqwZbdmKEd7DsLOwX9V9j-m2B_nKDdkijM1hSf69SzDA3OfQUJuMYsUY4lf7lrtg_vMmgcoxxMnypdBALiQvPLLgZe53NM0mnLvnjLiBsGDY_cqTYzekL_y0LneG85la7xqxlp4hOkHObe9pKjSATdlEKw/w400-h320/IMG_E0884.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>The show was great fun. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopVyWaXZIBahc_oE5hHx-neH95gSOrjm6QHvLNX43keZJ-mX57sJUnVQofoGnEYAiSaYlfVcLof_ZqjHGF47_Kif7LrlwEl90UmaHZC1XUbQyauouH_SY9dgaTxFP8ZFKUzIMnN8agS2GQINoYPiGtw4ZSGBe4xXGq43hwRI8VGA0DDORyulQlfQ6sg/s4032/IMG_E3024.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjopVyWaXZIBahc_oE5hHx-neH95gSOrjm6QHvLNX43keZJ-mX57sJUnVQofoGnEYAiSaYlfVcLof_ZqjHGF47_Kif7LrlwEl90UmaHZC1XUbQyauouH_SY9dgaTxFP8ZFKUzIMnN8agS2GQINoYPiGtw4ZSGBe4xXGq43hwRI8VGA0DDORyulQlfQ6sg/w300-h400/IMG_E3024.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Hilarious even. <p></p><p>If the Kinseys are performing anywhere near you, go! </p><p>After the show we went to the upstairs bar at the theatre for open mic night…where the accompanist was a Liberace impersonator. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7fuReJELGmtdnd1fsZ9ae20Y_R-yzUoqudRvinaKrpTY0pikBYcSz53cjAsr_7zBX7uQz5g8tCjlMCgRWX5meLuYDPSmCsyQx4mQ84yM6UEPhegm6vJAqYqx5x5XAmSlgCWFV9Fi4DiTdXut7v6gl8agroao_rNRZoK0BXYysOxljIiqOanEaPPQVQ/s997/David%20Maiocco%20as%20Liberace.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7fuReJELGmtdnd1fsZ9ae20Y_R-yzUoqudRvinaKrpTY0pikBYcSz53cjAsr_7zBX7uQz5g8tCjlMCgRWX5meLuYDPSmCsyQx4mQ84yM6UEPhegm6vJAqYqx5x5XAmSlgCWFV9Fi4DiTdXut7v6gl8agroao_rNRZoK0BXYysOxljIiqOanEaPPQVQ/w268-h400/David%20Maiocco%20as%20Liberace.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>Who knew that was even a thing? As I’ve said, travel is filled with learning experiences. <p></p><p>So that was it. It was a great time. I love Mexico and can’t wait to go back. Perhaps next time around I’ll travel with someone who will crash a bris… who would miss that? </p></div></div>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-38337692248873032592021-09-28T17:03:00.001-04:002021-09-28T17:11:28.860-04:00That Time I Went to Lawnmower Races<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HihzprT24pimaQiRCsQV-6zHggtP4T-128tkf2P5g9KFR_HrFj4BTsn5umukIVoEQA0eeJqY_GNBFCSlZG5uj39G7BhM-pCllZS6T2LMy-gLR8e9E_CjugpI1zW_Db2ODVpBpcfbRTLE/s960/logo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="960" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HihzprT24pimaQiRCsQV-6zHggtP4T-128tkf2P5g9KFR_HrFj4BTsn5umukIVoEQA0eeJqY_GNBFCSlZG5uj39G7BhM-pCllZS6T2LMy-gLR8e9E_CjugpI1zW_Db2ODVpBpcfbRTLE/s320/logo.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On a recent Sunday afternoon, as I was a still a bit bleary eyed after Penn State’s thrilling win over Auburn the night before, I headed across the mountain to Mifflin County to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MiddleRoadSpeedway" target="_blank">Middle Road Speedway</a>…to watch…are you ready for this? Lawnmower racing.</div><p>Apparently that's a thing, lawnmower racing. <br /></p><p></p><p>Even though it's within 30 miles of my house, I'd never heard of Middle Road Speedway until it—don’t ask me how—came up in a conversation with a waitress earlier that week. Wait, you’ve never talked to a waitress about lawnmower racing? I thought I was the only one! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-9RIQC1iP3ATano0TfLZVBiOLWU9MrK-T4DWI1XAId3oTu2Vk6A_1rjcDmBGAKj7osjp72FiLFfn6ysEtPHq16VR9zdMbB5LI6NyCq26oGUtXdHnV8T2jXHG0DlDCSiVgeoBt2Om-6Pc/s1771/farm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1417" data-original-width="1771" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-9RIQC1iP3ATano0TfLZVBiOLWU9MrK-T4DWI1XAId3oTu2Vk6A_1rjcDmBGAKj7osjp72FiLFfn6ysEtPHq16VR9zdMbB5LI6NyCq26oGUtXdHnV8T2jXHG0DlDCSiVgeoBt2Om-6Pc/s320/farm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The track was a bit hard to find—there wasn’t a lot of cell signal where I was, so using GPS was a waste of time. I drove around a bit, soaking up the bucolic splendor of rural Mifflin County (Trump country!) before stumbling onto Middle Road. As far as I could tell the only thing Middle Road was in the middle of was the middle of nowhere.<p></p><p>I’ve been to another central Pennsylvania dirt track, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hesstonspeedway/" target="_blank">Hesston Speedway</a>, so I thought I knew what to expect. Wrong! Hesston has buildings, flush toilets, lots of bleachers, and actual parking lots. It’s like the Indianapolis Motor Speedway compared to Middle Road Speedway. Middle Road has no buildings, a no flush toilets, a bleacher (is there such a thing as one bleacher?), and no parking lot. This is a racetrack for minimalists. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk9TpItuEmC7JYskMT84FdDAnbZXqgN_4mUw52FjKtrtxTX74l5YjTsUCLTBu1Knf29DZhaejsZ0SkVrZveskx7RuYOFJIoxXfcrhSJy1QxEXoCLcHzXG7jEfKa3nfL5o7VnAjufCi6EN/s1530/middle+road+speedway.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1223" data-original-width="1530" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk9TpItuEmC7JYskMT84FdDAnbZXqgN_4mUw52FjKtrtxTX74l5YjTsUCLTBu1Knf29DZhaejsZ0SkVrZveskx7RuYOFJIoxXfcrhSJy1QxEXoCLcHzXG7jEfKa3nfL5o7VnAjufCi6EN/s320/middle+road+speedway.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The track is a dirt oval, smaller than some suburban lots. It’s 1/10th of a mile, which makes less than half the length of a high school track. It’s ringed by old tires and some chain link fence. Presumably they’re there as safety measures rather than to add a soupcon of gritty urban ambience. There are a few and I mean a few, sponsor signs fastened to the chain link fence, but they’re of the local variety, such as Charlie’s A Cut Above Chainsaws rather than for national brands like Goodyear or Valvoline. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1rVYqm2y8FzBiGrgJjgnEIdG_8JUXGwCGta5G6Sp0Aukvu99Hb5MLGTBmSOdbF0Ek09HUdDlTTh5Q6bxXWNEFVlLcVFWmKVf1Nrgaa7Gp4MV5cuVjwppfj1r4D1ZtJ1W7iaeA_zVZKS5/s1920/Vintage+Middle+Road+Speedway.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1920" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1rVYqm2y8FzBiGrgJjgnEIdG_8JUXGwCGta5G6Sp0Aukvu99Hb5MLGTBmSOdbF0Ek09HUdDlTTh5Q6bxXWNEFVlLcVFWmKVf1Nrgaa7Gp4MV5cuVjwppfj1r4D1ZtJ1W7iaeA_zVZKS5/s320/Vintage+Middle+Road+Speedway.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The track hasn't changed too much since someone posted this 2011 photo on Facebook. <br /></div><p></p><p>I parked my truck on the lawn and walked over to the bleacher. There was a group of spectators sitting on lawn chairs arrayed behind their car, but I was the only person to brave the bleacher. It looked as if it might have been decommissioned by a Little League team sometime before World War II. <br /></p><p>There was a concessions trailer across the track from the bleacher. The announcer mentioned EMTs were from the McVeytown Fire Department, but I didn’t see an ambulance. If someone needed to go to the hospital (as in, if you suffered grievous bodily harm falling through the bleacher) they were going on a lawnmower. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiR2VNP-VFg61VSXgVQELoZoAKvJm2pREK5wCLuet9igp5QM_2HTr5AS90tzSgahXNpzCVNx6rLBvMWngdsc5tJU5lvUISJv87ajluXGdUi5ogGzHDabt-ZiET51W77BBeeoZVueck7tqH/s2048/RWB+at+MRS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiR2VNP-VFg61VSXgVQELoZoAKvJm2pREK5wCLuet9igp5QM_2HTr5AS90tzSgahXNpzCVNx6rLBvMWngdsc5tJU5lvUISJv87ajluXGdUi5ogGzHDabt-ZiET51W77BBeeoZVueck7tqH/s320/RWB+at+MRS.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I made myself comfortable-ish and wondered how many people died each year from falling off a single bleacher at a lawnmower race. <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZG6djC_a8yFQOnoV-P1fYWux658gwW7bfaCIF-NFd7PuJMLH-mmPK2SigFC5jgyZ8_fUxzcHBBpIr0-MFu_n_UwpTqpkzAjl4Zi4ta__xehf0VXXc1uqX9zLWFwmmtJnZJLvYnlZ93zOw/s764/Zipping+Mower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="764" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZG6djC_a8yFQOnoV-P1fYWux658gwW7bfaCIF-NFd7PuJMLH-mmPK2SigFC5jgyZ8_fUxzcHBBpIr0-MFu_n_UwpTqpkzAjl4Zi4ta__xehf0VXXc1uqX9zLWFwmmtJnZJLvYnlZ93zOw/s320/Zipping+Mower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>One lawnmower was zipping around the track. And I do mean zipping. It was faster than any self-propelled lawnmower I’ve ever driven. But it wasn’t really a lawnmower, since the mower deck had been removed…presumably in the interest of speed and safety.<br /><p></p><p>In addition to shedding their mower decks, the little tractors obviously had a bunch of modifications (new gonkulator, etc.) to increase their speed. They didn’t sound like the lawnmowers in my neighborhood. <br /></p><p>A short while later I was joined on the bleacher by a nice twentysomething couple. They vaped a lot. And I mean a lot. It didn’t take long before the fresh yet masculine scent of my Old Spice was replaced by an intoxicating mélange of vape-sourced strawberry shortcake and lawnmower exhaust fumes. The woman said that she hoped the afternoon’s races wouldn’t be as “redneck” as they were on her last visit. She told me that a couple of the drivers got into a fistfight that day. </p><p>Obviously, I’m a horrible person since I thought, “<i>Oh, a fistfight…that would be a great story for the blog!</i>” Your human drama meets my jaundiced eye! As Charlie Sheen would say, “<i>Winning!</i>”</p><p>It wasn’t long before an announcer came on the PA and said that warmups had finished and that they would be starting the main events shortly. He promised that “the girls” would come around selling tickets and 50/50 raffle tickets. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MVimhyphenhyphenlAFNwIKz-7gf8EmE_Srx4qmJhkH4E_6gjgfcDbjDJqf71atmqN97ntwU6XSqgIn7D8HnJ7bpggurqZINF9pvJvn9zd4zOAeRzupgWgnMaOGg6e78cEwgMLjBInJwIvaP1ZUEir/s1229/water+truck+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="982" data-original-width="1229" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MVimhyphenhyphenlAFNwIKz-7gf8EmE_Srx4qmJhkH4E_6gjgfcDbjDJqf71atmqN97ntwU6XSqgIn7D8HnJ7bpggurqZINF9pvJvn9zd4zOAeRzupgWgnMaOGg6e78cEwgMLjBInJwIvaP1ZUEir/s320/water+truck+2.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During the ticket selling interlude an old Ford pickup carrying a big water tank drove around the track wetting it down, as they do to a baseball infield. </div><p>The rig looked homemade but it did the trick.</p><p></p><p>“The girls” eventually made it over to the bleacher. I wouldn’t have called them "girls". I would have called them women who were younger than I am but still too old to know the names of any rappers. Effervescent they were not. Perhaps they had been sentenced to perform community service hours for displaying a Biden/Harris yard sign somewhere in the neighborhood?</p><p>Tickets were $5, but if you upgraded to the pit pass, $10. I had a ten spot and so told them I wanted the pit pass. They told me that they weren’t selling those—I had to go across the track for those. But they said, I didn’t need one anyway since no one would check. I could walk over there for free. Clearly no one explained the concept of upselling to them. </p><p>I told them that with my admission I’d take $5 in 50/50 tickets, even though I think 50/50 raffles should be relegated to their natural environment: Knights of Columbus functions.</p><p>The 50/50 jackpot at the Penn State football game the day before was in excess of $30,000. This time around, if it reached $75 I would have been surprised. And yes, not that anyone asked, but I think it’s crazy to have a 50/50 raffle at a Penn State football game. Everyone knows that 50/50 raffles should be left to the Knights of Columbus. </p><p>I turned around and gave my raffle tickets to the vapers. I said, “this is for saving my seat while I walk through the pits”. I found this terribly amusing since we were the only people on the bleacher. They looked at me as if I were crazy. Perhaps vaping dulls one’s response to irony?</p><p>Since I had the “all clear” to see the pits, I went right away, before someone decided that I really did need the $10 ticket. There were maybe ten or fifteen utility trailers that had been towed by pickups. It looked as if each trailer toted a few lawnmowers. The mowers were higher mileage than the ticket selling "girls"…I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.</p><p>In addition to mowers there were some go-karts too. Apparently there are several different classes of these tiny speedsters. Most of them had some sort of race car body that looked as if it was made in a <a href="https://www.goretro.com/2016/12/before-3d-printers-there-was-mattels.html" target="_blank">Mattel Vac-U-Form.</a> Some had roll cages, too. I marveled that an adult with arms and legs could fit in any of them. <br /></p><p>I got the hairy eyeball from some of the people in the pit area. None of the racers were doing much talking—it was sort of Clint Eastwood-y. I cocked my head to listen for the theme song to the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLgJ7pk0X-s" target="_blank"><i>Good, The Bad, and The Ugly</i>.</a> </p><p>And since I know nothing about lawnmowers or anything else that has an internal combustion engine, I didn’t’ stop and say, “Wow, I’ve never seen a Gravely with a gonkulator like that.” That didn’t seem like a high percentage way to make new friends. I didn’t linger.<br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKSaNfbh6ciCjnZHFeS-5urGO8V7pULSE0RMiCKY_GyT53ub312E9WAdOrhbBim4pYoCQFOQqrk_8hkkrQ8vrkL0JL5HNKSv66NszkX7xPLbh_lSjNQo5y4BT5MH4jAdYum84iAikrv3cU/s1756/merch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1756" data-original-width="1404" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKSaNfbh6ciCjnZHFeS-5urGO8V7pULSE0RMiCKY_GyT53ub312E9WAdOrhbBim4pYoCQFOQqrk_8hkkrQ8vrkL0JL5HNKSv66NszkX7xPLbh_lSjNQo5y4BT5MH4jAdYum84iAikrv3cU/s320/merch.jpg" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yes, there was a merch tent. FYI, the feet with the pink plastic Birkenstocks are not included in the sale of a purple t-shirt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I was walking back to my seat, the announcer came back on the PA to
announce the playing of the national anthem. Fortunately, it was a
recording of some symphonic band and not a live performance by someone’s
relative. Unlike at Beaver Stadium, the announcer did not need to remind
spectators to rise and remove our hats. Everyone did it without being
reminded. <br /></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAL2K71ksnO55tnHzqAW32-AP624jGInAK4l2BonHoFPKmjtuPh-wkmflrPCy6ZwJoPP8qXqed6aTA9FqzBUHyXO4vO_oNZmZj89bI3Zd2QwKletR61T59vnHU7ZySjQQlhixarrJZ0n8/s1846/Officials+Box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1476" data-original-width="1846" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAL2K71ksnO55tnHzqAW32-AP624jGInAK4l2BonHoFPKmjtuPh-wkmflrPCy6ZwJoPP8qXqed6aTA9FqzBUHyXO4vO_oNZmZj89bI3Zd2QwKletR61T59vnHU7ZySjQQlhixarrJZ0n8/s320/Officials+Box.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The announcer worked in a minimalist booth that was more <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilligan%27s_Island" target="_blank">Gilligan's Island</a> than <a href="https://dahp.wa.gov/historic-preservation/historic-buildings/architectural-style-guide/miesian" target="_blank">Mies van der Rohe</a>. In fact, if you added some palm fronds and bamboo, Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell, III would have felt right at home. What they would have said about lawnmower racing is anyone's guess.<br /></div><p>After the National Anthem, the announcer read the name and hometowns of the drivers as four lawn mowers drove onto the track for the first heat of the day. As they took another warmup lap they kicked up plenty of dust—even though the track had just been sprayed down--and made even more noise than during warm ups. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1d2SRsf4X8r-AWzkClPImh1RvDHZdmXTl1i_0gnem_tgwJBc5VKWDGr3vopc3Sbd8p5MtHAYenfxTexivIVZeazhLQOc97pWgorLItMDn-oNe6gCp6zmQCMBP6WfzOnpgAq4NEMc98gM/s809/Green+flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="809" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1d2SRsf4X8r-AWzkClPImh1RvDHZdmXTl1i_0gnem_tgwJBc5VKWDGr3vopc3Sbd8p5MtHAYenfxTexivIVZeazhLQOc97pWgorLItMDn-oNe6gCp6zmQCMBP6WfzOnpgAq4NEMc98gM/s320/Green+flag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>At the end of the warmup lap, as the racers came around to the front stretch, the starter waved the green flag—just like at NASCAR—and they were off. The scrum of zippy mowers made it to the second turn when one driver lost control and his ride went into the fence. The red flag came out stopping the race as the driver got up, and dusted himself off. He seemed to be ok, but something was broken on his machine (the gonkulator, no doubt) and he pushed it off the course. <p></p><p>Once the remaining mowers got going, the race was equal parts exciting and scary. Those little mowers are quick. My grandfather would have said that they went like scalded cats. <br /></p><p>In the second race, there was a more serious wreck. One of the mowers went into the fence near the pit area, wiping out a couple of the sponsor signs and a bit of fence. The EMTs walked over at the speed of guys who’ve just had a hip replacement. Even my vaping buddies commented on how slow the EMTs were. I started to think that the EMTs were Christian Scientists hoping that prayer would fix whatever was wrong with the driver. It took a while, but eventually the driver stood up and waved to the crowd. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lsBEoYWQ-NN_PzRtM0MDvyl4GuBt_AMkbe7Tn60_UeBe1PgZaOrTpgfAZIHsyYUBLKZjlE9AzuS1q66bdUkZ9rvTj9E5W5GXJSGN0_9MWXFGwHFsx7XsAusPyjGTnl5hoaSub0nYeRia/s1476/racing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1476" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lsBEoYWQ-NN_PzRtM0MDvyl4GuBt_AMkbe7Tn60_UeBe1PgZaOrTpgfAZIHsyYUBLKZjlE9AzuS1q66bdUkZ9rvTj9E5W5GXJSGN0_9MWXFGwHFsx7XsAusPyjGTnl5hoaSub0nYeRia/s320/racing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After that wreck the drivers seemed to get the hang of it, high tailing it around the course, occasionally on two wheels in a turn. And if you’re thinking that these men (and the occasional woman) have bodies like jockeys or fighter pilots…wrong. Lots of them looked as if they didn’t stint on the carbs or anything else for that matter. There was a whole lotta jiggling going on. I suppose if you're driving something with no suspension over a dirt track at high speeds, built in padding comes in handy. <br /><p></p><p>After I don’t know how many races, it was time for intermission and they brought out the Ford truck to wet down the track again. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekzF8Szxo_2Diz2JsVpTRSRSvJgr_p49jSh8O7OU8AwoBaC3LBYhmU47n7nrkwBbZcNrAcms-O2IJ1hzrnHsgPMsJ6YxybZWFDDIVjg2NEti9u2wMMlQ3HR-szOcWRAcrtp1SyyyXjrrX/s1536/featured+winner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1536" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekzF8Szxo_2Diz2JsVpTRSRSvJgr_p49jSh8O7OU8AwoBaC3LBYhmU47n7nrkwBbZcNrAcms-O2IJ1hzrnHsgPMsJ6YxybZWFDDIVjg2NEti9u2wMMlQ3HR-szOcWRAcrtp1SyyyXjrrX/s320/featured+winner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Even though I would miss the seeing the featured race, I decided that it was time say my goodbyes and beat the traffic--had there been any traffic. I would have stayed longer if there were going to be a fistfight, but alas, it seemed like everyone was on his or her best behavior. <p></p><p>There’s one more weekend of racing this fall, October 9 and 10. I'm up for a return trip. Shall I save you a seat? <br /></p>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-5731404795045890772021-09-11T21:08:00.004-04:002021-09-17T22:31:40.017-04:00Oh the Humanity! <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MZ_RzZj0D47QQfjLCBrhH_pZMsHOoCXfnlZOnlYm6HWjq553o-oA6p5vEhoqPDLpgvw0oEF60I0lv8Jki_yv6O0J9lt8ZV60LPvIwtM9mf4FpiZTQVs4CNKFqEKTyoe04-n0nDZng23t/s926/Greeings+from+New+Jerey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="926" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MZ_RzZj0D47QQfjLCBrhH_pZMsHOoCXfnlZOnlYm6HWjq553o-oA6p5vEhoqPDLpgvw0oEF60I0lv8Jki_yv6O0J9lt8ZV60LPvIwtM9mf4FpiZTQVs4CNKFqEKTyoe04-n0nDZng23t/s320/Greeings+from+New+Jerey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve wanted to visit the <i>Hindenburg </i>crash site when I'm at the Jersey shore for some time. What’s more New Jersey than a famous Zeppelin crash? Yes, it would have been better if it had crashed into a toxic waste dump, or its demise could be traced to a gas bag punctured by a lunatic wielding the safety pin on a beach tag, but, hey, real life isn’t designed by bloggers. <p></p><p>According to the website of <a href="https://www.nlhs.com/" target="_blank">Navy Lakehurst Historical Society</a>, the steward of the crash site, tours are offered in the summer months on Wednesdays and the second and fourth Saturdays. Reservations—made at least two weeks in advance—are required, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Tours last three hours. A three-hour tour of a charred spot on the ground? Oy. </p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQvMexvjdryPbRyevKNKSANsbO-NFAlu51AZKEsnd5vwhj_2TZazXLP_wL_wV0G48-3MXGqREFgP45ODbBwzJ3InETocTC5kNdnsePNNctckNWBLAJo6WyMg9-rWe3euyYKc79WSwrIUK/s540/Joint+Base+McGuire+Dix+Lakehurst.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="540" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQvMexvjdryPbRyevKNKSANsbO-NFAlu51AZKEsnd5vwhj_2TZazXLP_wL_wV0G48-3MXGqREFgP45ODbBwzJ3InETocTC5kNdnsePNNctckNWBLAJo6WyMg9-rWe3euyYKc79WSwrIUK/s320/Joint+Base+McGuire+Dix+Lakehurst.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now called <a href="https://www.jbmdl.jb.mil/" target="_blank">Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst</a>, the former Lakehurst Naval Air Station was more than just the <i>Hindenburg</i> crash site. It was also home to the US Navy’s dirigibles <i>Shenandoah, Los Angeles, Akron</i>, and <i>Macon</i>, not to mention a slew of Navy blimps, and the Navy’s first helicopter squadron. The base was the first international airport in the US and was the western terminus for both German dirigibles <i>Graf Zeppelin</i> and <i>Hindenburg</i>. </div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Sqzky-7qNFSvXTE-I1gtjqhuqzLy0vZr8atC5rTys4yU6iQae3YjH2ldSjjiyUeSUXXRxadD-nYbzec3qUmqNonYhcRG4FCjGMGrfBuidn5_e9a_wtqbOKObbort58M1Us4XlBsadbc5/s443/Ejector+seat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Sqzky-7qNFSvXTE-I1gtjqhuqzLy0vZr8atC5rTys4yU6iQae3YjH2ldSjjiyUeSUXXRxadD-nYbzec3qUmqNonYhcRG4FCjGMGrfBuidn5_e9a_wtqbOKObbort58M1Us4XlBsadbc5/s320/Ejector+seat.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>And, saving the best for last, the first live ejection seat tests were done there. How could anyone pass all of that up? <p></p><p></p><p>As they say on late night infomercials, but wait, there’s more. The tour also promised <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/cathedral-in-the-air" target="_blank">The Cathedral of The Air</a> (what?), the Navy Lakehurst Heritage Center, The Ready Room, the POW-MIA Room and Historic Hangar One. No wonder it was scheduled for three hours.</p><p>I emailed about a reservation and got an ALL CAPS reply instructing me to fill out the CONTACT FORM. After I sent in the appropriate info, I got another ALL CAPS reply. The acknowledgement started with this line: DO NOT GO TO THE MAIN GATE AT NAVAL BASE and went on from there, in a style that can only be described as military English as a second language. But it was good to know that “A GIFT SHOP IS AVAILABLE”. Available for what, well, your guess is as good as mine. </p><p>The acknowledgement included driving directions from the Newark Airport and Patuxent River, MD (seriously) but did not include directions for getting there from what used to be called the “shore points”. They didn’t include a street address for plugging into a GPS or even the name of the place I was looking for. The instructions ended with this bit of info: <i>Bear left on Route 547 at traffic light and proceed about ¼ Mile on left large church parking lot. (If you go over RR tracks you went too far).</i> <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkcHsVET1HljQNRDYydQQDQhXvJRgr58fiFvun_jGwkXlui5N93HWIGh3svp8YNhQSeIUPTUVeyZ-xmOrKbdYVIqdTBADKuYSbHPWVTlLOPyv6ZqgEM_RSqMPyXREFdRHYdef8_ODSGmj/s800/Leisure-Village-Sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkcHsVET1HljQNRDYydQQDQhXvJRgr58fiFvun_jGwkXlui5N93HWIGh3svp8YNhQSeIUPTUVeyZ-xmOrKbdYVIqdTBADKuYSbHPWVTlLOPyv6ZqgEM_RSqMPyXREFdRHYdef8_ODSGmj/s320/Leisure-Village-Sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, I figured out how to get there on my own, though it was difficult to pass up the turns for Leisure Village....<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxvV50htzkXIFso8zKFeLzwbYzTlePYKQxeYIpbRKOzBmMtM5pTdFOYOddPQ6QCVDkigSuApoEpdCTFp0_kQ6Gn-SGxd20IdiNPorTt9sSOTWHeqvkqhA6fvKLhEPShXzpfMPbITvXlCo/s511/Leisure+Knoll.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="511" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxvV50htzkXIFso8zKFeLzwbYzTlePYKQxeYIpbRKOzBmMtM5pTdFOYOddPQ6QCVDkigSuApoEpdCTFp0_kQ6Gn-SGxd20IdiNPorTt9sSOTWHeqvkqhA6fvKLhEPShXzpfMPbITvXlCo/s320/Leisure+Knoll.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>... and Leisure Knoll. <p></p><p></p><p>The large church parking lot turned out to be the parking area for the Cathedral of the Air. And I was there right on time too, even counting that nanosecond delay when I actually considered going to Leisure Village. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenNNDWhthrYhGdNjs7e8nLLKPKEf4pAwS8Nv4ZDQ1JpsWtqPRu1K-pgqp7dXGZMd-mp6DJmhxRY_UOnqlY0x0qohrhRGo8t4sPuDZIivMtlQY65LEXdmdsNR-ZK4TkcMpFMhz8WQs-La4/s2048/IMG_5295.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenNNDWhthrYhGdNjs7e8nLLKPKEf4pAwS8Nv4ZDQ1JpsWtqPRu1K-pgqp7dXGZMd-mp6DJmhxRY_UOnqlY0x0qohrhRGo8t4sPuDZIivMtlQY65LEXdmdsNR-ZK4TkcMpFMhz8WQs-La4/s320/IMG_5295.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>There were about ten people there for the morning tour, including two families with kids. There were two docents on hand to guide us through the morning’s tour. The taller one, with bearing and voice like an NCO, did most of the talking. The other guide, of a more avuncular mien, was a tad forgetful and seemed like the backup docent. <p></p><p>As you might expect from something having to do with the military, it was hurry up and wait. We had to be there promptly at 9:30 so we could flog our yo-yos in Calcutta-like heat and humidity in a large church parking lot. The reason? A TV station was filming b-roll in the Cathedral. Seriously, they couldn’t have scheduled the TV station to shoot b-roll at some other time? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeJPdccOaYJoxIpH8TPXREhSZq6UQXlal8Q4-JhiA-IFpJg9z3VPsq77rl4VkEYQQ-t00VhA4aMq1HWaGVxHDFw9zPBJDnDGHg3EtTiUqTiYdK2RozvxluhOla-HhpIM-vXsefM_9-Am8/s2048/Cathedral+of+the+Air+1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeJPdccOaYJoxIpH8TPXREhSZq6UQXlal8Q4-JhiA-IFpJg9z3VPsq77rl4VkEYQQ-t00VhA4aMq1HWaGVxHDFw9zPBJDnDGHg3EtTiUqTiYdK2RozvxluhOla-HhpIM-vXsefM_9-Am8/s320/Cathedral+of+the+Air+1.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/cathedral-in-the-air" target="_blank">Cathedral of the Air</a> is a non-denominational chapel, rather than a cathedral, which as churchy folks know is the seat of a bishop. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwl-nURO6QnoMJlSes1C00fTwNl-eQfNGZKGQipBHiqezuYvmWAuMi-BNYAaW6qz0mMRkxgvPYQQdyKMiE2CVMKP0vLtBUy7tMn4ao6VQ0OSmSuKaNsIJ7OWMHL4ApMgso2ck6k-25f07/s2048/IMG_5393.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwl-nURO6QnoMJlSes1C00fTwNl-eQfNGZKGQipBHiqezuYvmWAuMi-BNYAaW6qz0mMRkxgvPYQQdyKMiE2CVMKP0vLtBUy7tMn4ao6VQ0OSmSuKaNsIJ7OWMHL4ApMgso2ck6k-25f07/s320/IMG_5393.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>When it was built in 1932, it was on the Lakehurst base, but in the intervening years both the border of the base and the highway were moved, so now the building is in sort of no man’s land, with its back to the roadway. <p></p><p></p><p>Someone with too much of someone else’s money thought that the place might be a terrorist’s target, and so after 9/11 we taxpayers paid for a big fence around the place. </p><p>The Cathedral of the Air was conceived by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gill_Robb_Wilson" target="_blank">Gill Rob Wilson</a>, a World War I aviator who was ordained as a Presbyterian minister after the war. It was designed by well-known Philadelphia architect <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Philippe_Cret" target="_blank">Paul Phillipe Cret</a> in a Norman Gothic style. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Q_F1tQT_tDOljhInx6t9VY0x4L3BxCzRrjnr1YwWBmxrkSiJ6DtYuKAKWFNY0u2lz6NHGSuS1gZ6Z4wyafSP3sKTXuD6ZB7C-bQOpw3Z9RYmVfIzsILqPwi3GTm5uRMAOSJq08UEJsii/s400/Gill+Robb+Wilson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Q_F1tQT_tDOljhInx6t9VY0x4L3BxCzRrjnr1YwWBmxrkSiJ6DtYuKAKWFNY0u2lz6NHGSuS1gZ6Z4wyafSP3sKTXuD6ZB7C-bQOpw3Z9RYmVfIzsILqPwi3GTm5uRMAOSJq08UEJsii/s320/Gill+Robb+Wilson.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>Rev. Wilson sounded like an interesting guy. After this ordination, he was called by the 4th Presbyterian Church of Trenton, and while there served as the Chaplain for the American Legion in New Jersey. After his wife and daughter died of influenza, he lost the ability to speak and doctors recommended total silence if he wanted to regain his voice. Yikes! Wiki is unclear here, but presumably his voice returned at some point.<p></p><p>Rev. Wilson left his calling and became the Director of Aeronautics for the State of New Jersey, presumably because safe air travel in the 1920s required lots of prayers. He went on to become not only the first director of the <a href="https://www.gocivilairpatrol.com/" target="_blank">Civil Air Patrol</a> but also the first member of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association. If that weren’t enough, he witnessed an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuclear_testing_at_Bikini_Atoll" target="_blank">atomic bomb test at the Bikini Atoll</a> and became the editor of <i>Flying</i> magazine. The airport in Parkersburg, WV is named in his honor. </p><p>In case you’re wondering, none of that info is on the tour. Conveying that info would have taken up valuable time that we spent flogging our yo-yos. </p><p>After what seemed like forever but was probably 20 minutes, the TV folks had their b-roll and the docents showed us into the building. We gathered in the narthex where they pointed out the bronze tablets that were memorials to two US Navy airships: The USS <i>Akron</i> and USS <i>Shenandoah</i>. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3r0A49LSjGQySM_rGFeb_F8pG975BQ0B78JihTQ6zCMSDdHgxIywWmPkkhB10pEIcERZdLbzTCnTnQnh-ZCOLlawiXuqT4nkVN2IzuP8c2aZtGc-7jjknxL9B0bt_y74-WOKfgHXnSzz/s2048/USS+Shenandoah.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1638" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3r0A49LSjGQySM_rGFeb_F8pG975BQ0B78JihTQ6zCMSDdHgxIywWmPkkhB10pEIcERZdLbzTCnTnQnh-ZCOLlawiXuqT4nkVN2IzuP8c2aZtGc-7jjknxL9B0bt_y74-WOKfgHXnSzz/s320/USS+Shenandoah.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>For those of you unfamiliar with the Navy’s rigid airship program, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Shenandoah_(ZR-1)" target="_blank">USS <i>Shenandoah</i> (ZR-1)</a> was the first of four United States Navy rigid airships. Almost 700 feet long, it was constructed during 1922–1923 at Lakehurst. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkP2d63gaReJ092Sae_BFv88XV8DIq-CKC_HcTT9fx7o_m6RQOqVyZuRoZBr0VX6CNSmNwS_SAgJaEYEZeuvd9d_2g8jTQzU57eODYfoE7Tf5Au2SEjgBNlw5cQi4hRN7e09dCo92wU7G/s2048/Shenandoah+Tablet.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkP2d63gaReJ092Sae_BFv88XV8DIq-CKC_HcTT9fx7o_m6RQOqVyZuRoZBr0VX6CNSmNwS_SAgJaEYEZeuvd9d_2g8jTQzU57eODYfoE7Tf5Au2SEjgBNlw5cQi4hRN7e09dCo92wU7G/s320/Shenandoah+Tablet.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>In September 1925, during its 57th flight, it crashed in bad weather in Ohio, killing 14 of the 43 men on board. <p></p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Akron" target="_blank"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7P5cAkwuGZze1i2F088k_occ7pA1Uttp2H39lLw8N-XSMIKOZhYoLVZ_P_63fDqFGG8Lk9QBcfY4Q9HQTUtw7zbRsoSvVswBOlVi_sWDTQEsZ1W0uR7bi6LOYoXnqaHXk3ZME8xQCUHQ/s713/USS+Akron.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="713" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7P5cAkwuGZze1i2F088k_occ7pA1Uttp2H39lLw8N-XSMIKOZhYoLVZ_P_63fDqFGG8Lk9QBcfY4Q9HQTUtw7zbRsoSvVswBOlVi_sWDTQEsZ1W0uR7bi6LOYoXnqaHXk3ZME8xQCUHQ/s320/USS+Akron.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Akron" target="_blank">USS <i>Akron</i> (ZRS-4)</a> was built in Akron, OH and was commissioned by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Henry_Hoover" target="_blank">First Lady Lou Hoover</a> in August 1931. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgm-LOaNtUCLnWJ5nuukEpWYAlRhPYQq6tv4XGlksVhrTNHIG4D8kmnUlosxeS5lAtdC4Z7doBDCq5GuhZ0mpb1d3RQFib5PBvjxB4TYLw9mZ4oYe1ftK4xfo1p7uyDIHa_yk4ssvY6t6/s500/Airship+Fighters.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="387" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgm-LOaNtUCLnWJ5nuukEpWYAlRhPYQq6tv4XGlksVhrTNHIG4D8kmnUlosxeS5lAtdC4Z7doBDCq5GuhZ0mpb1d3RQFib5PBvjxB4TYLw9mZ4oYe1ftK4xfo1p7uyDIHa_yk4ssvY6t6/s320/Airship+Fighters.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>The 785-foot-long Akron was designed to be a flying aircraft carrier of sorts, with the ability to launch and retrieve up to five <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curtiss_F9C_Sparrowhawk" target="_blank">Curtiss F9C Sparrowhawk</a> biplanes.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0piO1n2xN3eJ9SvcG-ZbLvrmXGHMgGhsXKw20ihg2OWtRg3dleswQjlLW0iPpsj9nC-G0d2IiCrITxKI3_ruXONbtDXcIg-D4bM-l1jF_HRJb5m1_d_SYF1nQ-YF_17e9co9NEqnjM57H/s2048/Akron+Tablet.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0piO1n2xN3eJ9SvcG-ZbLvrmXGHMgGhsXKw20ihg2OWtRg3dleswQjlLW0iPpsj9nC-G0d2IiCrITxKI3_ruXONbtDXcIg-D4bM-l1jF_HRJb5m1_d_SYF1nQ-YF_17e9co9NEqnjM57H/s320/Akron+Tablet.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>In April 1933, <i>Akron</i> crashed in a storm off New Jersey’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barnegat_Lighthouse" target="_blank">Barnegat Light</a>, killing 73, including an admiral. It's safe to say that there would have been more survivors had the Navy thought to provide life jackets for those onboard. (There is no record of ordering folks to put their tray tables in an upright and locked position.) Interestingly enough, the US Navy dispatched a blimp to search for survivors, and it crashed, killing two more men. <p></p><p>You don’t have to go too far into the building before deciding that riding on a US Navy airship was kind of a dicey affair.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUKS38KebZ_KRFqK1pu5r1gHvOri8GzkbrOSR81j2uTmxv8Rclsz0YZyDYTZXJGtx3r8FEoTQljeuWf9ib8mpdFARu-YXgEwNG7BDF6mq0CD5o8-JKOiJYEHWIbxKEdberTnXxj_9hGqD/s2048/IMG_5324.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUKS38KebZ_KRFqK1pu5r1gHvOri8GzkbrOSR81j2uTmxv8Rclsz0YZyDYTZXJGtx3r8FEoTQljeuWf9ib8mpdFARu-YXgEwNG7BDF6mq0CD5o8-JKOiJYEHWIbxKEdberTnXxj_9hGqD/s320/IMG_5324.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>The building is a bit forlorn; it feels like a church that’s been shut up for years. The grounds need some TLC, there are no announcements pinned to bulletin boards, no friendship registers at the end of pews, and the hymnals are ancient. The furniture in the chancel looks as if someone moved it in order to run the vacuum cleaner and never bothered to put it back. <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgto3jHddLbUifdAn0mnR2jemQ4pZNYG-lwPeril1DQC94IeswC3WkmIJh-0bkRk8IsU_PoOJ_TsWmPaq_5MK6L5wH0Uql-GzhdSv386K1O5397peLaFhdf8D8sQKMT_9r-LDBHaupAHO-C/s2048/IMG_5321.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgto3jHddLbUifdAn0mnR2jemQ4pZNYG-lwPeril1DQC94IeswC3WkmIJh-0bkRk8IsU_PoOJ_TsWmPaq_5MK6L5wH0Uql-GzhdSv386K1O5397peLaFhdf8D8sQKMT_9r-LDBHaupAHO-C/s320/IMG_5321.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What we did see were the spectacular stained-glass windows designed by <a href="https://www.philadelphiabuildings.org/pab/app/ar_display.cfm/23357" target="_blank">D'Ascenzo Studios</a> and <a href="https://stained-glass-window.us/" target="_blank">Willet Studios</a>, both of Philadelphia. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS4V-kcFySpSVA1V7v76ftyCpKuW32zDrYkyJHA1JhQtMr4ddePpPLInWkOXVWv0ihRwKZ0inQn3tI9giN1M95yg195BzHQj-XLlGLy6KHr4WedvuPMhkt9LY0NBK_U4TI7Joec3ApMIE/s2048/First+Air+Mail+Flight+Window.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2047" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIS4V-kcFySpSVA1V7v76ftyCpKuW32zDrYkyJHA1JhQtMr4ddePpPLInWkOXVWv0ihRwKZ0inQn3tI9giN1M95yg195BzHQj-XLlGLy6KHr4WedvuPMhkt9LY0NBK_U4TI7Joec3ApMIE/s320/First+Air+Mail+Flight+Window.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I didn't expect to see the first air mail flight depicted in stained glass...<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWMnwPBbT29SqtvU9LTkvzGH1kgz_lpoJzI_LI25KsLktrcqH6lXgg0lKlEirW5sX6PPtGQzApmvn5U5cJXIDnXnfQj9KF5-YEg5Yn4_zjdL4FfqRciMUWmSyTApetml-hNkVEpQm0lgj/s2048/Wright+Brothers+Window.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1637" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWMnwPBbT29SqtvU9LTkvzGH1kgz_lpoJzI_LI25KsLktrcqH6lXgg0lKlEirW5sX6PPtGQzApmvn5U5cJXIDnXnfQj9KF5-YEg5Yn4_zjdL4FfqRciMUWmSyTApetml-hNkVEpQm0lgj/s320/Wright+Brothers+Window.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...or the Wright brothers...</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLSwCxJZAKDa0guU5bz_mstMADCpHb_tvGlwO1z71B68LzbbtqpJ3QMWi4yEtLnWHcs32KnPAhAm5Lal-5lf4vOaFukw3rJSakUwI3UZzCK1vhP5-NWJrU5PKxb_1Mu_H1FuX6OKP31Ma/s2048/Flying+Carpet+Window.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLSwCxJZAKDa0guU5bz_mstMADCpHb_tvGlwO1z71B68LzbbtqpJ3QMWi4yEtLnWHcs32KnPAhAm5Lal-5lf4vOaFukw3rJSakUwI3UZzCK1vhP5-NWJrU5PKxb_1Mu_H1FuX6OKP31Ma/s320/Flying+Carpet+Window.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and especially not a flying carpet or Roman centurion with a carrier pigeon! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYroDnUN-_k6IeVc4KfsMzMZf1iXOOCAwUTQRMDQEl80fH4oJjWObEau4cbog_t9eMjIUep-tQuZ7MyHdlAsfBCZ6ipb7CLb24ihAeLGw0CHrfDpMWySuTKcKoQGnehTxNpnkM6hzl20P/s2048/Four+Chaplains+Window+1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYroDnUN-_k6IeVc4KfsMzMZf1iXOOCAwUTQRMDQEl80fH4oJjWObEau4cbog_t9eMjIUep-tQuZ7MyHdlAsfBCZ6ipb7CLb24ihAeLGw0CHrfDpMWySuTKcKoQGnehTxNpnkM6hzl20P/s320/Four+Chaplains+Window+1.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Most of the windows are about the history of flight, though one of my favorites told the incredible story of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Chaplains" target="_blank">Four Chaplains</a>—two Protestants, a Roman Catholic, and a Rabbi--who gave up their life jackets to American soldiers and went down with the ship when the troopship USS <i>Dorchester</i> was torpedoed by the Nazis in 1943. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A <a href="http://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,738547,00.html" target="_blank">1930 <i>Time</i> magazine article</a> said that the plan was to have altar vessels made out of salvaged metal from the USS <i>Shenandoah</i>. I don’t know if that actually happened, but it seems a bit creepy to me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Cathedral of the Air is a relic, and rather sad, but it has so much potential. It needs to be used for something--by a church, as a wedding venue, or even for concerts.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9HBBSChY7YVazHoVMmjoNnxR-BzsNbIxPj4eHd49K9MDDkI1inr8MzU7uGJJSAtk6TwQ2RPIsyaYQwJSoN6ZIJy6AmYqDjGw0muyqFgu03eJksAe35sr75kbii1U4hBkQDPNfnaYtOHH/s2048/IMG_5319.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9HBBSChY7YVazHoVMmjoNnxR-BzsNbIxPj4eHd49K9MDDkI1inr8MzU7uGJJSAtk6TwQ2RPIsyaYQwJSoN6ZIJy6AmYqDjGw0muyqFgu03eJksAe35sr75kbii1U4hBkQDPNfnaYtOHH/s320/IMG_5319.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>But there was no time to dwell on that. We had to head out into the Calcutta-like heat and humidity to see where the <i>Hindenburg</i> crashed. <br /></div><p></p><p>We formed up in a caravan for the short drive to the base. We were warned not to take any photos of the gate and check in procedure. Security, you know! We had to navigate through a chicane of concrete Jersey barricades and show our ID to the soldier staffing the gate so she could check us off on her list. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGk3EuvzeiGeKmSylYGY4UmVRzzDywNKB95SWZ-Cwkw_enZa6dUxY5zNtpecTlB-B62P2JAskCtZK419uTNHVMi9GPdFh3bvY3x5QVc5sjmjTZoMhv6gzNdRdnM52BDGzQXgSVjm7vEiq/s2048/IMG_5329.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGk3EuvzeiGeKmSylYGY4UmVRzzDywNKB95SWZ-Cwkw_enZa6dUxY5zNtpecTlB-B62P2JAskCtZK419uTNHVMi9GPdFh3bvY3x5QVc5sjmjTZoMhv6gzNdRdnM52BDGzQXgSVjm7vEiq/s320/IMG_5329.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>We followed the lead docent out to a big clearing marked by a post with a tiny zeppelin shaped weather vane on it. We weren’t on a runway, or the road, but on some abandoned piece of tarmac, which seemed to be the natural ground cover of Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-CA3I6WGCua8WXUtIT2e8KDdBqzn3Q8hbS0ORVR-yRVwNmyBcCAmLAgJC42bZDe6-EKb47lDD-wNjEN4vzDcfoUB7fm506HAKhF0FeMbeoeRghTM5dJWvtwNMVaH4Esx0204tuiZUCNE/s2048/IMG_5337.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-CA3I6WGCua8WXUtIT2e8KDdBqzn3Q8hbS0ORVR-yRVwNmyBcCAmLAgJC42bZDe6-EKb47lDD-wNjEN4vzDcfoUB7fm506HAKhF0FeMbeoeRghTM5dJWvtwNMVaH4Esx0204tuiZUCNE/s320/IMG_5337.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Thick anchor chain, painted yellow, outlined a patch of earth that was perhaps 10’ by 50’. In the middle of the rectangle was a small bronze tablet, placed there by the freeholders of Ocean County on May 6, 1987, the 50th anniversary of the <i>Hindenburg</i> crash. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEtJc9CsTiRoC06ol5xnXg4vRPO7AuOWAMJLSD3PpHhMwRwXX-9eyJv2qyNT6qLdq1eHqut_8ePkOGERGYi_yRX6ttJTZ5Af7HlxDky7bGBpvFCv0qHghyphenhyphenheD34NPIDrlkHSwJOFVE7C_/s2048/IMG_5336.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEtJc9CsTiRoC06ol5xnXg4vRPO7AuOWAMJLSD3PpHhMwRwXX-9eyJv2qyNT6qLdq1eHqut_8ePkOGERGYi_yRX6ttJTZ5Af7HlxDky7bGBpvFCv0qHghyphenhyphenheD34NPIDrlkHSwJOFVE7C_/s320/IMG_5336.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>The marker is in the approximate spot where the Hindenburg’s gondola hit the ground. It’s not much of a marker, but at least it’s something. <br /><p></p><p>We gathered around the docents as they told us the story of the Hindenburg’s final hours, how it came in to land after its first scheduled transatlantic voyage of 1937, caught fire, and crashed. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4tz6eJqa0vonMyg2WQnUGsxs980fyE1Jt3LLEAzOdcruOlCgEXmOT1_mebqv8T7I5W39HB4HttKT-34u6c1FGcf3iuJsMGMXSH9P2xTZ4L6MuFQOr3X-L6nEDr6EF2jWNJn1QODOZXX8/s2048/IMG_5334.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1638" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4tz6eJqa0vonMyg2WQnUGsxs980fyE1Jt3LLEAzOdcruOlCgEXmOT1_mebqv8T7I5W39HB4HttKT-34u6c1FGcf3iuJsMGMXSH9P2xTZ4L6MuFQOr3X-L6nEDr6EF2jWNJn1QODOZXX8/s320/IMG_5334.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>At the end of his clear, detailed, and compelling story (elapsed time: 5
minutes) the lead guide hit play on a boom box held it over his head so we
could hear <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7Ly1Oh-xvs" target="_blank">the famous Herbert Morrison recording</a>
(“…oh the humanity!”) of his account of the crash. Interestingly
enough, Morrison was a radio reporter and was not shooting film, so any
bit of film synced to the recording was created after the fact. <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8iz3Tr_-qcUhLqgeoo9KQ-GVmX_7P9Z3mKX7ax_0RniM-dMki5rHkalXkTByKoidf4auMMy8xrt75kKXZ-fzYw2EHCYgvpFn31wp62guRCaskmY9eAcGt_Sg1kkSkH-nhs-bYZ2LjGye/s859/Hindenburg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="859" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8iz3Tr_-qcUhLqgeoo9KQ-GVmX_7P9Z3mKX7ax_0RniM-dMki5rHkalXkTByKoidf4auMMy8xrt75kKXZ-fzYw2EHCYgvpFn31wp62guRCaskmY9eAcGt_Sg1kkSkH-nhs-bYZ2LjGye/s320/Hindenburg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Our guide's belief was that a spark of static electricity ignited leaking hydrogen causing the crash. For those of you keeping track at home, there were 97 people on the airship—36 passengers and 61 crew—there were extra crew on board for training. Of the 36 who were killed, 13 were passengers, 22 were crew, and a civilian on the ground crew died too. Many of those who survived had terrible burns. <p></p><p></p><p>Although the <i>Hindenburg</i> crash is the world’s most famous airship disaster, twice as many people were killed when the <i>Akron</i> went down. The famous photos, newsreel footage, and Morrison’s narration are seared into our collective memory. Very few know the story of USS <i>Akron </i>which crashed when no one was there to record the scene<i>.</i> <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxV3GnlsiYx23BEhrwvN5AmrhlQXN_m60UCV0rjQmpwmd-51NWXs4SEW1-oF2rnAfTSRSydftD4Z-RfS21XSV1KbueKJibfWM1_CZuyxrCX01qlvD8828ZapdyC67GcXZCBP91hDF3qM2/s1838/IMG_5333.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1411" data-original-width="1838" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxV3GnlsiYx23BEhrwvN5AmrhlQXN_m60UCV0rjQmpwmd-51NWXs4SEW1-oF2rnAfTSRSydftD4Z-RfS21XSV1KbueKJibfWM1_CZuyxrCX01qlvD8828ZapdyC67GcXZCBP91hDF3qM2/s320/IMG_5333.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>After we had our fill of the crash site, we motored over to Historic Hangar #1—yes, that’s what it’s called--which was built in 1921 for dirigibles. The hanger is 966 feet long, 350 feet wide, and 224 feet high. The word enormous does not do it justice. The USS <i>Shenandoah</i> was built in the hangar, and it was used to store other airships, including <i>Hindenburg</i>.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4BcbKK-opuKXyquMmnkAxIo6D7WSySLy3MNzadPZ5fEMd4F2DtDkDaOqYXhI8hsO6SsPbck7pRsyYoSNZWEBZFY62PV0_Fie6FXI67dXOOk6qdKO1d3CmY8mrDpkqnHFndhc8nWfkd6y/s2048/IMG_5343.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4BcbKK-opuKXyquMmnkAxIo6D7WSySLy3MNzadPZ5fEMd4F2DtDkDaOqYXhI8hsO6SsPbck7pRsyYoSNZWEBZFY62PV0_Fie6FXI67dXOOk6qdKO1d3CmY8mrDpkqnHFndhc8nWfkd6y/s320/IMG_5343.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Since the US Navy is fresh out of dirigibles, the hangar now contains a mock-up of an aircraft carrier flight deck used for training, some airplanes under restoration for display at various bases, quite possibly the worst museum ever, and as far as I could tell, tons of crap. <p></p><p>One of the more interesting bits of crap is a prop from the 1975 film <i>Hindenburg</i> starring George C. Scott and Anne Bancroft. The filmmakers built a life sized model of the control room and when they were finished with it, tried to donate it to the Smithsonian. The “nations attic” wouldn’t take it since it’s a movie prop and not an actual historic artifact. However, the US Navy said sure, we have room for more crap in the 996 feet long Historic Hanger #1. </p><p>And so there it is. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5x3iV-QXgSo4hMPPlvGCVQVXzbHbLbVCbHf1p-5DdxIuADdlGXK1-zkFRf9JrscCwts9iWcKepLigYzaniB6BydX9ldFHuyjKg991HRfAgoJDKmkJnD9D0Pv07JaCRvmPxa_xGsyLrwMY/s2048/IMG_5342.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5x3iV-QXgSo4hMPPlvGCVQVXzbHbLbVCbHf1p-5DdxIuADdlGXK1-zkFRf9JrscCwts9iWcKepLigYzaniB6BydX9ldFHuyjKg991HRfAgoJDKmkJnD9D0Pv07JaCRvmPxa_xGsyLrwMY/s320/IMG_5342.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0pdptB8RZ5bPZP_uRD9rK8b16g88k80OBeg_uNuJYUqiO0YIhjqeh3dQoEq48Z06y6t45Hvnm_92VulTe45_gjG-ZP3EEIPyGSe_2dAmSDOj8IXuTZcRoSAIPMNp8DLPYSPrFWF2RV6O/s2048/IMG_5345.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0pdptB8RZ5bPZP_uRD9rK8b16g88k80OBeg_uNuJYUqiO0YIhjqeh3dQoEq48Z06y6t45Hvnm_92VulTe45_gjG-ZP3EEIPyGSe_2dAmSDOj8IXuTZcRoSAIPMNp8DLPYSPrFWF2RV6O/s320/IMG_5345.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2GIXxZog8QYl7n6KPlXYPzFirzxdxpztkOICL4EPCMAwCapJ75NkNgXvhJTFHI-Stv9Yjs3KbxHp-uHj8F6992iJLhc61s_FZ4fM_I84xEd64moH0FvBZOhcC8vEAncGiwyZVS-64YE5/s2048/IMG_5347.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2GIXxZog8QYl7n6KPlXYPzFirzxdxpztkOICL4EPCMAwCapJ75NkNgXvhJTFHI-Stv9Yjs3KbxHp-uHj8F6992iJLhc61s_FZ4fM_I84xEd64moH0FvBZOhcC8vEAncGiwyZVS-64YE5/s320/IMG_5347.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>It looks more like something out of a Jules Verne story than anything someone with a lick of sense would fly in.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xJ14hqmaRHuY3YD_rAsEvgPPfyS9k3ZzX8-qTL0KYdnHIvZDqyCHeopTMJFDsWRNqbEj-9KY3EiUchpOVfTggwhCQt8aa7kE8Zda1m4agX4wkA64MNgXf6ybsNpY_CHuZDLnHBd8nzdQ/s2048/IMG_5355.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1638" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xJ14hqmaRHuY3YD_rAsEvgPPfyS9k3ZzX8-qTL0KYdnHIvZDqyCHeopTMJFDsWRNqbEj-9KY3EiUchpOVfTggwhCQt8aa7kE8Zda1m4agX4wkA64MNgXf6ybsNpY_CHuZDLnHBd8nzdQ/s320/IMG_5355.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After a quick look at the control room, it was time to head into the Navy Lakehurst Heritage Center. This was a couple of rooms under the aircraft carrier mock-up used as a—well, heritage center. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyH4w6m3XiAHElPy3VGBUKh4bQXfiCsaPhDD1tQxHL6hLqy1oCv1DX3GKxMohZkKHCCtrulAfN3ym2vpSLec1o9AhuzcoXZfOrki_lv-uCkIv0kWo9ZvCN93ed0KnmDprkGNOv-UwwUELm/s2048/IMG_5372.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1638" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyH4w6m3XiAHElPy3VGBUKh4bQXfiCsaPhDD1tQxHL6hLqy1oCv1DX3GKxMohZkKHCCtrulAfN3ym2vpSLec1o9AhuzcoXZfOrki_lv-uCkIv0kWo9ZvCN93ed0KnmDprkGNOv-UwwUELm/s320/IMG_5372.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It’s filled to the brim with model airplanes, tchotchkes, memorabilia, and various small pieces of crap. Or as they put it in their brochure, “photographs, models of aircraft, ships, military equipment (of all US forces), clothing, patches, POW/MIA artifacts and other items”. </div><p>And Mr. NCO docent decided to tell us about each and every item. </p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyxF5BHwI9N03v51hOhFq6wTAqls_au_7-1E_K-zZf-BXJhl7-sNyYbKFJTlx3LpT31jQpOqnrSpsrFVKxpUicKbg2pycjGW5VJBpYM39Mm3pEwJQ9CHbDtxXY7mBq1bYb3dGCr8lLmCD/s2048/IMG_5358.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyxF5BHwI9N03v51hOhFq6wTAqls_au_7-1E_K-zZf-BXJhl7-sNyYbKFJTlx3LpT31jQpOqnrSpsrFVKxpUicKbg2pycjGW5VJBpYM39Mm3pEwJQ9CHbDtxXY7mBq1bYb3dGCr8lLmCD/s320/IMG_5358.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>To his credit, there were a couple of young children on the tour who were super interested and he did a great job with them. But for me, who spent a fair part of my childhood building model airplanes, listening an exegesis on the different paint schemes on a Grumman F6F Hellcat was pretty much the same as the Chinese Water Torture. Especially since that talk was followed up by an equally long discourse on the next airplane model in the display case.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCg1UBWiXXMYyVwYyxLwqB8NmQa-y2jdfdFrBQLlXN9cxI4iAlPHi59ej7abcSXq53B0i9h-cZhGwdNDTa_clFtWggi97yC54shEOZaFFtl7wDYuS6NeZc2GLZVqr60MLzY11nwq9bu1Z5/s2048/IMG_5370.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCg1UBWiXXMYyVwYyxLwqB8NmQa-y2jdfdFrBQLlXN9cxI4iAlPHi59ej7abcSXq53B0i9h-cZhGwdNDTa_clFtWggi97yC54shEOZaFFtl7wDYuS6NeZc2GLZVqr60MLzY11nwq9bu1Z5/s320/IMG_5370.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I’d just been to the Stone Harbor American Legion Museum a few days before and it was the same sort of stuff, only more of it. However, the Stone Harbor American Legion Museum does not have mannequins that looked as if they were transitioning. <br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8csTfbImQq4YBPf4-KgRz-BU3JjlhwTTGgGFN8SFUQAwFRtLCCxfu5WeT1AzoWE_BUdlVkc8Jqcunvk-GU5BwvbStCkuCm28XoQB7EJXaqgQZzgepa7e9pQPPoMtrNlRPARL6D-9RNuNb/s2048/IMG_5363.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8csTfbImQq4YBPf4-KgRz-BU3JjlhwTTGgGFN8SFUQAwFRtLCCxfu5WeT1AzoWE_BUdlVkc8Jqcunvk-GU5BwvbStCkuCm28XoQB7EJXaqgQZzgepa7e9pQPPoMtrNlRPARL6D-9RNuNb/s320/IMG_5363.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Very <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_of_Finland" target="_blank">Tom of Finland</a>, no? <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9INJ2QMnBL0ozFPvd02cR0OLiqXKki3HkGELyWH43o4RwWsrfmyGHIdcHx7hn4ZFDdWGlAsWNLBlYXS5L67t3nS627DmizEgajVgU3rsrAEj9UJJWWNpPAA6__IM0s6DzaTZpYnP23-xM/s2048/IMG_5367.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9INJ2QMnBL0ozFPvd02cR0OLiqXKki3HkGELyWH43o4RwWsrfmyGHIdcHx7hn4ZFDdWGlAsWNLBlYXS5L67t3nS627DmizEgajVgU3rsrAEj9UJJWWNpPAA6__IM0s6DzaTZpYnP23-xM/s320/IMG_5367.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Alas, Coastie GI Joe has no <a href="https://www.intheknow.com/post/earring-magic-ken-gay/" target="_blank">Earring Magic Ken</a> to chill with. They'd be cute together, no?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5LEKc0krCBQQm0hVX7aDCimJsX0TfziOH1oWn39Ag1U969zh0xewG0P5V4BcXOOA6OJ4PTqZLAGCErEowbmLStWGdumFiZKtU3vlSKA0gut9ZwENtT-0KNZpN3TWWWhkWK3mYXOtgOyP/s2048/General+Choiceness.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5LEKc0krCBQQm0hVX7aDCimJsX0TfziOH1oWn39Ag1U969zh0xewG0P5V4BcXOOA6OJ4PTqZLAGCErEowbmLStWGdumFiZKtU3vlSKA0gut9ZwENtT-0KNZpN3TWWWhkWK3mYXOtgOyP/s320/General+Choiceness.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>It was quite something. <br /><p></p><p>After what seemed like a lifetime of this, I slipped away from the group. I was decidedly unready to see the Ready Room, and I was going to be MIA when it came to the POW/MIA Room. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCPtP39giDUgv_CbwD5v9IoK1TidApoPT-_7CSzAr_ezWmG7Mp88TnoqozdXd1mmj7xmOgdZYDX7eLUNOECsor8zox3wjUuFtwwqrNltwJKfR4q0Pq0sTUv0JcdaDn_yIOqi2QIqsUORZ/s2048/IMG_5382.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCPtP39giDUgv_CbwD5v9IoK1TidApoPT-_7CSzAr_ezWmG7Mp88TnoqozdXd1mmj7xmOgdZYDX7eLUNOECsor8zox3wjUuFtwwqrNltwJKfR4q0Pq0sTUv0JcdaDn_yIOqi2QIqsUORZ/s320/IMG_5382.JPG" width="256" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I headed for the gift shop/museum. Yes, it had some schlock. <br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosKXzGhnguoVGyytSSpbmRdIQvoMovT_l0NuBJZD8JL9LT495958IZZ4ybIoFp1Nu_6fd9ZY-MyJs7NiilvuIjEwiYp52ANqZQmTu-kObUuxORLrswc-F6zYEJTR9ml_yDbHt-ESwoggf/s2048/Airship+Voyages+Made+Easy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1298" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosKXzGhnguoVGyytSSpbmRdIQvoMovT_l0NuBJZD8JL9LT495958IZZ4ybIoFp1Nu_6fd9ZY-MyJs7NiilvuIjEwiYp52ANqZQmTu-kObUuxORLrswc-F6zYEJTR9ml_yDbHt-ESwoggf/s320/Airship+Voyages+Made+Easy.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>I bought a facsimile version of <i>Airship Voyages Made Easy</i>, a brochure by the Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederi (German Zeppelin Shipping Company), which is pretty cool. <br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgpIJtqjPY6phJ6b7jTXJ-6yFex9aQgOdFZLBrgyy27j8lOOPh70KTmjAkyfjq4ITklnBz0MUHKwyYCQw8rfx7x31Zs6CJbhifUpBD27o1jcFjvsEZNI6Lix9G08J6bEMJCetLQoJVAPqX/s2048/IMG_5386.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgpIJtqjPY6phJ6b7jTXJ-6yFex9aQgOdFZLBrgyy27j8lOOPh70KTmjAkyfjq4ITklnBz0MUHKwyYCQw8rfx7x31Zs6CJbhifUpBD27o1jcFjvsEZNI6Lix9G08J6bEMJCetLQoJVAPqX/s320/IMG_5386.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>But I passed up the 80th HINDENBURG ANNIVERSARY GOLF SHIRT BLOW OUT. Oh my. I mean, really. <p></p><p>I didn’t look at my watch, but I was there about three hours. A LONG three hours. It was time to put Stone Harbor into my GPS and head home. <br /></p><p>The historical society has a lot to work with—the Cathedral of the Air is an incredible artifact. The story of the <i>Hindenburg</i> disaster is still riveting more than 80 years after the crash. </p><p>But the organization runs on a shoestring and it shows. The website is terrible, the ticketing system is ancient, and guides are knowledgeable and well-meaning but need a real script. Yes, there are wow moments. But they are overshadowed by the general dreadfulness of the experience. There were times when I thought, “having a ticket on the <i>Hindenburg</i> couldn’t have been this bad”. </p><p>As far as tourist experiences go, it wasn’t as bad as the Mob Tour of Las Vegas—which is the undisputed king of bad tourism—but, as Herbert Morrison might have said<b>, <i>Oh the humanity!</i></b></p>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-21651609437264994432021-08-04T09:11:00.001-04:002021-08-04T22:42:18.293-04:00Quick Trip to Massachusetts<p>
I haven’t been anywhere in a long time. A LONG time. Pandemics will do that to
you. I had tickets to see
<i>Hamilton</i> on Broadway and also to go to Mexico in March 2020 when
everything stopped. Oh well. After a while you think that staying home is normal. At least I never got COVID. Plus, I never ran out
of TP, yeast, or anything else that was subject to fits of panic buying last
spring.
</p>
<p>
But, in 2020 I was invited to a summer wedding in Massachusetts...the daughter of old friends. Of course it didn’t
happen. Alas. I got a 2021 invitation—looking just like the first one—for the second
try. Do rescheduling brides and grooms drop their B-listers? Yes? No? Maybe? I
was glad to be spared that case of social leprosy.
</p>
<p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2BzNdpLUdUMMLRiGBY2UeK48clpjN46Jnb4l-oPdGB69gYmF5lYxp0ZFIDT_rsKOERTRMOBlFu-okimqWBh9oerwrFQtZhpxK6knlDTQxPYF_Ju8-Tt3Kc4siG362HXh91kUdAWdckw7/s1000/massachusetts-nationalparks-map.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="1000" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2BzNdpLUdUMMLRiGBY2UeK48clpjN46Jnb4l-oPdGB69gYmF5lYxp0ZFIDT_rsKOERTRMOBlFu-okimqWBh9oerwrFQtZhpxK6knlDTQxPYF_Ju8-Tt3Kc4siG362HXh91kUdAWdckw7/s320/massachusetts-nationalparks-map.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
My last trip to the Bay State (actually, it’s a Commonwealth) was in 1998, so
much of Massachusetts is unplowed ground for me. I was excited to go.
<p></p>
<p>
Plus, I get a charge out of taking my new/old (as in 2007 Mercedes) car on a
trip. A sport sedan is so much faster and more comfortable than my Ford pickup truck. And
it’s kinda sexy. I try to ignore the fact that it takes premium gas. I had the
oil changed, got two new tires, and washed and vacuumed it right before the
trip.
</p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLEYZWOtN1bn50Ug3B3r__l_fwJB4leLQO4VfLyLawEUN3KR9lz8yuuQ34FfDo92lpsmIsyLaUlAI71vp9FlcZxe_XnoO3r3y0z8yOs1FiN5ek1wQKHTfAKRh6Cpmy9EFK1YrxM_pz8hs/s2000/residence-inn-worcester.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1335" data-original-width="2000" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLEYZWOtN1bn50Ug3B3r__l_fwJB4leLQO4VfLyLawEUN3KR9lz8yuuQ34FfDo92lpsmIsyLaUlAI71vp9FlcZxe_XnoO3r3y0z8yOs1FiN5ek1wQKHTfAKRh6Cpmy9EFK1YrxM_pz8hs/s320/residence-inn-worcester.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I booked a room at the Residence Inn in Worcester, since that was one of the
hotels suggested by the bride and groom. According to Google maps, it was near
the Interstate--with EZ on and off. Added bonus: was near a McDonalds, a
Suboxone clinic, a weed store, AND that Massachusetts s<i>pécialité de la maison</i>,
a rotary intersection. And I’d get Marriott, I mean Bonvoy, points. What more
could an aging doofus traveler want?
<p></p>
<p>
As you might expect, the hotel was perfectly nice. Not exactly an
architectural gem and a world apart from that old fave Wynn Las Vegas. But it
was clean and quiet. The towels were fresh, if not fluffy, and the TV had a
bunch of apps that I didn’t have the patience to sign into. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtqQ5qfqrs_sVmpZU__P_x9jm4_9ZkMAt25UMuLVk4WrIbSfGVXiMmfkiAm_7oBaKkrc9LvZE9z4iCZ6xc0CYpI8daOlDTMCiQf8NDH43ygXanRUS-QChQ2mJX2dqPT2ncHxIopVwxwQ4/s2048/Residence+Inn+TP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtqQ5qfqrs_sVmpZU__P_x9jm4_9ZkMAt25UMuLVk4WrIbSfGVXiMmfkiAm_7oBaKkrc9LvZE9z4iCZ6xc0CYpI8daOlDTMCiQf8NDH43ygXanRUS-QChQ2mJX2dqPT2ncHxIopVwxwQ4/s320/Residence+Inn+TP.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And like four-star hotels everywhere, the end of the TP was folded into a point. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZhg91boVayl8jhfgqkb0wdo7_JjL6ckcWsS1GMjSJhfaRAyYQO3JZCqk6bmJCLf7gE5XUXVoPN1cKF0d_iP2CyjL9n09bkJd8NXM6UpIudFoo_zz8D3gEmpsFDTiQRkC0rajXsyZ89ww/s2048/Residence+Inn+PT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZhg91boVayl8jhfgqkb0wdo7_JjL6ckcWsS1GMjSJhfaRAyYQO3JZCqk6bmJCLf7gE5XUXVoPN1cKF0d_iP2CyjL9n09bkJd8NXM6UpIudFoo_zz8D3gEmpsFDTiQRkC0rajXsyZ89ww/s320/Residence+Inn+PT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Even
better, the end of the paper towel roll in the kitchenette was folded into a
point too. That, my friends, is the sign of a classy joint.
<p></p>
<p>
Friday evening I had dinner with high school friends who live in the area. We
went to a hip and trendy Mexican place. It was a great time with plenty of
laughs. We’re old, so it never occurred to us to take a photo. So, you’ll just
have to take my word for it that they looked great and haven’t aged a bit. We
even found our car in the parking garage without too much trouble. As Charlie
Sheen would say, Winning!
</p>
<p>
Saturday morning I skipped the hotel’s “Grab and go” breakfast, which sounded
way too much like a high fiber cereal and a banana for my tastes. I braved the
rotary intersection, passed the weed store and Suboxone clinic to get a
McDonald’s coffee. I told my GPS to point me towards Lexington and Concord, to
see the spots where the American Revolution started. I’ve done a jillion
historic sites, but somehow I’ve missed that corner of American history.
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-x3b2nn2vTAblsD0Ihwv2UBYsl9rV3RlZ21MA1p7lX0icyGMFzBCT9or9R-ox2kll4zAcYhb0c8LmQO3XfYJqNIq-dRGevE0n5ur5vOMkcMHSux6Lv_MA97IseAn0eJl6GqVCkkkjyAwg/s2519/MIMA+Park+Map-page-001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2519" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-x3b2nn2vTAblsD0Ihwv2UBYsl9rV3RlZ21MA1p7lX0icyGMFzBCT9or9R-ox2kll4zAcYhb0c8LmQO3XfYJqNIq-dRGevE0n5ur5vOMkcMHSux6Lv_MA97IseAn0eJl6GqVCkkkjyAwg/s320/MIMA+Park+Map-page-001.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Roughly speaking,
<a href="https://www.nps.gov/mima/index.htm" target="_blank">Minute Man National Historic Park</a>
covers the route between the towns of Lexington and Concord where British
troops and American militia skirmished on April 19, 1775, setting off the
American Revolution. It’s a small park—a few miles long and a few hundred feet
wide at its widest. I wished that I had time to walk from one end of the park
to the other—what a great way to enjoy the beautiful day!
</div>
<p>
There were plenty people around but I’m not sure how many were bona fide
tourists. It looked as if lots of those folks were locals out for a jog or
bike ride. Fancy strollers, techy backpacks, and lots of moisture-wicking
athleisure wear.
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzkwyIlg1Mgc-Ju0s1pfng7Gp3froTWxmCEFnF4Q4VltZKIqrUeOqXomm0cisKdjfH_PhkvHZYDSlo02KAS6S-uWcjseMRaLSvQv_w3KvFAC-ykw635IiLMiRZBtc8O0ToUMoC4-aXpe3/s1677/Beef+on+the+Hoof.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1341" data-original-width="1677" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzkwyIlg1Mgc-Ju0s1pfng7Gp3froTWxmCEFnF4Q4VltZKIqrUeOqXomm0cisKdjfH_PhkvHZYDSlo02KAS6S-uWcjseMRaLSvQv_w3KvFAC-ykw635IiLMiRZBtc8O0ToUMoC4-aXpe3/s320/Beef+on+the+Hoof.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
As one would say in The Castro or in West Hollywood, there was a lot of beef
on the hoof.
<p></p>
<p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIWesVZQMbuRvE0F0_uazrBFVbvUx_vjx-pR0BnwDpQn9SvyCba9bGOMaRmVvnZD40GuHnN-y8hjG_sDDP1MdXrjJNVwznfPRJ2EuRZ32ojL1DwsubOOQmVtRgtG-uFJOPaSxajw4-EBLY/s2048/Minute+Man+Park+Visitors+Center.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIWesVZQMbuRvE0F0_uazrBFVbvUx_vjx-pR0BnwDpQn9SvyCba9bGOMaRmVvnZD40GuHnN-y8hjG_sDDP1MdXrjJNVwznfPRJ2EuRZ32ojL1DwsubOOQmVtRgtG-uFJOPaSxajw4-EBLY/s320/Minute+Man+Park+Visitors+Center.jpg" width="256" /></a>
</div>
I started at the park’s visitors’ center to pick up a map and to get the lay of
the land. There was lots of quoting of Longfellow’s poem,
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Revere%27s_Ride" target="_blank"><i>The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere</i></a>, and when they weren’t quoting that,
they were quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson, talking about the rude bridge and the
shot heard round the world. Longfellow and Emerson certainly saved the Park
Service a lot of money on writing museum text panels.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxyUOHjrSydheUE2_oO-ubSwdVtNkYkeZjAY8OWfZrv1j4gnrCuQeL89zV5RoAnJ4N6TevZzSBEAanA0LDwLlU0h4o9Q_hgZyhFEij1YVrsyxWG9mv5PXhEUIzksjWnKRrn_j4cxkPdpT/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2047" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxyUOHjrSydheUE2_oO-ubSwdVtNkYkeZjAY8OWfZrv1j4gnrCuQeL89zV5RoAnJ4N6TevZzSBEAanA0LDwLlU0h4o9Q_hgZyhFEij1YVrsyxWG9mv5PXhEUIzksjWnKRrn_j4cxkPdpT/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After the visitors’ center, I dropped by the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/mima/hartwell-tavern.htm" target="_blank">Hartwell Tavern</a>, a restored 18th
century place staffed by what we used to call costumed interpreters. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOkCcMMsD4g5OpDCIe5mKEMW1lSyZ-02JzQHsaD3QiXCPSd73DZrC_c_o-uGqIofeFwmd_aSj6y3TKdAxDftPSqmTB06krDey2xaOCjeONpQlA8HW_j7vvs2nqCX8njEvAhf_4wVs54bI/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOkCcMMsD4g5OpDCIe5mKEMW1lSyZ-02JzQHsaD3QiXCPSd73DZrC_c_o-uGqIofeFwmd_aSj6y3TKdAxDftPSqmTB06krDey2xaOCjeONpQlA8HW_j7vvs2nqCX8njEvAhf_4wVs54bI/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The
building was what the park calls a “witness house”, as in one that was
standing in April 1775 during the battle.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgue01MeqYkRssVM0mAjaGKm-3z_lObJg_KoAdb3RTv6WKhCy3sWa2yk_dJQj2nSImh8syzrLG-28HVhjVtujobffsMVoABG3ibQ0Sq9g0YoUhhztilqR_0nbr4-R_tjR4I2HaMOv7omHYk/s1181/Hartwell+Tavern+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgue01MeqYkRssVM0mAjaGKm-3z_lObJg_KoAdb3RTv6WKhCy3sWa2yk_dJQj2nSImh8syzrLG-28HVhjVtujobffsMVoABG3ibQ0Sq9g0YoUhhztilqR_0nbr4-R_tjR4I2HaMOv7omHYk/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+6.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>On one side of a house, a nice young woman with lots of gumption—who was also
the firearms instructor for the re-enactors—shared the story of Mrs. Hartwell
and her 14 children. Spoiler alert: not all of whom lived to adulthood.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizx7o6pE7S2BX67jUwugqcFzcTgpG6Qy7-VZAi3OlICzWZINd3Xqv2MGYGlX38K8-3n2s9AtjF44NyLPlwiEKSNnjH6d-GMjfI24ptSiBBl7mU6ptiEehwzzvNl5WyU1e0drk2K8yE0mGm/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizx7o6pE7S2BX67jUwugqcFzcTgpG6Qy7-VZAi3OlICzWZINd3Xqv2MGYGlX38K8-3n2s9AtjF44NyLPlwiEKSNnjH6d-GMjfI24ptSiBBl7mU6ptiEehwzzvNl5WyU1e0drk2K8yE0mGm/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+5.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I resisted the chance to ask if Mrs. Hartwell might have been the inspiration
for the Dr. Suess character, <a href="https://allpoetry.com/poem/11575842-Too-Many-Daves-by-Theodor-Seuss-Geisel" target="_blank">Mrs. McCave who had 23 sons and named them all Dave</a>.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-zXOstu5RQE4ZlmUfA1hirSu_5gN2XgCUj7KyMgH6lKW8ZexywkWbnd65WXob4zLlmygAOEXy75PAtC-CYEhzVx4laT8R5iFdzuIBCd4QV6pxmBFIyyXeVeLEXmZ3sbPcVuXPiTeSYFm6/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-zXOstu5RQE4ZlmUfA1hirSu_5gN2XgCUj7KyMgH6lKW8ZexywkWbnd65WXob4zLlmygAOEXy75PAtC-CYEhzVx4laT8R5iFdzuIBCd4QV6pxmBFIyyXeVeLEXmZ3sbPcVuXPiTeSYFm6/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+8.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Two earnest young men, also in Colonial era duds, were in the other room. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpugfSxHLVhqvESEGskyueLExn7fbpwNACWBfpilcVPqzvqxIdl-hRz8mqEelAxAYJ5NXQa-vh_f6uve-lXtMtLMJbFZxAQWMzovnpHMv3mwQKgvQ9jtR_yxb0sJ5FIxsc9yxCw8nn1CyM/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpugfSxHLVhqvESEGskyueLExn7fbpwNACWBfpilcVPqzvqxIdl-hRz8mqEelAxAYJ5NXQa-vh_f6uve-lXtMtLMJbFZxAQWMzovnpHMv3mwQKgvQ9jtR_yxb0sJ5FIxsc9yxCw8nn1CyM/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+9.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I
thought of one as the guy you’d like to talk to at a bar and the other as the
wingman who doesn’t pick up the signals to make himself scarce. The three of
us talked about bleeding as a medical treatment. Fortunately, none of us had
any firsthand experience with the subject.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIG8T4OhXMBylXSZwNBaomWqJS64lhcAHfjUR4x_Qbfo7w_ajbBwjr3nu77Nh_JHBK-UawiGx_nDn0P-T_SpcHqCjSDxrfYY4QB28buIlDD9KUwRZc8pk-6ZN6uJ-m63xir3zD9knWW5OX/s2048/Hartwell+Tavern+12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIG8T4OhXMBylXSZwNBaomWqJS64lhcAHfjUR4x_Qbfo7w_ajbBwjr3nu77Nh_JHBK-UawiGx_nDn0P-T_SpcHqCjSDxrfYY4QB28buIlDD9KUwRZc8pk-6ZN6uJ-m63xir3zD9knWW5OX/s320/Hartwell+Tavern+12.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>After the Hartwell Tavern, I checked out the spot where Paul Revere was
captured by the British--you knew that Longfellow engaged in some poetic license, didn't you?--and then drove on to Concord to see the museum and
other sites there.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1-DuGGwSjRSd5p19EN9zhB7tvFSX9OQoOrlzG-WqM5gaeih7wEWo7z0GzZiLxxukFbHhecEWsr8QxUilvhZVQ-XnUj39sd3kKffnaQMWPuBZWQ9GUSBt9HSdWkApGz5sIh4doRyZhYJF/s1930/Photo+Jul+24%252C+2+10+29+PM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="1930" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1-DuGGwSjRSd5p19EN9zhB7tvFSX9OQoOrlzG-WqM5gaeih7wEWo7z0GzZiLxxukFbHhecEWsr8QxUilvhZVQ-XnUj39sd3kKffnaQMWPuBZWQ9GUSBt9HSdWkApGz5sIh4doRyZhYJF/s320/Photo+Jul+24%252C+2+10+29+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Concord is quite a swell place now. You’d have to search pretty darned far and
wide to find a yeoman farmer. It’s more of a yeoman hedge fund guy sort of
place. You couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a Range Rover sporting a
Nantucket decal.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Chester_French" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhvuKy-o6orlmP9maf00hvyyHVE9WrNyDIdkUVmGxyP9U9LidzulJb4bMvyOfJbPBhejD3Xplc-kBUtKgZj0oFWSTy6tGSTVg-_GGF90XQP4TO4n7IDcGCJOtbjcCjj9Wu7Z8E1q7sVYY/s320/Photo+Jul+24%252C+11+04+00+AM.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Chester_French" target="_blank">Daniel Chester French’s</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Minute_Man" target="_blank"><i>Minute Man</i></a> sculpture and the North Bridge were
the place to be—I had to drive around the parking lot twice in order to find a
place to park. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0FEgtwftrxPIVCbWK34xCsshVrFc93FjIoEXXwEVC-fYmuXsMnX57tiiJG-7tNwLWieIg7Wq7qffJyM6tfwgFBSk4RQzprdG4K2x0Hez9GaGOD98HYaoHckKbiGZYbRnHJw0F4sxqmQg/s2048/Photo+Jul+24%252C+10+59+43+AM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0FEgtwftrxPIVCbWK34xCsshVrFc93FjIoEXXwEVC-fYmuXsMnX57tiiJG-7tNwLWieIg7Wq7qffJyM6tfwgFBSk4RQzprdG4K2x0Hez9GaGOD98HYaoHckKbiGZYbRnHJw0F4sxqmQg/s320/Photo+Jul+24%252C+10+59+43+AM.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>The Minute Man was life sized—so smaller than I imagined him to
be. Musket in hand, he’s leaving his plow in the field for his appointment
with destiny. Or as Emerson put it:
<p></p>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>By the rude bridge that arched the flood,</i>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,</i>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Here once the embattled farmers stood</i>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And fired the shot heard round the world.</i>
</div>
<p>OK, it does kind of take my breath away. </p>
<p>Then my phone rang and my history geek reverie ended. </p>
<p>
Which was a good thing since I didn’t have time to waste at the rude bridge
since I had a noon reservation for the nearby <a href="https://www.historicnewengland.org/property/gropius-house/" target="_blank">Walter Gropius House</a> in
Lincoln.
</p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGeOUevUy28LfO2xtsnm4j-SYrni6i24sZE1KcSfgMX8LsB-PEtUMJe2g-s4fv9m2ge5FZhK88gZnrJzb73Vuk-q1vHeqRbUKKjht5aOXqhz6xCXK3epAvO2u2f3i1oPI6NNHZwW60yypt/s778/Bauhaus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="778" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGeOUevUy28LfO2xtsnm4j-SYrni6i24sZE1KcSfgMX8LsB-PEtUMJe2g-s4fv9m2ge5FZhK88gZnrJzb73Vuk-q1vHeqRbUKKjht5aOXqhz6xCXK3epAvO2u2f3i1oPI6NNHZwW60yypt/s320/Bauhaus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>For those of you who might have slept through a semester of architectural
history class, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Gropius" target="_blank">Walter Gropius</a> founded the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bauhaus" target="_blank">Bauhaus</a>, the German design school, in
1919. The Nazi party thought it “degenerate” and so it closed in 1933.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhup2wIhWp44yZq3dqDh8UVOl7p7fzTg1lduFgfmWplXCnQSyqq_fZhgiwotnBMs8nocysS05vvdKRZTcTAAAayhdX8KKUNBkWeSdTDjaseotSMYzD2oTMJCw9sZ_Z98jc6U1e7MH-nv9nH/s1000/Walter+and+Ilse+Gropius.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="1000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhup2wIhWp44yZq3dqDh8UVOl7p7fzTg1lduFgfmWplXCnQSyqq_fZhgiwotnBMs8nocysS05vvdKRZTcTAAAayhdX8KKUNBkWeSdTDjaseotSMYzD2oTMJCw9sZ_Z98jc6U1e7MH-nv9nH/s320/Walter+and+Ilse+Gropius.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Gropius, whose wife Ilse was Jewish, emigrated to America in 1937 and took a
teaching job at the Harvard Graduate School of Design. A wealthy patron, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Storrow" target="_blank">Helen Storrow</a>, provided the capital and land on which the Gropiuses built their
house. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjougInZQCjoJZ7eqXQf6EagyceF9houfXOW_DppyG_u5hMOv-yoLXGjgBNHmNLw0gQLCGypsiS246dqu5n8jv-W5kBOn6ev39ElitsVYcR72U63MTk-sfhOenwuMhPiM-XEGxR4GDZgXaX/s2048/Gropius+House+1939.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjougInZQCjoJZ7eqXQf6EagyceF9houfXOW_DppyG_u5hMOv-yoLXGjgBNHmNLw0gQLCGypsiS246dqu5n8jv-W5kBOn6ev39ElitsVYcR72U63MTk-sfhOenwuMhPiM-XEGxR4GDZgXaX/s320/Gropius+House+1939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The house is now preserved as a museum by <a href="https://www.historicnewengland.org/" target="_blank">Historic New England</a>,
formerly known as the Society for the Preservation of New England
Antiquities.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABT0tec_YQE7HUHv47kXw71Ld_erzgLMu9YLSussVuxSDmHwYKxW5BrJYyRqiNdudIj6BO7HXn8TRxyiI4svuQaI9194H9Ir76WFbSO5cGFYDqOC59KUa9GiRLUdRab_IDf91XWVACk-u/s2048/Gropius+Living+Room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABT0tec_YQE7HUHv47kXw71Ld_erzgLMu9YLSussVuxSDmHwYKxW5BrJYyRqiNdudIj6BO7HXn8TRxyiI4svuQaI9194H9Ir76WFbSO5cGFYDqOC59KUa9GiRLUdRab_IDf91XWVACk-u/s320/Gropius+Living+Room.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>The house doesn’t quite look as if the Gropius family just left, but almost.
There are plenty of knickknacks and personal effects of the family are here and there. With only
four of us on the tour, we certainly got to see everything we wanted too. <br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaklxe1aZrmgTxr991GODdofpLNE7h6fbYu8I4IvyKmjBXXYkFl4CcyFOnq6Pm83GTwkexR9JgjG11t9gKilz5I0hpmvCGgze_LgiS-c02lo4vZ6HQsLrJhGkqnYnAacEI7C8cf17X5mE4/s2048/Gropius+Bathroom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaklxe1aZrmgTxr991GODdofpLNE7h6fbYu8I4IvyKmjBXXYkFl4CcyFOnq6Pm83GTwkexR9JgjG11t9gKilz5I0hpmvCGgze_LgiS-c02lo4vZ6HQsLrJhGkqnYnAacEI7C8cf17X5mE4/s320/Gropius+Bathroom.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>I
think there was even a chance to poop in Walter Gropius’ john. You don’t get
that now every day, do you?
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI7HomvhxeeEgeltWx_aNhlmyzdsyww6-nlQe_TgBeYzTuY7FsJcPaasmN8Hj2xQSl5CGe_7HCBezeZgQBfdU7aq4Tge2peZ7vT7LnhYwthhGzYJWjQTEQidEwaAofb4x05vXmpHRhcW9/s2048/Gropisu+Dining+Room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI7HomvhxeeEgeltWx_aNhlmyzdsyww6-nlQe_TgBeYzTuY7FsJcPaasmN8Hj2xQSl5CGe_7HCBezeZgQBfdU7aq4Tge2peZ7vT7LnhYwthhGzYJWjQTEQidEwaAofb4x05vXmpHRhcW9/s320/Gropisu+Dining+Room.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After the john, my favorite part might have been the dining room. The round
table could accommodate up to six, and Gropius installed the lighting so that
a spot in the ceiling shone on the table top and nothing more than the
tabletop. It sounded a bit like the Blair Witch Project to me. There was an
ashtray on the table with a half smoked Benson & Hedges cigarette—my
mother’s brand—in it.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIXuHBwWLpU5SkPPGB99WL7ZHVtNAJIZLM52qSPLbZOOBcpkE6S_Q8RlNeXRYaaoKEIoupy9QgAEQE_svItLvD0IFsfndnJytiLfmSLwsnURRLy9bt0fSx-0hdaoChrdZbocA-l8vV4H3/s2048/Gropius+Kitchen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIXuHBwWLpU5SkPPGB99WL7ZHVtNAJIZLM52qSPLbZOOBcpkE6S_Q8RlNeXRYaaoKEIoupy9QgAEQE_svItLvD0IFsfndnJytiLfmSLwsnURRLy9bt0fSx-0hdaoChrdZbocA-l8vV4H3/s320/Gropius+Kitchen.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>The kitchen was super up to date for 1939, with metal cabinets and linoleum
counters, just like in my grandparents’ house. Mrs. Gropius didn’t learn how
to cook until her housekeeper took a higher paying job at a munitions plant
during WWII. The docent said that one of her friends had to show her how to
make tea.
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfrfUr3fRYwG-abCwFuvXxbpzhyoNBDdy_aMHkmxWpYm34qovSWqNL8x63SaAfTp1Dx0UbKEVVgfqw-JvU9FNnC6_7iStrXMtdxwXpxWenPau3Zwk7JVXrQreblZvu5Q81OvajXimnByFv/s2048/Gropius+Cookbook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfrfUr3fRYwG-abCwFuvXxbpzhyoNBDdy_aMHkmxWpYm34qovSWqNL8x63SaAfTp1Dx0UbKEVVgfqw-JvU9FNnC6_7iStrXMtdxwXpxWenPau3Zwk7JVXrQreblZvu5Q81OvajXimnByFv/s320/Gropius+Cookbook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There was a cookbook on the counter open to this recipe for something called
<b><i>Leftovers for Two</i> </b>
<p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;">1 cup flower (sic) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">¼ cup milk </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">¼ cup water </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">1 egg </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">1 tbsp melted butter </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">Salt/pepper </div><div style="text-align: left;">Leftover chicken or turkey meat, cut up. Add ¼ lb sliced sauteed mushrooms,
combined with a little bit of gravy or cream sauce. Heat and keep warm.
</div>
<p>
Mix flower (Wondra) milk etc. with wire beater and pour ½ of mixture on a well
heated Teflon pan (10”). Check by pulling up the edge with fingers until
nicely browned. Lift to brown other side. Take out and keep warm. Repeat
process with other half of mixture. When done put leftovers on pancake and
cover with other pancake.
</p>
<p>
Sprinkle with grated Parmesan or Swiss cheese. Dot with butter and put under
broiler.
</p>
<p>
After a dinner of <i>Leftovers for Two</i> I have no doubt that Mr. Gropius
wished that his wife would get a job in a munitions factory as well.
</p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vHy2genU9QOSguodte2bcueLM82wD18DVYMFVzdMgY2MV56W1hUeCrcPL2H6-MxCkRIQtNxZPv9F1LVTmwI-RiIrECoEme58cP1hvWnvCQ8TySz49puHoCB0Zel2I_asKI31PAe84l97/s2048/Gropius+Bedroom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vHy2genU9QOSguodte2bcueLM82wD18DVYMFVzdMgY2MV56W1hUeCrcPL2H6-MxCkRIQtNxZPv9F1LVTmwI-RiIrECoEme58cP1hvWnvCQ8TySz49puHoCB0Zel2I_asKI31PAe84l97/s320/Gropius+Bedroom.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>In the master bedroom, one of Mrs. Gropius' Marimekko dresses--with fringed hem--was laid out for her. BTW, Diana Vreeland loved fringe. <br /><p></p><p>As she showed us around the master suite, the docent told us that Mrs. G was a
bit of a fashion plate and was known to wear a skein of yarn on her head and
call it a hat. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhLosdyNGed11aolc_ECPrlLsxjaN81Fwuyly44Md_kqrDE64YRoxkiEIUGU6-wUclP4IJWeE4PUNY4YWqqQBB8mybvG28H8fxzyczHLpYUIopTkPV8jP0fM8WfEjFRnhoIEwNu8HZuIx/s2048/Gropius+Dressing+Room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhLosdyNGed11aolc_ECPrlLsxjaN81Fwuyly44Md_kqrDE64YRoxkiEIUGU6-wUclP4IJWeE4PUNY4YWqqQBB8mybvG28H8fxzyczHLpYUIopTkPV8jP0fM8WfEjFRnhoIEwNu8HZuIx/s320/Gropius+Dressing+Room.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I'm sure that was about as attractive as Leftovers for Two was tasty. <br />
<p></p>
<p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpqS800f2_6NyxPt3QLca_LP6w-HXLy6qzzucZ1sgvtGtY5SuF0XOPERVUIN8RG_kgCYA85O1oaPf0JHuey5N989sKSUXpmtS5EwyS-E95YbWUTdpMOmafl89uEWy4x077OHm_PU4hEyu/s2048/Concord+Museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpqS800f2_6NyxPt3QLca_LP6w-HXLy6qzzucZ1sgvtGtY5SuF0XOPERVUIN8RG_kgCYA85O1oaPf0JHuey5N989sKSUXpmtS5EwyS-E95YbWUTdpMOmafl89uEWy4x077OHm_PU4hEyu/s320/Concord+Museum.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>After Gropius I went back to Concord and did the jiffy tour of the <a href="https://concordmuseum.org/" target="_blank">Concord Museum</a>. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOaaSEhPWYqRW_IUSuyetOOoZYJ6yXxEjqkQzi3eME0o_TsS_RHTo6AAFpLyKJaqiwMa5qXSbaYH6plZXj9g7lH-vKhRFgk94yD1PqOTCqRFaLkX3uer6U9UhmX7GLJE8hikx4RHKlQtW/s2048/Old+North+Church+Lantern.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOaaSEhPWYqRW_IUSuyetOOoZYJ6yXxEjqkQzi3eME0o_TsS_RHTo6AAFpLyKJaqiwMa5qXSbaYH6plZXj9g7lH-vKhRFgk94yD1PqOTCqRFaLkX3uer6U9UhmX7GLJE8hikx4RHKlQtW/s320/Old+North+Church+Lantern.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p>The museum has lots of 18th C artifacts including one of the lanterns
hung in the steeple of Old North Church to signal to Paul Revere that the British were going to Lexington and Concord "by sea". </p><p>I wished that I had more time to explore the area, but I had what promised to be a fun wedding to go
to.</p><p></p><p> More later! <br /></p>
Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-87830492099193971372019-08-14T07:32:00.003-04:002019-08-14T07:32:50.771-04:00Hot Times in Las Vegas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AVAHNIzW78q9TMuDO3OLpSO1xx-7uKAoEaNqp9ZEQeDOhXLRtoBSHDj0LLQoUBqGjXHGCd5j7WP1SoF7Uws51NAxprX2rE_ONHY-FsnDf9dZzbcoeAyqM0t4UyZhrk9IzTwBxZyeFp_B/s1600/Las+Vegas+Sign+at+Night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="782" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AVAHNIzW78q9TMuDO3OLpSO1xx-7uKAoEaNqp9ZEQeDOhXLRtoBSHDj0LLQoUBqGjXHGCd5j7WP1SoF7Uws51NAxprX2rE_ONHY-FsnDf9dZzbcoeAyqM0t4UyZhrk9IzTwBxZyeFp_B/s320/Las+Vegas+Sign+at+Night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
August is the time for my annual trip to fabulous Las Vegas to visit my friends The Other Rick and Tracy. August in Las Vegas with old friends is both a blast and a blast furnace. One day it was 111°! But it's a dry heat, right?<br />
<br />
After an uneventful day of travel, it was time for a lazy day lounging and loitering by the pool, finishing the book I was reading <i>(A Gentleman of Moscow)</i>, and lots of yammering on a variety of topics (high school friends, The Donald, etc. etc.). When late afternoon rolled around, we changed into moderately good bib and tucker for a dinner at Vegas’ <a href="http://www.iacvegas.com/" target="_blank">Italian American Club.</a><br />
<br />
I’m not sure when the place was founded—forever ago would be my guess. It’s an outpost of what R & T call “Old Vegas”. That is, of the Vegas of the legendary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rat_Pack" target="_blank">Rat Pack</a> and long gone casinos, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunes_(hotel_and_casino)" target="_blank">The Dunes,</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Rancho_Hotel_and_Casino" target="_blank">The Thunderbird,</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silver_Slipper" target="_blank">The Silver Slipper</a>. In other words, the Vegas that made Vegas Vegas.<br />
<br />
Without its louche roots, Vegas would be a really big Branson, Missouri…in the desert…except with gambling, boob jobs, legal reefer, and <a href="https://nationalatomictestingmuseum.org/" target="_blank">The Atomic Testing Museum.</a><br />
<br />
While the Italian American Club may still be a club, it’s open to non-members. Best of all, you don’t need to be Italian to enjoy it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG_ZAp7-zUyZhti7LGr5tSWlvw_dmejQmYV4hAlYm2bJh8lA6yWPCf5UdbPHho8X45Rkz3GHFDA8euN38ukymjS_evQAJOUobvuE0p1En-0B-wWO-EpXSIeeycjOwdFDavz8qI26gi0pp5/s1600/Italian+American+Club+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1112" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG_ZAp7-zUyZhti7LGr5tSWlvw_dmejQmYV4hAlYm2bJh8lA6yWPCf5UdbPHho8X45Rkz3GHFDA8euN38ukymjS_evQAJOUobvuE0p1En-0B-wWO-EpXSIeeycjOwdFDavz8qI26gi0pp5/s320/Italian+American+Club+4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
It’s an unremarkable building, on one of the many strip developments that aren’t <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_Vegas_Strip" target="_blank"><i><b>The</b></i> Strip</a>. In fact, we drove by it a couple of times before finding the place. It’s just around the corner from a giant statue of a Shriner and a bunch of homeless folks. This, of course, describes more than a few Vegas street corners.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHIyHUISbAw37vuqjERScoSA_AOOEEqGg_r8kvLPdXWeOux_mQWM-EvJ9eDhNm5XUeiHM_A3fNrQN3XnXGmVGXjxVPN2UIfY2PylDzYE9L9Rub1ulUkptlu2EgdEY3odH7DLvX4rQPl6x/s1600/Italian+American+Social+Club+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHIyHUISbAw37vuqjERScoSA_AOOEEqGg_r8kvLPdXWeOux_mQWM-EvJ9eDhNm5XUeiHM_A3fNrQN3XnXGmVGXjxVPN2UIfY2PylDzYE9L9Rub1ulUkptlu2EgdEY3odH7DLvX4rQPl6x/s320/Italian+American+Social+Club+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
The front of the building was landscaped with trimmed bushes and some Greco-Roman sculpture with trimmed bushes. And fig leaves! Someone in Las Vegas was worried about genitalia on a plaster statue? Who would have thunk?<br />
<br />
Inside, it wasn’t quite like the bar scene in <i>Star Wars</i>, but it was a time capsule from a long time ago. For a moment, I wondered if we were there during a Sam Giancana look-alike contest. Many of the women were, as my parents would have said, “all dolled up”.<br />
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We sat at the bar, where we could enjoy not only a restorative beverage, but also a jazz combo. The lounge singer, who’d dyed his hair with shoe polish, had the vocal range of Rex Harrison. His sidemen, well....I'm not sure that their vocal mics were on.<br />
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After dinner we perused the brag wall. I especially liked the Vic Damone photo.<br />
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And I didn't miss the Frank Sinatra themed men's room. <br />
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Or Mario Battali's autographed Crocs. If you're going to Vegas, think seriously about going to dinner there--both food and atmosphere are top notch. <br />
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The next day I rented a car for a trip to St. George, Utah. I’d never been to Utah, and it was only two hours from Vegas. I thought some time among the Latter-day Saints would be a nice counterpoint to gambling, boob jobs, legal reefer, and the Atomic Testing Museum.<br />
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As I left Las Vegas, I saw lots of billboard for plaintiff’s attorneys, marijuana dispensaries, and erectile dysfunction treatments. Even if you are a grudge-holding pot smoker who can’t get it up, you are loved.<br />
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There’s a whole lot of nothing between LV and St. George. Mindful (for once) of at least 25% of what I learned in driver ed, I took only a few photos through the windshield.<br />
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You can't take a decent photo as you drive down the Interstate. This was not covered in my driver ed class.<br />
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You get better results when you don't shoot through the windshield. <br />
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By chance I stopped right by a small shrine to Chris the Guardian Angel Truck Driver. He was probably killed trying to take photos through his windshield.<br />
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After a miles and miles of nothing, I-15 went through the Virgin River Gorge, which is pretty darned spectacular. The road twisted and turned unlike any Interstate highway I've been on as it climbed through a narrow slit in the rocks. No way was I going to try to take a photo through the windshield there. You'll just have to Google it. <br />
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After the gorge, St. George wasn’t far. I stopped at the <a href="https://greaterzion.com/contact-us/" target="_blank">St. George Visitors Center</a> to have a local give me the lay of the land. <br />
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I waited for my face time behind a German family with a screaming tyke. The Germans were interesting in hiking. It was about 100°. (But a dry heat!) Hiking?!? Crazy! I told the woman at the counter that whatever they were doing...I didn’t want to. <br />
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She showed me a map of town and pointed out all the points of historic interest, far away from the screaming Teutonic toddler. <br />
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St. George was founded by Mormons in 1861 as a place to grow cotton. Some of the Mormon settlers were slaveholders from the Deep South and named the area Dixie. That’s why St. George is home to Dixie State University. Makes sense...<i>sort of. </i><br />
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My first stop was the Mormon Tabernacle. I found free and convenient parking right by Thomas Judd's cutesy old sofa fountain. <br />
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According to Wiki, in the Latter-day Saints church, a tabernacle is a multipurpose religious building, used for church services and conferences, and as community centers. Although it looks like a church, it’s not a church—there are no Sunday services, Sunday school rooms, church offices, and so on.<br />
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Non-Mormons can enter a tabernacle, but access to Mormon temples is restricted to Mormons in good standing with the church. <br />
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The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._George_Tabernacle" target="_blank">St. George Tabernacle </a>is one of the oldest, and from the exterior looks like a congregational church that you’d find in a prosperous New England village. <br />
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It wasn’t crowded. As in, I was the only tourist there. The docent, a retired medical equipment salesman, gave me lots of personal attention. He told me that St. George is a hot spot for affluent Mormon retirees. Who knew? <br />
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The interior of the tabernacle is a large two story space, with a balcony. There’s a lectern where the pulpit would be in a church. In fact, it looks pretty much like a Presbyterian church. <br />
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Miles Romney, a great-great grandfather of Mitt Romney, was the architect of the building.<br />
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He was responsible for the curved staircase. Interestingly enough, he died as a result of a fall at the job site in 1877.<br />
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After my tour, I walked to a restaurant suggested by my docent. Walking was a stupid idea. City blocks in St. George are enormous and it was over 100 degrees (But a dry heat!). I was consoled by the thought that the bratty German tyke had to be hotter than I was. <br />
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When I finished lunch, it was time to go to the Brigham Young Winter Home. If they’d invented license plates during his lifetime, his would have been Snowbird #1. <br />
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Brigham Young purchased his place in 1872. Among the other things on his plate—perhaps designing the 1873 season of Mormon underwear—he was also supervising the construction of St. George’s Mormon Temple. He remodeled the house, doubling its size, creating the first McMansion in St. George. <br />
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The tour started in a small outbuilding that served as the office. Brigham Young worked there as both head of the Mormon Church and the governor of the Utah Territory.<br />
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Another earnest Mormon retiree had already started giving the tour to two other old folks when I arrived. We exchanged brief greetings. The other folks on the tour were from Las Vegas. They smiled when I said I was from Pennsylvania. Perhaps I should have brought scrapple with me? <br />
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According to the <a href="https://history.churchofjesuschrist.org/subsection/historic-sites/utah/st-george/brigham-young-winter-home?lang=eng" target="_blank">website for the BYWH</a>, Young’s office ”provided privacy for him to meet with selected Church leaders to reinstitute temple ordinances that had not been performed in a temple since the Saints left Nauvoo, Illinois.” Presumably eavesdropping neighbors could hear Mormon bigwigs saying <i>“Please Sir, may I have another?”</i> before hearing the whack of the ‘Board of Deacons’ on some Bishop’s butt during this process. <br />
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After the brief spiel our docent took us over to the Big House where a different docent took over. <br />
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Very few of the objects in the house belonged to Brigham Young. There’s a piano in the parlor—one of his wives played the piano. And sang too. I’m pretty sure about that. Though she might have just hummed along. Don’t quote me. My eyes glazed over shortly after arrival. Perhaps I was having a vision! <br />
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After the parlor—Brigham Young liked windows, I think the docent mentioned that—we moved on to the dining room and the kitchen, where the docent explained how ironing worked in the 19th century. 1. Heat up irons on stove. 2. Scorch whatever it was that you were ironing 3. Or not.<br />
Sometimes even a blind hog gets an acorn. 4. Repeat as necessary. 5. Await the invention of the electric iron in 1882.<br />
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After the kitchen, we were led up the steep, historic staircase to the bedrooms. Brigham Young and his wife/wives had separate bedrooms. <br />
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BY (I felt as if we were old friends by this point) had an interesting marital history. He was a polygamist and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Brigham_Young%27s_wives" target="_blank">according to Wiki </a>had 55 wives, 54 of which he married after becoming a Mormon. While the majority of the sealings were "for eternity", some were "for time only". I don’t know if this meant they could stay overnight, or if Brigham Young told them to skidaddle after enjoying their company since he “needed to get up early for work tomorrow”. Researchers believe that not all of the 55 marriages were conjugal. (Yeah, right!)<br />
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It’s not a bad thing that Tinder wasn’t invented during Brigham Young’s lifetime. <br />
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By his slew of wives, Brigham Young had 56 children. Do you think he had trouble with their names the way my mother did with her kids names? That would have been quite the moment of domestic bliss, when he tried to call Levi and instead had to go through Abraham, Mary, Martha, Dorcas, Joel and 51 other names before finally hitting on Levi.<br />
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I asked the docent if with 56 children, he repeated any names. She didn’t know.<br />
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Then I asked her if she’d ever read that Dr. Seuss story about Mrs. McCave, who had twenty-three sons and named them all Dave? No, she wasn’t familiar with that though she said she liked Dr. Seuss. <br />
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I chuckled at the thought of Brigham Young naming one of his kids Oliver Boliver Butt as Dr. Seuss wished Mrs. McCave had done. Yes, even on a bad house tour, I amuse myself. <br />
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The last room on the tour was Brigham Young’s bedroom. With 55 kids, I’m surprised his death wasn’t due to…um….organ failure.<br />
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Not having had my fill of Mormon History, I drove over to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._George_Utah_Temple" target="_blank">St. George Temple</a>, which is the oldest Mormon Temple in use by the church. For whatever reason, the Temple and Tabernacle aren’t near each other, don’t face each other, and pretty much seem as if they were plopped down in random spots.<br />
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It’s hard to miss the Temple. It’s a huge white thing.<br />
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According to Wiki, there are “three ordinance rooms and 18 sealing rooms, and a total floor area of 110,000 square feet .The building used to have four ordinance rooms, but they were refashioned into “three rooms, at the time the endowment ceremony was changed from a live presentation to one presented on film.”<br />
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I am not going to comment on endowment ceremonies even if they are on film, VHS, DVD, Blu-Ray or the part of the internet reserved for porn.<br />
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As I said, the place is enormous and it’s painted blinding tone of white. You need to wear sunglasses if you look at the building, it’s that bright. The place is immaculately maintained. There wasn’t a weed or a speck of dirt or a drab bit of faded paint anywhere. Cars don’t come out of the factory looking this new.<br />
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Since I’m not a member of the church in good standing (with the special underwear and all that), I wasn’t permitted to go into the Temple. However, I was permitted to go into the Temple’s visitor center, staffed, by you guessed it, Mormon retirees. <br />
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The visitors center was actually two buildings. The first building is about the building of the Temple. It has a small model of the town of St. George in the 19th Century and some 19th century artifacts related to the construction of the Temple. Next door was a larger building, evangelizing in bricks and mortar about the Mormon faith.<br />
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The latter building was staffed by cute twentysomethings (with a fortysomething supervisor). I wondered if they church had finally run out of retirees.<br />
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It was decorated in the expensive funeral home style, the same style as the temple in Philadelphia. I skipped the opportunity to watch a bunch of videos, presumably from that part of the internet not reserved for porn, about the LDS church and so on. The Muzak playing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Prthhmly0Gg" target="_blank"><i>What a Friend We Have in Jesus</i></a> was as close as I was going to get to a religious experience.<br />
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I used the men’s room. For all their industry, Mormons aren’t so good at putting a new roll of TP on the holder.<br />
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After my fill of Mormon hot spots (it was 111° according to the gas station thermometer) I was really in the mood for coffee. I stopped at a local coffee shop—mostly just to see if a town filled with Mormons HAD a coffee shop—for a cup before heading back to Vegas.<br />
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That evening, Tracy and I went to see <a href="https://www.cirquedusoleil.com/mystere" target="_blank"><i>Mystere</i></a>, the oldest <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cirque_du_Soleil" target="_blank"><i>Cirque du Soleiel</i></a> show playing in Las Vegas. If you’ve never been to a Cirque show, go.<br />
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It’s an evening of acrobats, clowns, trapeze artists, and presumably not a single Mormon retiree. There’s a soundtrack of rock music, and cast members wear costumes designed by someone who consumed LOTS of LSD.<br />
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Most of the performers had the bodies of underwear models. Reflecting on my trip to St. George, I thanked the Lord for the invention of Spandex. <br />
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On my last day in town I wanted to see Zak Bagans’ Haunted Museum, as seen on the Travel Channel’s <i>Ghost Adventures!</i><br />
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OK, I have no idea who Zak Bagans is, or what <i>Ghost Adventures!</i> is, but I have heard of the Travel Channel.<br />
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The website promised the chance to...<br />
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<i>...see original collectibles from haunted sites….</i><br />
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“original collectibles”…as opposed to Limited Edition Collectibles from the Franklin Mint?<br />
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<i>…and hear the bone-chilling stories of the paranormal activity that surrounds them….</i><br />
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It was 111° in St. George. My bones could use a little chilling.<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>This isn’t your average haunted house in Las Vegas;</i><br />
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…there is such a thing?<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>…museum-goers can even peek inside the VW death van in which Dr. Jack Kevorkian ended the suffering of terminally ill patients as well as get a close-up look at the “Propofol chair” from Michael Jackson’s death room...</i><br />
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Sold.<br />
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Who doesn’t want to see Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s van? Or Michael Jackson’s “Propofol chair”? (Manufactured by La-Z Some Young Boy.)<br />
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But dang it. This non-average haunted house was closed on Tuesdays.<br />
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Oh well, there's always next year!<br />
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So back to Philadelphia airport.<br />
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My flight was cancelled.<br />
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There were no rental cars.<br />
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There were no hotels within 12 miles and $200 of the airport.<br />
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As I was waiting in line for an American Airlines employee to hit me in the head with a croquet mallet, the American Airlines app on my phone told me that I could fly out the next morning at 8:38. Yay! At least my carry-on wasn’t lost.<br />
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I went to a bar where you had to order via an iPad. I had a what my father used to call a Budweiser sandwich.<br />
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I moved away from the loud 24 Hour TRU-TV featuring CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta going to Italy, not shaving, and eating slow food. I tried to sleep on the floor. I tried to sleep on the settees. I tried to sleep with my head on a table. I tried to sleep using my backpack as a pillow. <br />
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I adjusted my compression socks.<br />
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The security announcements continued through the night. The loudspeaker repeatedly told us if a stranger asks you to take their ticking Acme brand suitcase with you, it might jeopardize your status as a member of boarding group 57.<br />
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At about 5:00 am I walked around and noticed a guy sitting in one of those coin operated massage chairs. With visions of Magic Fingers (only $.25!) dancing in my head, I thought a three minute spin was worth a $1.<br />
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It was the longest three minutes I’ve ever lived through. The chair gripped your legs so that you could not get a way and then treated you to the electronic version of a PennDOT worker running you over with a dump truck. People have been known to escape into Turkish prisons to get away from these chairs.<br />
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At 6:00 am the food court reopened. I resisted the call of a Budweiser omelet and had a bagel sandwich. <br />
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My new flight left on time. If it hadn't, I would have walked home. Even if I had to take a screaming German toddler with me. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-84522725228237107882019-06-24T19:58:00.000-04:002019-06-25T21:58:57.292-04:00College Plus 40<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By the time your 40th college reunion comes around, you’re old. The <i>alma mater</i> is eager for you to come back so that you’ll
remember it when you’re at the lawyer’s office cutting a ne’er-do-well
relative out of your will. When you finally find the invitation you received in the mail (“<i>I had it when I walked into the room…</i>”) you see that it’s sponsored by Lipitor and Depends and includes a coupon for the school’s official funeral home. <br />
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Since I started going to my college reunion at my 20th—lured by the promise of seeing Mary Wilson of the Supremes—I’ve always had a fantastic time. Gathered on the University of Virginia’s lovely Grounds (no, it’s not a campus) with other Wahoos, it’s a weekend of telling your friends that they haven’t changed a bit, rehashing old stories, enjoying plentiful food and drink, and attending a seminar or two. If that’s not enough, there are tours, music, dancing, and yes, sometimes hangovers.<br />
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This year, my coworkers were concerned that in my eagerness to relive my college days, history might repeat itself. That’s right…. that I might participate in, and then report on, reunion-related canoodling. While I was, in theory at least, open to the idea of a canoodle, their delicate sensibilities were safe: I have no canoodling to report on.<br />
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I drove to Charlottesville with my friend Di who was coming from upstate New York. We stopped at <a href="https://www.virginiafarmmarket.com/" target="_blank">Virginia Farm Market</a> in Winchester on they way. I'd show you a photo of their fantastic apple cider donuts, but I ate all of them before starting this blog.<br />
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We took a scenic detour near the little town of Crozet and were mightily amused by finding Dick Woods Road.<br />
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The moment I walked into Alumni Hall I had one of those “Toto I don’t think that we’re in Kansas anymore” moments. There was LOTS of blue and orange. And I do mean lots. Men and women were nattily dressed in blue blazers and orange neckties, blue and orange striped polo shirts, and anything else that might come in blue and orange. <br />
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Di and I presented ourselves at the appropriate registration desks and soon enough were outfitted in the official color-coded lanyard that served as our tickets for the weekend. We each received an official UVa tie tack and even an official school pennant. Who knew pennants were coming back?! <br />
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After getting the lay of the land from the earnest young Wahoo at the check in table, he pointed me in the direction of another desk where someone would print my alumni association membership card entitling me to a 15% discount at the UVa bookstore. The merch didn’t even have to be blue and orange.<br />
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I told the man at the counter that my name was Rick Bryant.<br />
<u><b><br />
</b></u><u><b>The</b></u><i> Rick Bryant…. from The Declaration? </i><br />
<i><br />
Uh no</i>, I said.<br />
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<i>The Declaration</i> (as in of Independence…clever, no?) was a weekly student tabloid. My doppelgänger was a BMOG law student. He played racquetball. People would call me about scheduling games with him.<br />
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<i>His given name is Frederick</i>, I said, defending the good name of Richards everywhere.<br />
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With that conversational gambit shot down like a clay bird in a skeet shoot, the man behind the counter went to Plan B.<br />
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“So where are you from?” </i><br />
<i><br />
“State College, Pennsylvania. As in Penn State.” </i><br />
<i><br />
“Oh, do you know Tina Hay?”</i><br />
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I chuckled.<br />
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<i>“Why yes, I do. She's great.”</i><br />
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The man handing out the membership cards turned out to be the editor of the UVa alumni mag. He'd met Tina after hearing her talk about crisis communications. Small world. <br />
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While I usually stay in on-Grounds housing (as in a dorm), I opted for the considerably less spartan Courtyard by Marriott near the UVa Medical Center. I thought it would be a better option if I were to have a canoodling-related heart attack or worse, a you-know-what lasting more than four hours. <br />
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That evening, Di and I and another friend walked down the street for dinner at Maya, a trendy Yelp-endorsed restaurant. I read later that the neighborhood is called Midtown. Back in the day it would have been called “Yeah, do you don’t wanna go there…” <br />
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But that was a long time ago. <br />
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<a href="http://www.maya-restaurant.com/" target="_blank">Maya</a> is a trendy spot, welcoming both inked skinny-jeans-wearing regional cuisine aficionados and doofus hipster-wannabes. The Yelp-ers are on to something: not only was the food good, but the historic cocktail of the month hit the spot too. However, our zaftig crimson-lipsticked waitress never really warmed to us. My guess is that she wouldn’t be caught dead in blue and orange.<br />
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NFL Man of the Year, owner of two Super Bowl rings, Wahoo, and C-ville local Chris Long came in for take-out and waited at the bar right by our booth. And to answer your first question, no, he was not wearing skinny jeans. Do they even make skinny jeans in sizes for NFL players? He was very polite and didn’t interrupt our dinner to ask to take a selfie with us. Had he asked, I would have said yes. <br />
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After dinner we still had time for a nightcap at <a href="https://www.thevirginiancville.com/" target="_blank">The Virginian</a>, a sort of diner/bar where you can get not only Maker’s Mark but tits too. My friend Margaret once found a cockroach in a farmer’s omelet there. Presumably in the intervening years the exterminator has come. I didn’t stay out late: my reunion-ing schedule started early the next day. Yeah, I’m old.<br />
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There were plenty of things on offer. There were uplifting seminars covering a wide variety of topics from UVa sports to retirement to nuclear energy to Walt Whitman. If you wanted to hang out with friends from the Honor Committee or the Veterans of the Old Dorms Panty Raids you could do that. If you care to go farther afield, there were tours of new buildings on Grounds and local hot spots, like <a href="https://monticellowinetrail.com/" target="_blank">wineries</a> and <a href="https://www.monticello.org/" target="_blank">Monticello</a>. And if Bill was your friend, there were twelve step meetings. <br />
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I typically stick to the historic stuff and do a few tours of new and different parts of the Grounds. I wasn’t much of a joiner, wasn’t in student government, and even let my membership in the Old Dorm Panty Raid Association lapse a few years back.<br />
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My first seminar was called <i>1968: A Year Drenched in Blood</i>, a perfect choice to shock the brain cells into something approaching thinking. The prof, Brian Balogh, whose podcast, <a href="https://www.backstoryradio.org/" target="_blank">Backstory</a>, is a personal fave, used lot of video clips to talk about the fracturing America of 1968. He illustrated his points with everything from an ad from the Nixon presidential campaign to clips of the Chicago police beating the crap out of anti-war protesters at the Democratic convention.<br />
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During the Q&A, one member of the audience, from the class of ’64 or ‘69, talked about his experience returning from Viet Nam, when the manager of a swank hotel in San Francisco comped his room as a way of welcoming him back from the war. <br />
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At this, the older gentleman sitting by me became visibly distressed and tears started rolling down his cheeks. When I offered a tissue, his wife told me that he’d had the opposite experience returning from Viet Nam. He was called a baby killer, and that was just for starters.<br />
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Another audience member identified himself as one of the five African-American students of the 1200 men (as in no women) of the class of 1969. He talked about performing in the Glee Club’s spring concert when someone came into the auditorium and announced that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been killed. He said everyone in the hall turned and looked at him.<br />
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All three of these men were reminders that although there are lots of things we need to work on, America is a better place than it was in 1968.<br />
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When I was sufficiently depressed it was time for my second talk, <i>Rum, Rummy, Rampaging, and Research: Life at Early UVA for Students, Faculty, and the Enslaved. </i><br />
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We learned that before the Civil War The University was a dangerous place. Students were often drunk and violent. Gunfire on Grounds was a frequent occurrence. Lots of the violence was intended by students to assert dominion over the enslaved community. The young men sent to UVa to learn leadership skills spent much of their time leading the way to local liquor and ammo stores. <br />
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<i>Ante bellum</i> UVa sounded like The Three Stooges Meet Jim Crow, only worse. In addition to the traditional <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yscaDkzHqek" target="_blank">“<i>Oh, a wise guy, eh?</i>”</a> before some eye gouging and sucker punching, the fighting also included lots of nose biting. Yes, nose biting. It was a thing. It’s even documented in university records. Yikes.<br />
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And of course, there was wenching and whoring. Those boys wenched and whored out the ying yang. Faculty members did a lot of hand wringing about the wenching and whoring. There's plenty of documentation of that, too.<br />
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Fortunately, I could only fit in two depressing seminars before lunch back at The Virginian, where one of my friends told me that his nonagenarian father was getting married the next day. Impressive! I didn’t ask if the bride were knocked up.<br />
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After lunch it was time for a tour. The architecture school's gravel parking lot has become a parking garage, band building, and a studio art building. The area now has a fancy name, The <a href="http://arts.virginia.edu/galleries-grounds/arts-grounds/" target="_blank">John and Betsy Casteen Arts Grounds</a>, which presumably has replaced its former name, "You have classes way out there?". While there were bright spots, the tour was a bit like listening to someone you don’t know brag about their grandchildren. <br />
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At about 5:00 p.m. a thunderstorm of biblical proportions descended on Charlottesville. The lights in the hotel went out briefly, and the phone system was knocked out for the remainder of the weekend. Fortunately the Alumni Association had announced earlier that evening activities would be at their inclement weather sites. <br />
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The evening's new location, the <a href="https://www.johnpauljonesarena.com/" target="_blank">John Paul Jones Arena</a>, was impressive even if it wasn't designed by Mr. Jefferson or Stanford White. The huge athletic complex was living proof that in the years since I was a student, UVa has embraced bigtime sports, to the detriment of time spent wenching, whoring, and nose-biting.<br />
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Saturday was a beautiful day so my friends and I got bagels from Bodo’s (a C-ville institution) so that we could have breakfast on The Rotunda steps while watching the morning’s academic procession. UVa is very big on academic processions. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lawn" target="_blank">Mr. Jefferson’s Lawn</a>, with its rows of columns leading from one focal point to another is the perfect spot for them.<br />
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When we arrived, cute Josh (even at my advanced age I still have the ability to read a nametag) and his cute and perky co-workers from Alumni Hall were there to carry the class banners. Each time I see them I’m impressed with how handsome they are. The banners, I mean.<br />
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Soon enough a man in academic gown holding the university’s mace showed up, followed in short order by a guy in a kilt with bagpipes. The kilt wasn’t a blue and orange tartan, a clear branding goof by some junior development person attached to the events office. The new university President, <a href="https://president.virginia.edu/" target="_blank">Jim Ryan</a>, arrived—easy to spot since he was the only man in a dark business suit.<br />
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We fell into a ragtag procession by class, behind the guy with the mace, the bagpiper, university President, and the cute banner folks from Alumni Hall. Classmate Katie Couric stepped out of the procession to capture the scene on her phone, our very own <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abraham_Zapruder" target="_blank">Abraham Zapruder</a>. I hope I was smiling.<br />
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When the procession neared its end, we all clapped for those who’d graduated fifty years ago.<br />
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Josh took a photo of Di, Pete, and me with our class banner. <br />
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After the procession, there’s an assembly where people from the alumni association and the development office act as the de facto opening acts for the University president. They pass out awards to the classes that did the best with fundraising and attendance. <br />
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Before the speakers started, my friends and I talked about what a terrible job someone did hanging the screen over the stage. How could they not align it with the room’s cornice? Architects notice these things.<br />
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President Ryan was impressive; the university seems to be in good hands. As the Q&A from the audience wound down, in an amusing bit of theatre, the last questioner randomly chosen from the audience was Katie Couric. She asked about the college admissions scandal. President Ryan them answered her like the skilled politician a university president needs to be these days.<br />
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After the President’s address, I hit a seminar on Mr. Jefferson before going to the Architecture School luncheon in the garden of Pavilion VI. The Dean’s wife turned out to be the woman who did the architecture school portion of the arts grounds tour the day before. She was very nice though I couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing the same black dress as the day before. She did, however, change her shoes.<br />
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Saturday afternoon I took a friend to the airport, went to the university bookstore to see if my math skills could calculate a 15% discount.<br />
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Afterward, I took in an exhibit on Walt Whitman. <br />
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<i>Leaves of Grass</i> had some terrible reviews. Yikes!<br />
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After Walt it was time to return to the hotel to shower, shave, and Aqua Velva before our big class finale in McIntire Amphitheater.<br />
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I could barely fit into my pink Ralph Lauren party trousers that I wore to the same event five years previously, but as long as I didn’t plan on inhaling, exhaling, eating, drinking, or moving, I figured I’d be ok. <br />
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It was a beautiful night for a party, in a beautiful setting, surrounded by historic white columned buildings that are part of the UVa brand. It was the like the best wedding ever except without annoying relatives, the possibility of children in attendance, and having to wait forever for the bride and groom to cut the cake so that you can leave.<br />
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My friends and I laughed and laughed and laughed some more.<br />
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Dessert was the C-ville delicacy, the Grillswith. It's a grilled glazed donut topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It wouldn't be a UVa reunion without them. <br />
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Around 9:00 p.m., Atlanta’s <a href="https://perfect10band.com/home" target="_blank">Perfect 10 Band</a> started to play. They’re a horn band fronted by three women—one with a baby bump--in sequined jumpsuits and one guy in the tightest pants ever. They are fantastic entertainers.<br />
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In about a half a second there were lots of aged and not quite infirm Wahoos on the dance floor gyrating as if they once knew how to dance. At some point the guy in the tightest pants ever led a conga line around the dance floor. I can't tell you the last time that I was in a conga line.<br />
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The Perfect 10 band was the opening act for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/38296412046/" target="_blank">Skip Castro</a>, the band that’s played at all of our reunions. Sure, they’re long in the tooth, but they’ve still got what it takes.<br />
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On our way out of the party we met some younger Wahoos who had scored some lanyards and were on their way in. I think they’d been partying all evening, but hey, it was Reunions Weekend, I could hardly blame them. In the course of chatting, he told me that he was looking for $450,000 venture capital for his startup. He's got gizmo (or maybe it was a process) that turns kombucha into rolling papers. I told him I was in for $50,000. Fortunately, he was more interested in running to the bar than running my credit card.<br />
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Di and I took a selfie with Mr. Jefferson and then sat down on the Rotunda steps to chat with some friends of hers.<br />
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Three twenty somethings appeared out of the dark and were horsing around on the grass in front of us. Someone—I think it was Di—yelled to them that they should streak.<br />
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Soon enough, there were piles of clothes in front of us and <a href="https://uvamagazine.org/articles/streak_show" target="_blank">they ran down Lawn</a> together in the altogether. On the return trip, they ran right up the steps of the Rotunda. That was when I noticed that they knew that a Brazilian is not just a citizen of that really big country in South America. <br />
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The final thing on the schedule was the traditional Sunday morning going away breakfast at the aquatic center. It's headlined by the droll politics commentator <a href="https://twitter.com/LarrySabato" target="_blank">Larry Sabato</a>, the head of UVa's Center for Politics and a member of the class of '74. He spends an hour or so politically prognosticating while bleary-eyed alums munch on breakfast food. <br />
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Unfortunately the end of his talk signaled that another reunions weekend was coming to a close. As he finished talking, Frank and Heidi and Guy and Melinda and Pete and Laura and Bob and Ted and Carol and Alice and anyone else I might have laid eyes on said our goodbyes and promised that we wouldn’t wait 5 years to get together again.<br />
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This time we really mean it. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-67022162693497338502019-04-26T19:18:00.000-04:002019-04-26T19:36:13.229-04:00Spring 2019 Trip to Mexico, Part 5. Hacidenda Carmen <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://www.haciendadelcarmen.com.mx/en" target="_blank">Hacienda El Carmen</a> is the Mexican version of a Venetian villa or English country house that has been converted into a luxury hotel and spa. It’s an oasis of manicured lawns, blooming bougainvillea, and gurgling fountains. It’s separated from the dusty village of El Carmen by a high stone wall. <br />
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I am not bowled over very often, but wow, I was bowled over. The place is fantastic. It’s a far cry from my usual Courtyard by Marriott. It was as if we were in the home of a Mexican aesthete from the 1940s where they hardly changed a thing to convert it into a small hotel.<br />
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I expected to see <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zorro" target="_blank">Zorro</a> (Douglas Fairbanks, Guy Williams, George Hamilton…take your pick) each time I turned a corner. Instead, I saw shadows. <br />
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The place was all brightly colored thick masonry walls, Catholic memorabilia out the ying yang, more Spanish Colonial decorative arts than I’d seen in my entire life, with a with a touch of crazy thrown in to keep it interesting.<br />
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It’s definitely the other F word: fabulous.<br />
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It was a Monday night, there were just a few other guests about. We could tell fart jokes all we wanted without bothering anyone. Except for numerous statues of Catholic worthies, I mean. <br />
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The fart jokes would have to wait since we had spa appointments. Did I mention that Hacienda el Carmen is a spa too? <br />
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Robyn made it very clear to us that we needed to bring swim suits so that we could go to the spa. So there I was, in my more vintage than it used to be swimsuit, from Lands End’s Paunchy Aging Wahoo Collection. A bunch of little holes in its left leg are testament to many years of wearing Stone Harbor beach tags.<br />
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The spa was in its own building, a short walk from the big house. In its former life, the building was a granary, but today it’s a chic spa staffed by technicians in crisp white uniforms. We’d already discussed the available “spa treatments” so I knew which boxes to check when they handed me the English language version of the spa menu.<br />
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It will come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog that I opted for the "Fruit Exfoliation", I figured if anyone could offer a unique perspective on "Fruit Exfoliation", it would be me, especially since Jesús the male stripper from Puerto Vallarta was nowhere to be found. Interestingly enough, there was no discount for bringing your own fruit.<br />
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After the requisite paperwork was done, I met my spa Fairy Godmother, a woman of a certain age named Martha. This Martha didn’t speak English. At all. My Spanish won't get me through the Taco Bell menu. As you might guess, communicating was a challenge.<br />
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But when Martha handed me the pair of paper boxer shorts, I understood that my Lands End swim trunks, even though they were from the Paunchy Aging Wahoo Collection, were not up to her standards. But the paper shorts....they were hideous. They had to have been made in East Germany. I put them on and joined the party in the hot tub for a soak.<br />
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When I was sufficiently soaked, Martha led me by the elbow (did she think I was going to get lost?) to our treatment room. Apparently this is a thing they do...leading you around by the elbow. Who knew?! I was feeling broadened already. <br />
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Martha—I’m not exactly what her job title is—masseuse, exfoliator, worker-over-er—was a short woman, with a grandmotherly figure, big smile, and the hands of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosa_Klebb" target="_blank">Rosa Klebb</a>. While she was all smiles and warmth, I had no doubt that in the blink of an eye, she could, based on ancient Aztec techniques of hand-to-hand combat, break several parts of me that I consider important, if not downright crucial.<br />
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My first challenge was to change from the baby blue East German paper boxer shorts into a new garment (and I use the term loosely) that Martha gave me. It guarded a lot less of my modesty than the paper boxers. This thing was as a strip of blue paper connected to a couple of loops of narrow elastic. It was completely confounding to me, especially since it came with no instructions, at least instructions in English.<br />
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I figured that it was to cover up my nether regions but I couldn’t quite figure it out to work it. And that was how I ended up putting it on sideways. After struggling into it, I decided that even if I had the figure of an underwear model, wearing it would have been illegal in several states.<br />
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As someone who aspires to move from geekbod to dadbod, this bit of baby blue Handy-Wipe was just not cutting the mustard as a way to protect myself from Martha’s clutches….or the other way ‘round. I was grateful I hadn’t had a tequila or two at lunch since I might very well have decided to go with it just the way it was.<br />
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Fortunately, I had a Eureka moment and it hit me that it was an East German g string and that the strip of blue fabric went from front to back instead of from side to side. Even the right way 'round the thing's probably still illegal in Texas and Tennessee. Then again, governments in both of those states look askance at fruit exfoliation. <br />
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When I was all situated, Martha came back in the room, put on some soothing music and proceeded to rub my skin with a wet mixture that was a cross between kosher salt and crushed Life Savers. Then she covered me up, whispered something in Spanish in my year, and turned on the shower in stall at the end of the treatment room. When I heard her leave the room, I guessed it I was to get up and wash off my exfoliated fruitiness.<br />
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After my shower I saw that Martha had put out a new East German G-string for me. So I put that on—the right way ‘round on the first try. When I was situated on the massage table, she came back in and slathered me with what I guessed to be strawberry Chobani yogurt. After the slathering--and she laid it on thick--she wrapped me up in a plastic drycleaning bag and left the room. I would like to say that it was relaxing and I fell asleep as my skin was gently rejuvenated by a fruity emulsion. However, a dab of Chobani started to drip into my left ear. Argh! I was stuck. I couldn’t wipe it out since I was mummified in a drycleaning bag.<br />
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Eventually Martha returned, turned on the shower, put out a new East German G-string and then whispered something into my ear that I think meant "Get up and wash this stuff off" or “In all my years of fruit exfoliation, you’re the fruitiest.” I just don’t know.<br />
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After I washed off the Chobani and put on my clean east German g string, it was back onto the table for a post-exfoliation massage. I'm especially grateful that Martha didn’t resort to any Aztec jiu-jitsu as she readjusted my chi. <br />
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Readjusted and exfoliated, yet still fruity enough to harbor visions of strippers from Puerto Vallarta named Jesús, I was ready for a relaxing evening of cocktails, conversation, and delicious fare on the rear terrace of the big house. It was a lot of broadening for one day: I slept like a log that night.<br />
<br />Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-79842147553191058682019-04-26T17:02:00.003-04:002019-04-26T17:50:09.551-04:00Spring 2019 Trip to Mexico. Part 4, Tequila! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The day after our trip to Chacala, we left bright and early for an overnight to trip to Tequila. (Upper case Tequila is a place. Lower case tequila is a drink.) Paul is a tequila guy the way that some of my UVa friends are bourbon guys, or plutocrats are are single malt scotch guys. Paul appreciates nuances in tequila that are lost on my low end tastebuds. <br />
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We drove north along the coastal road for a ways—some of it looked familiar since it was the road we took to my cousin Jake’s wedding two years ago. Paul and Robyn were thoughtful tour guides, giving us the low down on places we passed.<br />
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Near San Blas, I think it was, we got on a new toll road. There wasn’t much traffic, the road was in fantastic shape, especially when compared to Pennsylvania highways.<br />
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We stopped at a rest stop to use the facilities.<br />
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I loved the signage for the men's room. <br />
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After a couple of hours, we were in a landscape of agave fields—the juice extracted from the blue agae plant is distilled to make tequila. In my pre-broadened state, thought I’d seen agave fields between PV and P and R’s house, but those fields were pineapple, not agave.<br />
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Until I went there, I had no clue that the region around Tequila, filled with fields of blue agave, was a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Tequila has been distilled there since the 16th century and UNESCO recognizes that the region is a key part of the Mexican national identity. <br />
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The city of Tequila reminded me of medieval Italian city: built for walking, not driving, ancient buildings in various states of disrepair, narrow cobblestone streets, and thriving tourist economy. Paul found a place to park near the city center.<br />
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After a quick look at the swanky Jose Cuervo showroom, we headed for the main square. Paul stopped to talk to two boys who holding an iguana tied to a bit of nylon rope. After some haggling, he (or she, I don’t know how the iguana self-identified) was Paul’s for 100 pesos, about $5 American. After untying him, which took some doing, Paul and Billy walked up the street and released it at a vacant patch of land. I don’t know if the iguana scampered away to safety or just waited to be caught again by those two boys to be sold again at the town square.<br />
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We walked around the square, looking like tourists.<br />
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We watched people taking photos in front of the large Tequila sign and took some of our own.<br />
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The Church of the Immaculate Conception was at one end of the square. Its exterior is quite primitive with the exception of some carved stone elements on the entrance front. (And of course, a neon cross at the very top!) <br />
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The interior is a handsome classical space with a polychrome vaulted ceiling. I was expecting bells and smells, but there were no small chapels illuminated by flickering candles.<br />
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Instead, there was a memorial to a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toribio_Romo_Gonz%C3%A1lez" target="_blank">Father Toribio Romo Gonzalez</a>, who was killed by government troops in 1928 during the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cristero_War" target="_blank">Cristero War</a>. Until that moment, I'd never heard of the Cristero War, it was a broadening moment. <br />
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There's an even larger statue of him in the plaza in front of the church.<br />
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He was canonized by the church in 2000 and is now seen as the patron of migrants. My guess is that The Donald wants his friends the two Corinthians to beat the crap out of him. <br />
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We had lunch at an outdoor café on the square. In addition to some government function taking place under a big tent in the square, there was a performance in the square too.<br />
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The performers were seven indigenous people, aka locals, decked out in red trousers, white smocks with floral sashes and lots of fringe, and hats that looked as if they were made from repurposed maracas. They danced around what looked like a May pole, while one of their number played the drums and another the pan flute. Of course, I’ve never seen a real maypole in real life. I’ve seen plenty of poles, some of them in the month of May. But none were anything like this.<br />
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The dance around the maypole lasted long enough to make you think that you’d never, ever, get their indigenous ear worm out of your head.<br />
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At the end of the dance number, five of them climbed up the wobbly pole, which was perhaps 40 feet tall. At the top of the pole, four sat on a rickety looking frame, while the fifth stood atop the pole played the drums and pan flute simultaneously. Clearly this was not a job for President Gerald R. Ford, who, according to Lyndon Johnson, could not walk and chew gum at the same time.<br />
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Four of the men wrapped ropes around their legs and stepped off the rickety frame and twirled around the pole till they reached the ground. It was a circus act without a net. I was glad I’d picked different parents than those guys.<br />
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According to Wiki, it's called the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danza_de_los_Voladores" target="_blank">Danza de los Voladores. </a><br />
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You could take a tasting tour of the area in buses shaped like a red pepper or a tequila cask, but I'll have to wait for the next visit. Hacienda Carmen was the next stop on our itinerary. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-36589311221668601882019-04-26T16:44:00.002-04:002019-04-26T16:44:54.550-04:00Spring 2019 Trip to Mexico. Part 2, ZacuaplanAfter Billy and Alicia arrived, we took a cab to the bus station, a trip of just a couple of miles.<br />
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We got to there just in time to buy tickets and catch our bus. We were headed to the town of Las Varas—a two hour bus ride—where Paul and Robyn were going to meet us. We were the only Anglos on the bus, which eventually became standing room only.<br />
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The bus seats were roomy--the ride was more comfortable than any bus I've been on in the U.S. And, interestingly enough, there were no young women wearing sweatpants and carrying a pillow, something I've seen on every Megabus ride I've taken. At one stop, a food vendor walked through the bus selling cellophane bags of what looked like potato chips and a bunch of different sauces with which to customize them. As snack foods go, they looked....interesting.<br />
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We disembarked in Las Varas right on time.<br />
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I barely had time to photograph the blinking shrine at the store that serves as the bus stop when Paul and Robyn arrived as promised. In short order, we were on the way to their house. It’s about 30 minutes from Las Varas.<br />
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Since we were all peckish, we stopped for dinner at a little place in Zacuaplan.<br />
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Zacuaplan is a farming community, with shops, car repair places, and a cheese shop that Paul and Robyn swear never has any cheese.<br />
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In the center of town, there’s a large church that looks as if it were designed by a committee. It faces a small park in place of the traditional town square.<br />
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The town doesn’t have a lot of curb appeal, but it’s but brimming with authenticity. If there was any sort of chain store or franchise outpost there, I didn't see it. <br />
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Paul pulled over at the Loncheria El Sazon de Silvia, one of the few places open at that time of night. It wasn’t a place people go to for the atmosphere; if it were a food truck, it would have been missing a fender. In fact, the State College Board of Health might have sent in a SWAT team to close the place for a hairnet violation.<br />
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But even without a hairnet, the woman at the grill made us a delicious dinner. Perhaps I was just ravenous, or perhaps it was the super tasty salsa on the table, but my tacos were spectacular. Plus, since I ate them with a knife and fork they gave me the opportunity to demonstrate my lack of travel-related broadening. I didn’t need to worry about drinking the water, Billy walked down the street and brought back cold beer.<br />
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As I sat there at a table on the sidewalk, still wearing my blue blazer, eating my tacos with a knife and fork, drinking a cold beer, I wondered if I had been transported into a W. Somerset Maugham story. Or would that have been a Graham Greene story?<br />
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My friend Martha would have known who I meant. Unlike me, she's probably knows all about those English authors who wrote about fish-out-of-water Brits in distant corners of the crumbling Empire. I’m as thick as a plank when it comes to anything literary.<br />
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I was consoled by the fact that Mr. Bass Pro Shops probably didn’t know the difference between W. Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene…though by this point he might have known something about strippers named Jes<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ú</span>s. I just had a feeling. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-37554241200686789292019-04-26T16:36:00.002-04:002019-04-26T16:36:38.022-04:00Spring 2019 Trip to Mexico. Part 3, Chacala<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On my first full day in Mexico, Paul took us on an four-wheeler excursion, through the jungle and onto the beach. A. and I stood up on the bed, behind the cab as we held on for dear life, going down and up paths that, at times, I thought were impassable. We checked out giant termite nests, marveled at the flora, and saw where a lava flow met the ocean zillions of years ago.<br />
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My favorite part might have been buzzing along a deserted beach; it was a blast. <br />
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Near the end of the trip, we stopped so I could check out a trailside shrine. Someone had dropped dead at that very spot in November 2001. I think these shrines are fascinating, and in this part of Mexico, they're practically ubiquitous. I can't imagine how long a trip I'd need if I stopped to photograph each one. <br />
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Someone had placed a small sculpture of the Holy Family at the base of the cross atop the shrine. Joseph was missing his head. Do you think it was from the scratch and dent rack at the religious ephemera store?<br />
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We stopped by another, larger shrine, on the main road, closer to the house. Paul pointed out to me that roadside shrines were often near a curve at the end of a long straight stretch of highway. Drivers tend to get a little aggressive on the straight stretches and then lose control when they have to make the corner. Death doesn’t take a holiday: hence shrines. <br />
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In addition to a little hut filled with a low rent funeral home's worth of plastic flowers, this shrine was decorated with plastic flags in the image of the Pope. I am not entirely sure which Pope it’s supposed to be, but don't think it was any Pope Urban VII. Has anyone ever taken the idea of Pontifical Flashcards to the venture capitalists on <i>Shark Tank</i>...?<br />
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The next day we drove to the small town of Chacala to have brunch and hang out at the beach with two of Robyn and Paul’s expat friends.<br />
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According to the tourist bureau’s website:<br />
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<i>Everybody forgets about Chacala! This small little fishing village (reminiscent of an older Sayulita) sits 9 miles off the main highway, just a little north of La Peñita. Perhaps the short drive is what keeps people from discovering this gem of a town. This community sits at the north end of a gorgeous, expansive, half moon bay. </i><br />
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I don’t think that anyone who’d been to Chacala could forget about it. The town seemed like a microcosm of everything I’d seen in Mexico. The town was a mix of old and new, with rich and poor right next to each other. There were families, musicians, food vendors, tchotchke sellers, and even some commercial fishermen at the beach.<br />
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We ate at a beachfront restaurant. After a super brunch, we had time for the beach and exploring. There was a dock for the fishing fleet at the north end of the bay and a swanky resort hotel at the other. It was so swanky that the sandwich board on the beach advertising the daily specials was in English. There were a couple of bands playing on the beach too. Those guys should keep their day jobs.<br />
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Sure, Chacala is off the beaten path. But to me, at least, that was part of its charm. What it's lacking in male strippers named Jesús it has in a beautiful beach, fishing, fun places to eat and drink. Oh, and a bunch of really cool people.<br />
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Chacala is fantastic. How could anyone forget it? Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-58140060018232347572019-04-19T19:33:00.000-04:002019-04-26T15:51:05.340-04:00Spring 2019 Trip to Mexico, Part 1. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was lucky enough to spend a few days in Mexico on the <a href="http://www.rivieranayarit.com/about/" target="_blank">Nayarit Riviera</a> earlier this month. I had a fantastic time.<br />
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If you have a chance to go there, take it!<br />
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If my cousin Paul and his lovely wife Robyn invite you, run, do not walk to the airport and get on the first plane. They’re great hosts and make a beautiful part of Mexico even more alluring.<br />
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Speaking of planes, as anyone who flies commercially knows, getting there is not half the fun. I had to be at the State College airport in time for a 5:30am flight….which meant getting up at 3:45am. Ugh.<br />
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However, the guy at the United Airlines counter gave me two thumbs up for wearing a Hawaiian shirt in my passport photo. My view of the photo is that it's ready for its moment on the Post Office wall. <br />
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Then there was a guy with the sparkly-est shoes ever on my plane. He said they were inspired by blood diamonds. As they say, travel is very broadening.<br />
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While the flight to Chicago was on time, my next flight—from Chicago to Puerto Vallarta—had some issues.<br />
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After we boarded, it turned out that there was some sort of mechanical problem. The cigarette lighter in the cockpit—or perhaps it was the co-pilot’s airbag—was on the blink and that meant a procession of technicians to the front of the plane to try to fix it. Apparently unplugging everything, waiting 30 seconds before plugging it in again and restarting it didn’t do the trick, since there was more waiting and head scratching. The folks in the back of the plane, in boarding group 7, got a little restless. <br />
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The delay was long enough that we were allowed to get off the plane as long as we took our carry ons with us.<br />
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The delay wasn’t entirely a bad thing, since it gave me the opportunity to buy a $10 dry turkey on stale bread with the poorest-excuse-for-a-piece-of-lettuce ever sandwich for lunch instead of going with the $15 something-even-more-dismal on the plane.<br />
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Quality time in the airport also gave me time to go to concourse’s bookseller and to buy a copy of <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. I’d decided that I was fifty years late in reading it. <br />
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The other person in my row—we were separated by an empty middle seat—was a cute guy wearing a Bass Pro Shops hat….in the airplane. Born in a barn, I guessed. The only word he spoke to me on the entire flight was when he said “Thanks” after I offered him my pen to fill out his customs and immigration forms.<br />
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Instead of reading <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>, he was reading <i>The Bible</i>.<br />
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If you're not super keen on flying it's not exactly confidence inspiring when the person sitting next to you is reading <i>The Bible. </i>I suppose I should be thankful that he wasn't reading <i>How to Survive a Plane Crash</i>. <br />
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I didn't get a good look at his Bible, but I hope it he was using it to hide a guide to the gay nightspots of Puerto Vallarta. P.V. is Mexico's gay hot spot and tourists need to know which clubs have strippers named Jesús who perform miracles involving Jell-O shots nightly. After all, religious experiences come in all shapes and sizes, even if you're wearing a Bass Pro Shops hat...in an airplane.<br />
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Upon arrival in Puerto Vallarta, I was to wait for my cool cousin Billy and his equally cool gf Alicia at the airport. They were flying in from Seattle a couple of hours after me. Since we’re old, we made a plan to meet and stuck to it without texting each other seventy-five times.<br />
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That gave me more time for <i>To Kill a Mockingbird,</i> searching the Internet for those sparkly shoes, and wondering if I had time to go into town for some Jell-O shots before Billy and Alicia's arrival. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-48307919793149512622018-12-26T16:30:00.000-05:002018-12-26T17:30:33.057-05:00I Believe in Santa Claus. And Santa Trains, too! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQeFmP7hG0nPLk_QM3ammqn0PVofg_htMI0hdRKH3Ao6t2T2B1H-NO_jO3pfr_TFmk7r1ji4rkCd33G_-qpq4kHwZNBf5kc5rmReHLx0b9F9gs10oQ43AHAdniCu1wyy1DpdRECpivFsj/s1600/Ride+with+Santa.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="750" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQeFmP7hG0nPLk_QM3ammqn0PVofg_htMI0hdRKH3Ao6t2T2B1H-NO_jO3pfr_TFmk7r1ji4rkCd33G_-qpq4kHwZNBf5kc5rmReHLx0b9F9gs10oQ43AHAdniCu1wyy1DpdRECpivFsj/s320/Ride+with+Santa.png" width="320" /></a></div>Until a few years ago, I didn’t know that Santa Trains were a thing. But they are; there are tons of them. Every scenic railroad and some not so scenic railroads have one.<br />
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They're simple really: add Santa Claus to a train ride, you’ve got a Santa Train.<br />
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Unlike flying, train travel is still fun; there's no TSA, no tray tables in the upright and locked position, and no possibility of sitting next to someone toting an emotional support peacock.<br />
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And who doesn’t like Santa Claus?<br />
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A couple of years ago when my brother Jim invited me along with the rest of the family to take a ride on the <a href="https://www.wmsr.com/" target="_blank">Western Maryland Scenic Railroad</a> with Santa and maybe an elf or two, I had my Santa Train baptism. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQrXZx5frqnRjFcqTqNxSUCdkshVSfqzPkqdD5dtAD14x1K9wZIWYHrSTZ3zf4Vc0_ejabAlYlSBDwz1tKmq3w0IGqzQO2KQqyyPzNDvivgYJ513jzauOhAL9Zr-NOZQDeuA0CQ_1Bmpi/s1600/Western+Maryland+Santa+Train.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQrXZx5frqnRjFcqTqNxSUCdkshVSfqzPkqdD5dtAD14x1K9wZIWYHrSTZ3zf4Vc0_ejabAlYlSBDwz1tKmq3w0IGqzQO2KQqyyPzNDvivgYJ513jzauOhAL9Zr-NOZQDeuA0CQ_1Bmpi/s320/Western+Maryland+Santa+Train.JPG" width="319" /></a></div>That particular train—an old locomotive--chugs from Cumberland to Frostburg, Maryland. There the engine is put on a turntable and turned around to take the train back to Cumberland.<br />
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Santa, with a comely elf in tow, walks through the train ho ho ho-ing, and gladhanding, having the time of his life as he takes a day off from supervising the toy-making elves at the North Pole. <br />
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It was fun and the scenery was beautiful, but doing it once seemed like enough. Trust me, I do believe in Santa and I like trains. It just wasn’t a one plus one equals three sort of experience.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrAooWh7LuJS_kiNRlbgUdE0M-cK8m7gwyS2TqEHANd3a1DU8-yE9Yyb-aFDlV_D1EYogrq1N2nbFuZ2yxl7djJD-61EWPBm8iicvKhxPmFRujRMJptDOW5ZF14xaaovDt6FT6kQQYirqO/s1600/Ashland.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrAooWh7LuJS_kiNRlbgUdE0M-cK8m7gwyS2TqEHANd3a1DU8-yE9Yyb-aFDlV_D1EYogrq1N2nbFuZ2yxl7djJD-61EWPBm8iicvKhxPmFRujRMJptDOW5ZF14xaaovDt6FT6kQQYirqO/s320/Ashland.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>A few weeks ago Jim offered me a spot on the 2018 family Santa train trip. This version was fancier than the earlier trip. The trip was from Ashland, Virginia to Williamsburg via a private train car. Visions of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cornelius_Vanderbilt" target="_blank">Cornelius Vanderbilt</a> danced in my head. We were moving from the minors to the bigs!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAuDZHqrq52mnGVdbQkCFuY5xm0_1Rcc-z0ROSr5fRDveqOMLN2c5i9YDCS6dFXKAy52t4YmtpeUXcuvOn6TANUmYT5tQbFxg0MlJ2VBRNQzRXRxnTAERKBHdWEkG4f1_pl4PMzfK-ycm/s1600/Bryant+Family+December+2018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAuDZHqrq52mnGVdbQkCFuY5xm0_1Rcc-z0ROSr5fRDveqOMLN2c5i9YDCS6dFXKAy52t4YmtpeUXcuvOn6TANUmYT5tQbFxg0MlJ2VBRNQzRXRxnTAERKBHdWEkG4f1_pl4PMzfK-ycm/s320/Bryant+Family+December+2018.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>So there we were, almost the entire east-of-the-Mississippi edition of the Bryant family on a Saturday morning on a train platform in Ashland, Virginia. We were on the platform plenty early, as Bryants tend to be, though neither Amtrak nor Santa Claus ever arrive early.<br />
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The platform was crowded with lots of Moms and Dads with little kids, some in strollers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjplT0FECZlAi8aby9azK6gJhbfCQGM3Es7pyOmjsth4Qx94MyH460GL0uvTopOfssBOu3YThuHCve-T2xLbNqSCrazSTPL8E3JatM69rBv1Q-EhCq_B29lXQ2W-IunM5NZrXr83gIMAa2/s1600/Ashland+Supplies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjplT0FECZlAi8aby9azK6gJhbfCQGM3Es7pyOmjsth4Qx94MyH460GL0uvTopOfssBOu3YThuHCve-T2xLbNqSCrazSTPL8E3JatM69rBv1Q-EhCq_B29lXQ2W-IunM5NZrXr83gIMAa2/s320/Ashland+Supplies.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I think we were the only family with coolers of hors d’oeuvres and champagne, and a case of beer glasses my brother purchased at the last minute in case the train didn't have enough glasses. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNZqPpCTJ0Xsvrr0SSBQTQDhiehwQBm8vjm44VcZ0z-6aUjoXAvLBGVFLoIgLDce-IaO75LhrkFR9IrvWxRf49sCwPJOStXhw3OY8veHdylgvOooy1vxWkoRfeaHCQUDotsslQ5_aFZin/s1600/Arrival+of+Santa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNZqPpCTJ0Xsvrr0SSBQTQDhiehwQBm8vjm44VcZ0z-6aUjoXAvLBGVFLoIgLDce-IaO75LhrkFR9IrvWxRf49sCwPJOStXhw3OY8veHdylgvOooy1vxWkoRfeaHCQUDotsslQ5_aFZin/s320/Arrival+of+Santa.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>After what seemed like an eternity (i.e. at least 20 minutes), Santa arrived by fire truck. I’m not sure why Santa arrives just about everywhere in a fire truck, but that seems to be his thing. Surely he could come in a stretch limo, Megabus, Segway, or even a used Popemobile. (I don’t know why the Catholic church doesn’t raise a little money by selling a few…)<br />
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Once he stepped down from the firetruck, I saw that Santa’s helper wasn’t an elf, but a little boy dressed as a train conductor. He was cute, but when I see a little kid in a costume so well done nice that it makes him (or her) look like a miniature adult, I’m creeped out just a bit. I suppose this is a result of reading too many <i>People</i> magazine articles about Jon Benet Ramsey.<br />
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Unlike the standard-issue Santa, this one carried a staff, an accessory right out of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ten_Commandments_(1956_film)" target="_blank"><i>The Ten Commandments</i> starring Charleton Heston and Yul Brynner.</a> Moses would have loved this particular model since it came with an attached GoPro camera. I can only imagine the viral sensation a YouTube video of parting the Red Sea would have been.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXFm2I-ki1_6QULNuVYarbs9tRu7_JLjvxxDRGRVGGGFw1Z5MG1DdTfQMbHDq8ievn3ApPR6A81KvTIEEET2Gau5ZjQ52Lb-Uq8rOTORHR6Fzs-LoxMfIGAQ-nhAKR5mlF1gn-5vn4JCI/s1600/Ashland+Elf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXFm2I-ki1_6QULNuVYarbs9tRu7_JLjvxxDRGRVGGGFw1Z5MG1DdTfQMbHDq8ievn3ApPR6A81KvTIEEET2Gau5ZjQ52Lb-Uq8rOTORHR6Fzs-LoxMfIGAQ-nhAKR5mlF1gn-5vn4JCI/s320/Ashland+Elf.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Santa's posse include an elf who made some interesting fashion choices, right down to the shoes...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9vKJtZKTqH9URW2P4f_1a_ydpUjfrkcTzWSRqyhtMKoPnnHS3IJGCrUlQRTX35IN7gp6KNJNOMCg2mlvl6vbiiIspCXEURfVyACepQU-FKvNSntW_6j_a-rV0AH1WJRXRfVD_Yyx7nZI/s1600/Ashland+Rudolph.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9vKJtZKTqH9URW2P4f_1a_ydpUjfrkcTzWSRqyhtMKoPnnHS3IJGCrUlQRTX35IN7gp6KNJNOMCg2mlvl6vbiiIspCXEURfVyACepQU-FKvNSntW_6j_a-rV0AH1WJRXRfVD_Yyx7nZI/s320/Ashland+Rudolph.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>...Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, complete with blinking nose....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLt6lGfwDdlZHbckxNfca7hCDSFBqobTLCjVyje1i4ijBaXSbEpU9dM3PA70i7k4vL586N3zX9kLcuvfvA8dgVgb4X4iYnjwC5owMpItflU0iylxRXnWcbZ2oPpNjyKx_E0SKryp-vOk9V/s1600/Ashland+Bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLt6lGfwDdlZHbckxNfca7hCDSFBqobTLCjVyje1i4ijBaXSbEpU9dM3PA70i7k4vL586N3zX9kLcuvfvA8dgVgb4X4iYnjwC5owMpItflU0iylxRXnWcbZ2oPpNjyKx_E0SKryp-vOk9V/s320/Ashland+Bear.JPG" width="240" /></a></div> ...and a couple of large bears, the American version of Japanese kabuki figure. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ylGC8KKrQfo75jtE5TCfx7Kb6oohocnG4Hu-81VeyvxZPEraRe4rbi7UUjgi5FnY-LFWXnV95QJe1z-U1ghBzh90wjV7k0S9K_TRbYgBXKz2IAUWs8JR48UKTRM8s_ctEMaUb-Gti5XF/s1600/Christmas+Carol+and+Santa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ylGC8KKrQfo75jtE5TCfx7Kb6oohocnG4Hu-81VeyvxZPEraRe4rbi7UUjgi5FnY-LFWXnV95QJe1z-U1ghBzh90wjV7k0S9K_TRbYgBXKz2IAUWs8JR48UKTRM8s_ctEMaUb-Gti5XF/s320/Christmas+Carol+and+Santa.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Santa's main squeeze was a lounge singer named Christmas Carol, a woman who probably never said,<i> "Does this crinoline make my ass look fat?" </i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TGtesxj1JpOZpRcJPdzAwtNAMxYIkJnflX0g_fBTuJpphAv1cneta-iK95vz7ZqQmces31ClvmL8cDrtmIciDOlkf9RVA5ar19rwgIIHuyergamUmGWM5PtwBTQe4ZsQSKtFDNa0GyBe/s1600/Randolph+Macon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TGtesxj1JpOZpRcJPdzAwtNAMxYIkJnflX0g_fBTuJpphAv1cneta-iK95vz7ZqQmces31ClvmL8cDrtmIciDOlkf9RVA5ar19rwgIIHuyergamUmGWM5PtwBTQe4ZsQSKtFDNa0GyBe/s320/Randolph+Macon.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Since the train was so late, there was plenty of time for a quick walk through the nearby campus of Randolph-Macon University, not to be confused with the former Randolph-Macon Woman's College, which is in Lynchburg. The student union was quite handsome and, even better, there was no line in its coffee shop.<br />
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Finally our train arrived and we could get on with our day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9saKA7VksMZaFWloSKIp7oiI97Ml8UhyphenhyphenAyEPezIvbi6p6nnwSfaM6xSL0AzYI9s-7yOjxFUltfVslm9GPp8970dmxdB0mkmXA57ukDLqQF30XmEO5tY8wvpbIInpBsdXS5suCcOOdF6g/s1600/Salisbury+Beach+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9saKA7VksMZaFWloSKIp7oiI97Ml8UhyphenhyphenAyEPezIvbi6p6nnwSfaM6xSL0AzYI9s-7yOjxFUltfVslm9GPp8970dmxdB0mkmXA57ukDLqQF30XmEO5tY8wvpbIInpBsdXS5suCcOOdF6g/s320/Salisbury+Beach+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>According to the internet, our car, named the Salisbury Beach, was a Pullman sleeper with six roomettes, four bedrooms, and six sections. It was built in 1954 for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_and_Maine_Corporation" target="_blank">Boston and Maine Railroad</a> for service between Concord, New Hampshire and New York City on the "State of Maine Express". The car subsequently was assigned to first class trains throughout the United States until it was sold to the Canadian National Railway in 1966. In 1982, the car was put out to pasture, but it’s now restored and for the right amount of money, you can charter it. Santa, of course, costs extra.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjrFEp214eQ-pEXwazDBEW7ApJ6zmVfPAgsqBYIvQlBSyb8WSB9hVaHeJha9hX-GlpWNVMXb1PNISJordIWjp2rQuFwZY7HR9cwZO5KfeMlW9xijySf5hWyye9xCULOd_QGyciz6nihlU/s1600/Salisbury+Beach+Interior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjrFEp214eQ-pEXwazDBEW7ApJ6zmVfPAgsqBYIvQlBSyb8WSB9hVaHeJha9hX-GlpWNVMXb1PNISJordIWjp2rQuFwZY7HR9cwZO5KfeMlW9xijySf5hWyye9xCULOd_QGyciz6nihlU/s320/Salisbury+Beach+Interior.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>We were in the “open section” of the car. We sat in the rail car equivalent of a restaurant booth—benches facing each other with a table—covered in a jolly holiday plastic tablecloth—in between. Back in the day, these booths could be converted to bunk beds.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZWXQScDFLUlPXTcDQ0N8DnocuMOMacemTqZk8BzjknsBuMBTeIPv_Z6srPGSIS5LDBl3_Pus-f-XM0nwqXWb0CAd44kdXmkWGvo7nyS3WvYdY4fUJBiMRxkxIBDaaX6PSI8Gz19zR_tG/s1600/Gizmo+controls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZWXQScDFLUlPXTcDQ0N8DnocuMOMacemTqZk8BzjknsBuMBTeIPv_Z6srPGSIS5LDBl3_Pus-f-XM0nwqXWb0CAd44kdXmkWGvo7nyS3WvYdY4fUJBiMRxkxIBDaaX6PSI8Gz19zR_tG/s320/Gizmo+controls.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>There were lots of switches and stainless steel fittings whose purpose is still a mystery to me. Our car was the epitome of railroad technology of the 1950s, but except for the bathroom, the technology was as unfamiliar as that of a clipper ship.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvi9AO1y-4ol_NCaPhuNe66MXf47hfnd6n45D69U7yVVgDkZiOGdhx6kOO7jevBnQi0ZO2HyewpKpH1JlpW0FxgJNw1z1iLVPCCQ8Ud47snV4wnQNH-8aLAdSDZ19crgwpwoDGkJui2Rq/s1600/Porter+with+Cookies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvi9AO1y-4ol_NCaPhuNe66MXf47hfnd6n45D69U7yVVgDkZiOGdhx6kOO7jevBnQi0ZO2HyewpKpH1JlpW0FxgJNw1z1iLVPCCQ8Ud47snV4wnQNH-8aLAdSDZ19crgwpwoDGkJui2Rq/s320/Porter+with+Cookies.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>In the unlikely event that we got peckish during the ride, the steward had a tray of Christmas cookies for us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkrqdZAig8w1-OOjvN37UQGPMqn2BgTr6yqixM7JPRzHm8QPPgEpInkclcczdERxAioczFXSn44ebAZnOGAemb0YuIWH9KgL1aWebUGh2TTrh5yCGqjaB_DOH9SF_fx5EqGDbKYyTt0cV/s1600/Visiting+Santa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkrqdZAig8w1-OOjvN37UQGPMqn2BgTr6yqixM7JPRzHm8QPPgEpInkclcczdERxAioczFXSn44ebAZnOGAemb0YuIWH9KgL1aWebUGh2TTrh5yCGqjaB_DOH9SF_fx5EqGDbKYyTt0cV/s320/Visiting+Santa.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Santa and his light up staff, complete with GoPro, came by to press the flesh. He carried a chest containing a reindeer antler that you could rub for good luck, or perhaps to improve your virility. Why he thought this was a good idea is beyond me.<br />
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The ride went quickly as we enjoyed the traditional view from a train of the back of everything. Greater Richmond covered more area than I expected, and as we neared Williamsburg we went through lots of swampy forests.<br />
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When the train stopped in Williamsburg, special buses were waiting at the train station to take all the Santa Train passengers to the historic district. The everyday Amtrak passengers stayed on the train as it continued on to Newport News.<br />
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We’d already decided that as far as the historic district was concerned, it was every family for itself, so once the bus stopped near the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capitol_(Williamsburg,_Virginia)" target="_blank">Capitol building</a>, we were all free to explore. We were to meet the train at 5:45 for the return trip.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TVRpOE568ZuxNGs33cgMfMHiN4QjUzz4E-ePQRJ3e-UrxPRm-mZQ7QQsslCMuUJAGl9DkSVUl1dzNxRW5ihmVgucV1lp7-WIBvy1GSnTYDwX3EGLJuyrVZ9FsDkrtXzhfN8RDxQ6oYVw/s1600/Bassett+Hall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TVRpOE568ZuxNGs33cgMfMHiN4QjUzz4E-ePQRJ3e-UrxPRm-mZQ7QQsslCMuUJAGl9DkSVUl1dzNxRW5ihmVgucV1lp7-WIBvy1GSnTYDwX3EGLJuyrVZ9FsDkrtXzhfN8RDxQ6oYVw/s320/Bassett+Hall.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>My first stop was <a href="http://www.history.org/Almanack/places/hb/hbbass.cfm" target="_blank">Basset Hall</a>, the home of Williamsburg’s founding benefactor, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_D._Rockefeller_Jr." target="_blank">John D Rockefeller, Jr. </a>and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abby_Aldrich_Rockefeller" target="_blank">his wife Abby.</a> The docent ushered me into the tiny theatre to watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ptqhdvaqdls" target="_blank">a short video about the Rockefellers</a>—it wasn’t too long before I realized that I’d seen it on YouTube.<br />
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At the end of the video, we went over to the house; there were just two of us, I was the only one on the tour. I should have taken a photo of the docent’s nametag, since she really was topnotch. She was informative, engaging, and even humorous. She took the time to figure out what I was interested in and customized the tour on the spot to accommodate my interests.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxR9S5beST_HgMGSeuieFwDFNuxHCJWpiZIu7SKC60H0gQ8gIyCk4lHwwiwdUoBkkgwXvyANB_1uxg8yaJd5tFkz2ADQWjHzeMZghot1D4_r9f1K66-9Fp0fBw9LU8tECnBEVyHlvCPwJ/s1600/Bassett+Hall+Living++Room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxR9S5beST_HgMGSeuieFwDFNuxHCJWpiZIu7SKC60H0gQ8gIyCk4lHwwiwdUoBkkgwXvyANB_1uxg8yaJd5tFkz2ADQWjHzeMZghot1D4_r9f1K66-9Fp0fBw9LU8tECnBEVyHlvCPwJ/s320/Bassett+Hall+Living++Room.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>By today’s standards Basset Hall would be a middling McMansion at 7,000-ish square feet, but compared to the Rockefellers’ usual digs, this was camping. As you might expect, the place is decorated in a 1930s Colonial Revival style. The Rockefellers were hardly minimalists. At his wife's death, Mr. Rockefeller took an inventory of the contents at Bassett Hall: it was 50 pages long. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrtntGlkEiFDBNepfqRZbCPNDQweHrElVeUC-rSkLLe7dPFl0k5YjEZDPIRRnYZis0eSsTwU3Lp-T56O0wwUixTDwvwTL5es_ohGQwyNOMZY06SrIUl7dZRm0B3zN13Wb5GRmO7xBFRha/s1600/Bassett+Hall+Bedroom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvrtntGlkEiFDBNepfqRZbCPNDQweHrElVeUC-rSkLLe7dPFl0k5YjEZDPIRRnYZis0eSsTwU3Lp-T56O0wwUixTDwvwTL5es_ohGQwyNOMZY06SrIUl7dZRm0B3zN13Wb5GRmO7xBFRha/s320/Bassett+Hall+Bedroom.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The house reminded me of a nicer version of my grandparents’ house.<br />
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One of the most remarkable things the docent told me was that the Rockefellers would arrive in Williamsburg with only their chauffeur. Their household help consisted of a Swedish couple who lived in Basset Hall year-round. That was it. No chief of staff, no security men, no hangers on, no nothing. Today Santa, Congressmen, and even the lesser Kardashians have larger entourages.<br />
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For people of their social stature and wealth, the Rockefellers were a good approximation of just plain folks. They went to a different church in Williamsburg each week and often invited folks from church over to dinner, followed by a movie in the theatre—air conditioned!—that Mr. R had built in downtown Williamsburg.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-mTKZuoUpdY-TvWYtJXwekf0COsQoCa3lw4ktokRBqBikpu9AvVYvV5rD-Ixzj7nSBN_ko387RndRybxTP4HlQaGz3dACe6azNytSCdpdNo1pGbD3d1pE0JA2Hwb6LAQ3Z5zPf5Fmn49/s1600/Bassett+Hall+Butlers+Pantry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-mTKZuoUpdY-TvWYtJXwekf0COsQoCa3lw4ktokRBqBikpu9AvVYvV5rD-Ixzj7nSBN_ko387RndRybxTP4HlQaGz3dACe6azNytSCdpdNo1pGbD3d1pE0JA2Hwb6LAQ3Z5zPf5Fmn49/s320/Bassett+Hall+Butlers+Pantry.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I especially liked the dining table and bowls of plastic cream of mushroom soup representing the first course at one of the Rockefellers' holiday dinners (Yes, they have written documentation of the menu.) The pineapple salad—which reminded me of something my grandmother would have served—was ready to go on the counter in the butler’s pantry.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFb2D83U4_528vcONssRItRkcpG9ipRJD1vDyr7e7imeiZKul9fWowjjMwTWyBfWfvQVrIcRSImbF_FXRpV-qkH5DjU1KtpzXItH4ixmwhQowFcQdsv_gziE3iY_AxPMby1eMmraEiuz9/s1600/Bassett+Hall+Apartment.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFb2D83U4_528vcONssRItRkcpG9ipRJD1vDyr7e7imeiZKul9fWowjjMwTWyBfWfvQVrIcRSImbF_FXRpV-qkH5DjU1KtpzXItH4ixmwhQowFcQdsv_gziE3iY_AxPMby1eMmraEiuz9/s320/Bassett+Hall+Apartment.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The tour ended in the comfortable apartment of the Swedish live-in couple. The docent explained to me that at their retirement, Mr. Rockefeller matched the Swedish couple's savings in sort of a primitive 401-k plan. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_2JpDShY6WDvD0cr4cAnz73cE15BhTNlJkTRNjZJBUsoAl0lLSagMBhUfPAg4ppVW25-YEV9o7gRahmqjBVntzRvSDvnwEFGQ9qvYNaGgF5KlwQNsqJwiLJoNE5YjCcc6EeEXsT9FJWF/s1600/Capitol+Building.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_2JpDShY6WDvD0cr4cAnz73cE15BhTNlJkTRNjZJBUsoAl0lLSagMBhUfPAg4ppVW25-YEV9o7gRahmqjBVntzRvSDvnwEFGQ9qvYNaGgF5KlwQNsqJwiLJoNE5YjCcc6EeEXsT9FJWF/s320/Capitol+Building.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>After wandering around the garden at Basset Hall, I walked to the <a href="http://www.history.org/almanack/places/hb/hbcap.cfm" target="_blank">Capitol building</a> to learn about Colonial government. The guide there, who I think would have made a kick-ass drag queen, was great, but perhaps not quite as good as the guide at Basset Hall. Then again, he didn’t have plastic cream of mushroom soup to work with. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib82o-i4FtBKnb8NHWOFPBQ1jkvKyBH5KJ7ZVom-BJUkVMAayaoiDQk0pwBcqUJp-TTgDNRRtz4FAz1jvPMt2OxXiThpUX5tZwmwU88Sjk2kUj3vgETIQbilDqRweGbstIWbgoV2odIVsi/s1600/Capitol+Buiding+Interior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib82o-i4FtBKnb8NHWOFPBQ1jkvKyBH5KJ7ZVom-BJUkVMAayaoiDQk0pwBcqUJp-TTgDNRRtz4FAz1jvPMt2OxXiThpUX5tZwmwU88Sjk2kUj3vgETIQbilDqRweGbstIWbgoV2odIVsi/s320/Capitol+Buiding+Interior.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>There were five people on the tour. Perhaps the crowd was sparse since the fife and drum corps was mustering a few blocks away at the same time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4C6jnTgTV0tzqHy7N16ju48GPuQ3Ri_h1d8KNRyLY7nf-OwuQT1OJHz9R75D9sDto0BQHLaHh7uNWGq5tm0s57qQXdggb_qqEBZDBB0po7fCJw_l8shZcc9fB5Xe9oO8OyaFl_w05nKQc/s1600/College+of+William+and+Mary+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4C6jnTgTV0tzqHy7N16ju48GPuQ3Ri_h1d8KNRyLY7nf-OwuQT1OJHz9R75D9sDto0BQHLaHh7uNWGq5tm0s57qQXdggb_qqEBZDBB0po7fCJw_l8shZcc9fB5Xe9oO8OyaFl_w05nKQc/s320/College+of+William+and+Mary+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve read I don’t know how many times that visitation at historic sites is declining. Here was the proof right before my very eyes. Williamsburg in its Christmas finery used to be a hot ticket. It wasn’t the day we were there. Living history doesn’t stand a chance when competing with the trifecta of over scheduled kids, the instant gratification offered by a device screen, and the idea that history and civic education isn’t important. Argh. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSjy32dqK0IdRCOEGEv_C9UmvdpLMnkod5AR78_OcayqVjtmPfaxIYo95lqluQWSedBZ7ZyXFbBRXaRm9upzKJbHoVVj7GhMmt-qzJvUfEspp_i9RSL_DTtKzqWfYY1W1ysXA-bP0-sfg/s1600/2018+Merchants+Square+Selfie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSjy32dqK0IdRCOEGEv_C9UmvdpLMnkod5AR78_OcayqVjtmPfaxIYo95lqluQWSedBZ7ZyXFbBRXaRm9upzKJbHoVVj7GhMmt-qzJvUfEspp_i9RSL_DTtKzqWfYY1W1ysXA-bP0-sfg/s320/2018+Merchants+Square+Selfie.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>After doing the Capitol, I walked into a couple of shoppes, and took a selfie in front of <a href="http://rbryantltd.com/" target="_blank">R. Bryant, Ltd.</a>, the traditional clothing store. I walked in, browsed, and loitered, but no one waited on me. <br />
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Instead of a crowded restaurant, I ate in the <a href="https://www.colonialwilliamsburg.com/art-museums/rockefeller-museum" target="_blank">Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Folk Art Museum's</a> café. The art museum was great, even though I lost my warm hat there. However, the lovely ladies of the museum shop let me charge my nearly dead phone behind the counter while I browsed the museum galleries. You don’t come by that customer service just anywhere.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aCtv9iLPzT4lUOajMEiNZL0A0OORfO34nixmi2NW2BEpjg605sbheko5ZUZh4r3yHO81YdyGXnJu2JoWsL-nXe4WLxpPsLrIGZkgx2QUkdgLxjhEsrbY5wyNz9VKinMZfjkloyfFdARw/s1600/George+Wythe+House.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aCtv9iLPzT4lUOajMEiNZL0A0OORfO34nixmi2NW2BEpjg605sbheko5ZUZh4r3yHO81YdyGXnJu2JoWsL-nXe4WLxpPsLrIGZkgx2QUkdgLxjhEsrbY5wyNz9VKinMZfjkloyfFdARw/s320/George+Wythe+House.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>After the museum, I went to the <a href="http://www.history.org/almanack/places/hb/hbwythe.cfm" target="_blank">George Wythe House</a>. In my memory docents showed you through the place, today you wander through on your own. It felt little forlorn without a woman in a long dress sharing <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Sweeney_Trial" target="_blank">the story of how Mr. Wythe was probably poisoned with arsenic</a> by his wastrel great nephew.<br />
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I would have done the <a href="http://www.history.org/almanack/places/hb/hbpal.cfm" target="_blank">Governor’s Palace</a> had I not lost my ticket someplace between the Wythe House and the Palace. Apparently losing my hat at the art museum wasn’t enough! Oh well, I can go there on the next trip.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLN1RX7xZ3MzJLMf24m22cpAWCoh1WnYU-H9CEvfaTRN1esvx_lM3_uf4gKUuVXFYzMsXlkrbG98ASrZ2ZT-3mvtWT2j2wVRkhM9TgC8qpy7y8r4US6C2tHErlnUSLjMnMn_pnAUS90w2/s1600/Axe+Range.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLN1RX7xZ3MzJLMf24m22cpAWCoh1WnYU-H9CEvfaTRN1esvx_lM3_uf4gKUuVXFYzMsXlkrbG98ASrZ2ZT-3mvtWT2j2wVRkhM9TgC8qpy7y8r4US6C2tHErlnUSLjMnMn_pnAUS90w2/s320/Axe+Range.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unfortunately the axe range was closed. I could have lost some fingers to go with my lost hat and ticket. <br />
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At the appointed hour I walked back to the train station, which had filled up with Santa train passengers tuckered out by their day in Williamsburg.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lAapQvZ9sGQetRsVr-enV7vMjI9d1uqNt4EjkEcWyYUJhbh9Gx7Zn4dWR3g0mUYYdRm9pE8bsWJlrAtOYISkX-ifVsqzChGsI8DhQB89iF5AmU3sB1UR5xsxRDVxrqvpPKVMhN3TKeDD/s1600/Williamsburg+Train+Station.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lAapQvZ9sGQetRsVr-enV7vMjI9d1uqNt4EjkEcWyYUJhbh9Gx7Zn4dWR3g0mUYYdRm9pE8bsWJlrAtOYISkX-ifVsqzChGsI8DhQB89iF5AmU3sB1UR5xsxRDVxrqvpPKVMhN3TKeDD/s320/Williamsburg+Train+Station.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>I waited outside, enjoying some peace and quiet, and attempting not to lose my gloves. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWvZGKyOcVBArPsBuOegugGspPn1YDi-iu0pb4W8q5iSu71STySn3-7YNB6tGntnauKzDgXW2QybD8UaHrRIfZIAN7ZsEzIooY_pXUQ3EfpHdTNuWziHZmGr3uXqhDwZDLHvk5-oUVEp2/s1600/Christmas+Glasses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1282" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWvZGKyOcVBArPsBuOegugGspPn1YDi-iu0pb4W8q5iSu71STySn3-7YNB6tGntnauKzDgXW2QybD8UaHrRIfZIAN7ZsEzIooY_pXUQ3EfpHdTNuWziHZmGr3uXqhDwZDLHvk5-oUVEp2/s320/Christmas+Glasses.JPG" width="256" /></a></div>Our Christmas elf and his co-worker in holiday merriment passed out Christmas eyeglasses to all the passengers. Lots of families wore them for photos; we’d already done our first family photo in a billion years, we weren’t going to try our luck with another.<br />
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The train was late, but that wasn’t so bad, everyone was too tired to be cranky, and on his or her best behavior.<br />
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On the ride home, we got out the champagne to celebrate my niece-in-law Marcy’s recent doctoral degree. With chilled champagne to hand out, it was easy to make friends with the family across the aisle. Yes, we appalled them just a bit, but they did their share of laughing, too.<br />
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Christmas Carol and came by to sing some carols. We couldn’t have been a less enthusiastic audience, but after some joking about which of the musical instruments she handed out could be used as sex toys (Correct answer: All of them), we were singing along enthusiastically. It was a Christmas miracle.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzc56w02s8lrx1jGdauoUWzbUDbYjMAvJ4TJXsDlMeHOUYU8vhVm2L64VcWvuPf3X7Xl2fTsf4d34Mc-TqbgUQb_7kmVllL7oOktJMBV-prItRw4zfJ0le9L9B0-TauJ1s-u5qVv76wW4/s1600/Ashland+Santa+Train+Night.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzc56w02s8lrx1jGdauoUWzbUDbYjMAvJ4TJXsDlMeHOUYU8vhVm2L64VcWvuPf3X7Xl2fTsf4d34Mc-TqbgUQb_7kmVllL7oOktJMBV-prItRw4zfJ0le9L9B0-TauJ1s-u5qVv76wW4/s320/Ashland+Santa+Train+Night.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Soon enough, we were back in Ashland, filled with the Christmas spirit and at least a <span data-dobid="hdw">soupçon</span> of American history.<br />
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There was still time for me to lose something else. I left my favorite fleece on the train.<br />
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But the guy who owned the railroad car mailed it back--the second miracle of the Christmas season. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-83158230034534399632018-12-18T07:23:00.001-05:002018-12-18T09:06:11.637-05:00A Link Not Worth Missing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycWBYM4HWxxc7KinZjCUxC4Vs_IfLiEBHND3JZcqudE7642yfd1JzcrDHDcmkNoONT78soWVc0pehxsMxo70fObN8Q__c8aaeriFV1IWwSVLKuafY043RtvGxS4n3P6KfwKC5IW3I2P4P/s1600/North+Carolina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="679" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycWBYM4HWxxc7KinZjCUxC4Vs_IfLiEBHND3JZcqudE7642yfd1JzcrDHDcmkNoONT78soWVc0pehxsMxo70fObN8Q__c8aaeriFV1IWwSVLKuafY043RtvGxS4n3P6KfwKC5IW3I2P4P/s320/North+Carolina.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Earlier this month, my sister and I drove to North Carolina since my niece-in-law was receiving her doctoral degree from UNC. Even if academic robes and Elgar’s <i>Pomp & Circumstance No. 1 </i> were not on the menu--I'm a big fan of both--I would be celebrating Marcy’s accomplishment.<br />
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If you’re married to a guy who is at least 50% Bryant, hold down a full-time job, and a mother to two teenagers (yikes!), AND in graduate school (rather than the Advertised on a Matchbook Academy for Long Haul Truckers and Country Songwriters), my hat is off to you. Yay Marcy!<br />
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But I'm getting ahead of myself. <br />
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On the way to the graduation in the Tar Heel state Carolyn and I made an unplanned stop in Roanoke at the <a href="https://roanokehistory.org/historical-society-of-western-virginia/owl-main-page/" target="_blank">O. Winston Link Museum.</a> We were ahead of schedule and the museum was conveniently located near the interstate highway for e-z on and off. <br />
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O. (which stands for Ogle, quite appropriate for a photographer) Winston was a commercial photographer from New York City. He’s famous among people who like train photos (and beyond) for his photos of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norfolk_and_Western_Railway" target="_blank">Norfolk and Western Railway.</a> He's the guy on the left in the above photo. <br />
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In 1955, the Norfolk and Western was the last major railway in the US using coal-fired steam locomotives. Link, on his own dime and in his own time, spent five years shooting the railway in Virginia and West Virginia as it was transitioning to diesel engines. He had some support from the railroad—not just the executives but the working stiffs as well—but it wasn’t as if they commissioned him to do the project.<br />
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Link liked to photograph at night, and this required him to figure how to light the images---a much more complicated process than turning on the flash on an iPhone. Link’s academic background as an engineer helped him to work through serious technological and logistical problems night photography caused. <br />
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On its face, the idea of taking photos of enormous locomotives—enormous black locomotives, belching black smoke—at night is pretty crazy. But Link was more than up to the task. <br />
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He not only shot the trains, but shot the people working on the railroad, from its president to the men working on the trains and in the shops. The people watching and waiting for the railroad didn’t escape Link’s camera. Bystanders are often an integral part of his photographic compositions. <br />
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In addition to taking photos, Link also made audio recordings of trains and released them as LPs—that people actually bought! Proceeds of record sales helped finance the larger photography project. Presumably, someone, somewhere, preferred the sounds of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbzAJoW34DM" target="_blank"><i>Train 42 'The Pelican' headed by Norfolk & Western 4-8-4 Class J No.603 arrives at Rural Retreat, VA on Christmas Eve 1957</i></a> to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEvGKUXW0iI" target="_blank"><i>Mele Kalikimaka</i></a> by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. Crazy.<br />
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The Link Museum is located in the Roanoke’s former Norfolk and Western passenger station. The building was redesigned in 1949 by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Loewy" target="_blank">Raymond Loewy</a>, the industrial designer. He’s responsible for the Coca-Cola bottle, the Exxon logo, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/09/upshot/the-man-who-gave-air-force-one-its-aura.html" target="_blank">the Air Force One paint scheme</a>, and lots of other objects and brand images we still see in daily life—he’s been dead since 1986.<br />
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The moment we walked into the building we realized we weren’t in any old train station. It’s bright and airy, with terrazzo floors, a domed ceiling, and handsome and age appropriate san serif aluminum letters naming each gallery. In addition to housing the O. Winston Link Museum, the building also contains The History Museum of Western Virginia and the <a href="https://www.visitroanokeva.com/" target="_blank">Visit Virginia’s Blue Ridge and the Roanoke Valley Convention and Visitors Bureau</a>. My guess is that no one even tries to fit all that onto a business card.<br />
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We walked in and the woman at the front desk directed us to the O. Winston Link galleries. A courtly gent at the counter sold us tickets but warned us that Santa would be in the galleries on the lower level. Who knew that Santa was an O. Winston Link fan? I wished I’d brought my Christmas list; I could have used some face time with Jolly Old St. Nick.<br />
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Some of the galleries were decorated in the style of Macy’s Santaland, but for the most part, the Elf on a Shelf-ness was kept on the downlow. As for Santa, he was totally top notch, worthy of a high-end department store gig in New York or Chicago when he’s not supervising the elves at the North Pole. My guess is that he’d never had a pants-dropping wardrobe malfunction the way I did when I subbed for Santa at St Paul’s Christian Pre-School.<br />
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The museum was just the right size for someone like me, with the attention span of a gnat. There were some video screens, and a couple of displays of equipment and so on, but for the most part, the museum galleries were filled with large prints of Link’s photos, generously described in the accompanying text.<br />
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There were images I was familiar with, and lots I’d never seen before.<br />
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In fact, I thought he only photographed trains, so his images of the men working on the railroad were quite a surprise.<br />
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The museum was old fashioned, yes, but I’m old fashioned. I don’t need any new-fangled QR codes to read with my phone, an audio tour, or worst of all, an event aimed at millennials, like a live-streamed bachelorette party, to make a museum enjoyable for me. <br />
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After the obligatory trip through the gift shop—where the courtly gent told us that he actually knew Mr. Link, I did the jiffy tour of the Raymond Loewy exhibit before we got back on the road. <br />
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While I’m not going to replace the <i>Mele Kalikimaka</i> on my phone with <i>Train 42 'The Pelican' headed by Norfolk & Western 4-8-4 Class J No.603 arrives at Rural Retreat, VA on Christmas Eve 1957</i> anytime soon, I did my part in the gift shop. Santa looked pretty busy; I thought I'd save him a little work. <br />
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And with that, practically as fast as the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Powhatan_Arrow" target="_blank">Norfolk and Western's Powhatan Arrow</a>, we were back on the road, in awe of a guy who captured a moment on black and white film. <br />
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<i><a href="https://roanokehistory.org/" target="_blank">O. Winston Link Museum and History Museum of Western Virginia</a></i><br />
<i> </i><i>101 Shenandoah Ave, NE<br />
Roanoke, VA 24016</i><br />
<i>Open Tuesday-Saturday, 10:00 to 5:00 </i>Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-15363779784914079252018-12-04T20:11:00.001-05:002018-12-04T22:23:23.112-05:00Alabama Trifecta: Motorcycles, Wright, and the Coon Dog Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While Martha was giving her paper at her conference, Bruce and I went to the Barber Motorsports Museum. It bills itself as the world’s largest collection of motorcycles.<br />
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While the photos in the brochure were remarkable, I wasn’t super excited about going. Motorcycles… I didn’t understand how they could be alluring in the same way that a car, train, airplane, boat, or Kitchen Aid mixer could be alluring. As they say, different strokes. But I was wrong.<br />
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Except for one ride on a 125cc trail bike, my motorcycling was limited to the Honda 50s my brother and I had when we were kids. We spent hours playing mini-bike polo in the backyard with croquet mallets, a sport only slightly safer than lawn darts. I thought it was the best thing ever. <br />
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Although the Barber Museum is within the city limits of Birmingham it was quite a drive from our hotel. It’s at one of those Interstate exits that doesn’t have much going on, just a gas station or two. We turned onto the grounds and then drove for maybe a half a mile through a well-raked forest until we came to the museum.<br />
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As we parked, we figured that something was up since we heard the high-pitched scream of race cars. We walked over to the edge of the parking lot and where we had a great view of a dell and what looked like a grand prix race track in a park. It reminded me of photos of English Grand Prix racing from the 1950s. There was a racetrack alright, but no grandstands, hospitality tents, big billboards, and especially no Jumbrotrons. A bunch of Porsches were racing around the track like the proverbial bats out of hell. Clearly this was unlike any museum I’d been to.<br />
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From the exterior, the Barber Museum could be the headquarters of a flush defense contractor in an anonymous office park near the Washington Beltway. The building was a sleek modernist thing, the grounds were immaculately cared for, and there was a particularly hideous sculpture in the lawn near the entrance. Nothing says Military Industrial Complex like a modern building in an office park punctuated by hideous sculpture.<br />
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Since I intermittently subscribe to my father’s dictum that “you don’t go on vacation to save money” Bruce and I opted for the “Premium Museum Tour” for an extra $15. This mean that we would be on a docent-led tour and would also get to visit the museum’s restoration shop. We had a few minutes to walk around before our tour started. I had no idea that there were so many different kinds of motorcycles. Yowza!<br />
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The museum is enormous. It’s seriously huge, with a great multistory atrium at its center. Curving ramps connect the floors. It felt like a giant riff on the <a href="https://www.guggenheim.org/exhibition/the-art-of-the-motorcycle" target="_blank">Guggenheim Museum’s famous Art of the Motorcycle Show.</a> (The Barber Museum lent a bunch of motorcycles to that show.) <br />
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I’m not sure if it was a slow day at the museum, or if this is normal, but there were only five others on the tour. There was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mister_Peepers" target="_blank">Mr. Peepers</a>-ish retired professor, his wife, and thirty something daughter, who, if you were pitching her as a blind date, you’d lead with her good personality. There was also a young Asian couple who didn’t say much and wandered off regularly to take photos. I had the impression that they didn’t understand a whole lot of what the docent was saying.<br />
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Our docent, a courtly gent named Coffee—yes that was his first name—did a great job showing us around the place. Did I mention that it’s enormous? There are floors and floors of motorcycles. Almost all of them shinier than the day they came out of the factory, workshop, or the Mother Ship.<br />
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The tour wasn’t in chronological order. Coffee treated us as if we were his new best friends and showing us his personal favorites. He was a motorcycle savant and born raconteur so treated us to non-stop patter.<br />
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The tour went like this: Coffee would come up to some bike, looked just like a motorcycle to me. He’d say:<br />
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<i>This is a rare 250cc Finkelbein-Widgeon. I know what you’re thinking, that it looks like any 250cc Finkelbein-Widgeon, and you’d be right, except that this one has an external gonkulator and the only other example of one is in the Smithsonian. And the one in the Smithsonian has the gonkulator from the 500cc Widgeon-Finkelbein; I’ve even gone to Washington to look at it. </i><br />
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Then there would be dramatic pause.<i> </i><br />
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<i>This one is the real deal.</i><br />
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And then there would be oohing and aahing from the Mr. Peepers family. Bruce would smile and stroke his beard.<br />
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The Asian couple would be taking a photo of another bike and not listening. I’d say to myself <i>“WTF is a gonkulator?” </i><br />
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Just when the oohing and aah-ing had subsided, Coffee would go on to say that this particular motorcycle was the first one to complete a counterclockwise circumnavigation of both North and South Dakota and that the driver was Olle Neilson Johnson Olsen Anderson, Lawrence Welk’s accordion teacher. Then there would be even more wonderment, especially from the Mr. Peepers family. My guess is that they downloaded a lot of Lawrence Welk tunes. As they say, one man’s schmaltz is another’s zipper music.<br />
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And then we’d move across the floor to another motorcycle, this one with a cam-powered centrifugal exhaust framistan, typically seen only on early Boeing biplanes and only effective in months containing the letter R. There would be lots more oohing and aah-ing and even, on occasion, knowing looks. <br />
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This went on for quite some time and was all very entertaining even if the combination of his accent and the motorcycle chat meant that I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. <br />
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I did notice that the Japanese woman had some whack shoes. <br />
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The Barber is spotless. In fact, it makes the Metropolitan Museum look as if it’s been on an episode of Hoarders. There were 1,600 motorcycles, in addition to perhaps 50 cars, and they mostly sparkle except for the few that are, for whatever reason are keep in non-sparkly condition.<br />
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That racetrack we saw, it’s a 2.38 16 turn thing, this weekend rented to the Alabama Porsche club. <br />
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There are all sorts of races at the track, including some featuring vintage cars. Vintage being before the invention of anything having to do with safety, I think. <br />
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Since we were scheduled to pick up M at the end of her conference session, we had to tear ourselves away from the museum before all sorts of other two wheeled treasures passed before our eyes. However, it’s on my list to return to, right after I learn what an external gonkulator is. <br />
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We were trying to stay on sort of a schedule since we needed to drive 117 miles to <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/barrysamaha/2018/05/02/billy-reid-florence-alabama-city-guide-shindig/#51b283391b61" target="_blank">Florence</a> (hometown of <a href="https://www.billyreid.com/" target="_blank">designer Billy Reid</a>) to see the Rosenbaum House, the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the state of Alabama.<br />
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But on the highway we saw a Toyota Prius sporting a TRUMP bumper sticker. That’s something I never thought I’d see.<br />
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Because we were pressed for time, we did not go to the Jesse Owens Museum in Oakville, the Helen Keller Home Gardens & Museum in Tuscumbia, nor any of the 32 “<a href="https://www.northalabama.org/trails/hallelujah/" target="_blank">revered sites celebrating the cultural and spiritual heritage</a>” of northern Alabama on the Hallelujah Trail. In other words, 14 Methodist churches, 4 Presbyterian churches, not to mention a smattering of Episcopal, Baptist, non-denominational places, one Roman Catholic church, and even a synagogue. Sounds like a real barrel of laughs.<br />
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It’s my guess that the tour promoters did not know <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0059250/" target="_blank">The Hallelujah Trail </a> is a 1965 comedy/westernrevered by certain members of my family. It starred Burt Lancaster, Lee Remick, Jim Hutton, and Brian Keith. The movie is the story of a wagon train of whiskey en route to the parched miners of Denver. Chaos, chuckles, and a tuneful soundtrack are the order of the day as the Temperance League, the US Cavalry, the miners, and the local Indians all try to take control of the hooch. It’s not all PC but that shouldn’t come as a surprise given its subject and the era when the film was made. <br />
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So, without being distracted by those other cool spots (not to mention 14 different Methodist churches) we found the <a href="http://wrightinalabama.com/" target="_blank">Rosenbaum House</a> without too much trouble. We checked in at the visitor’s center, a mid-century modern former school building across the street from the house. A docent took us in a group of 8 over to the house.<br />
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The house was built by Stanley and Mildred Rosenbaum with a generous wedding gift ($7,500 plus a city lot) from his father, Louis. Mr. Rosenbaum senior owned a chain of movie theatres but his son was a Harvard man, spoke five languages, and taught English at the local university. The Roenbaums were part of Florence’s small Jewish community.<br />
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Instead of building a house in revival style like the other houses in the neighborhood, Stanley and Mildred contacted Frank Lloyd Wright who agreed to build a house for them. It was Wright’s second low-ish cost <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Usonia" target="_blank">Usonian house</a>. I say low-ish, since Wright homes rarely—if ever—cost what the architect said they’d cost.<br />
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The house started out as 1,500 square feet, but in 1948 Wright added an addition of approximately 1,100 square feet.<br />
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As with many Wright homes, it’s more art object than live-able by today’s standards. The original kitchen and baths are tiny even when judged against New York City apartment standards. Wright’s chairs were uncomfortable and prone to falling over if the user didn’t have the posture of a ballet dancer. And of course, the roof leaked. The Rosenbaums' four sons shared a bedroom with two sets of bunk beds. Sounds grim to me, but the Rosenbaums loved it.<br />
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The docent was knowledgeable if not warm (on a 0 to Coffee at the Barber scale, he was a .5) but didn’t make facts up out of whole cloth the way some house museum docents do. And there was, thankfully, no talk of gonkulators.<br />
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Like many house museums, we saw a staged version of the Rosenbaum’s domestic bliss rather than a snapshot of the real deal. Our guide was quite clear about that. Even so, it looked like a real 1950 ish home, just one that had been staged for a shelter magazine. (We weren’t permitted to take interior photographs, which in the age of camera phones seems a tad old fashioned, so thank you Mr. Google for these interior shots.)<br />
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The Rosenbaums were the only family to live in the house. As they grew up, the Rosenbaum boys scattered (no doubt due psychological scarring due to no private space in which to check out contraband Playboy mags). After Stanley’s death, Mrs. R. eventually went into a retirement home.<br />
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The City of Florence acquired the house, restored and repaired it (it had LOTS of issues), and now it’s open to tourists. I think they said that about 8,000 people visit each year.<br />
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Even if you’re not a Wright aficionado, it’s worth the visit. It required a lot of vision on the part of the city to save the structure and it seems to be doing a good job as its steward. You can get a different look at the Rosenbaum House--through the filter of a Billy Reid fashion shoot <a href="https://www.wmagazine.com/story/frank-lloyd-wright-rosenbaum-house-florence-alabama-billy-reid" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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After the Rosenbaum House, it was time for something a little (ok, a lot) less esoteric, the <a href="http://www.coondogcemetery.com/" target="_blank">Key Underwood Coon Dog Cemetery</a>. According to the brochure, it’s a Southern icon.<br />
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The Coon Dog Cemetery wasn’t even on my radar until I picked up the brochure at the Alabama Welcome Center. Whoever wrote that brochure should get the Pulitzer Prize for Tri-Fold Tourism Brochures.<br />
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<i>In a small, grassy clearing deep in the rich, thick wilderness of Freedom Hills, Key Underwood sadly buried his faithful coon dog, Troop. They had hunted together for more than fifteen years. </i><br />
<i>The burial spot was a popular hunting camp where coon hunters from miles around gathered to plot their hunting strategies, tell tall tales, chew tobacco, and compare coon hounds. </i><br />
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How can you not want to go to a place like that?!?<br />
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The cemetery was about 30 miles from the Rosenbaum house—30 miles into the woods. The brochure said that it was in the town of Cherokee, but as far as I could tell, Cherokee was more of an idea than an actual place. Midway through our journey there I concluded that that even Lewis and Clark had better cell service.<br />
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But lo and behold, there it was just as promised in the brochure, in a clearing in the forest. The casual visitor might mistake it for a picnic area. It’s perhaps a half an acre, with lots of different kinds of tombstones. They range from slick things from the Rock of Ages quarry in Barre, VT to things that were obviously homemade. It’s maintained better than plenty of cemeteries in small towns in Pennsylvania.<br />
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Someone had put US flags on lots of the graves. I think they were just and expression of patriotism surely all those dogs can’t have been veterans.<br />
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The tombstones and epitaphs were quite touching really. They were all shapes and sizes and different materials. Some had leashes and dog collars left on them as offerings to the dog gods.<br />
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There was a sign with a number you could call if you wanted to inter your coon dog there. <br />
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But the place is just for coon dogs, no Labradoodle, Goldenoodle, or English Trenchweasel need apply. When it comes to canines, separate and unequal is the order of the day.<br />
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We were enjoying the place when another car drove up. I wondered how anyone in his or her right mind would have found the place.<br />
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It turns out that our new best friends were Cindy and her daughter Brianna. They were from West Tennessee and on their way to a hair show in Birmingham (no I am not making this up). They’d seen the coon dog cemetery in the movie<i> Sweet Home Alabama</i> and wanted to see it for themselves. <br />
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<i>Sweet Home Alabama,</i> I said, <i>You mean that movie with Reese Witherspoon and that good looking guy whose name I don’t know? I saw that movie!</i><br />
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That was the one. Pretty much all I remember is that it’s a RomCom and she’s cute and he’s especially cute, as in so good looking that he’s probably from another planet. Cindy and Brianna remembered the Coon Dog Cemetery. <br />
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We yammered up a storm, Yankees and folks from Dixie agreeing that this was just about the choicest place ever. <br />
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We commemorated our fast friendship by doing what modern folks do, by taking a selfie.<br />
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We followed the GPS out of the place and it took us over about 8 miles of unpaved road to get back to something approximating the “main road”. There were times when I thought we might get stuck in mud and then we would have been even more up the creek than when we were locked in the Confederate cemetery.<br />
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I was under no illusions that a guy as good looking as Reese Witherspoons’s co-star would come out of the hills—or back from another planet--to save us.<br />
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The GPS was sort of screwing with us since we went west to go east and passed the sign that said Welcome to Mississippi. Visiting Mississippi was not in the plan. At least not in any plan we discussed.<br />
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But perhaps it was in God’s plan since he laid the village of Tremont before us.<br />
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Tremont is the birthplace of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tammy_Wynette" target="_blank">Tammy Wynette...</a><br />
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...and has a slow church zone... <br />
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...not to mention he Tremont Grocery...<br />
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..and 178 Wash & Dry.<br />
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The next day we flew back home, but not before someone in the hotel elevator asked me if I were going to the hair show. I said no, I wasn’t, but I met a lovely young woman at the coon dog cemetery who said she’d be there. <br />
<br />Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-66073910985862491402018-11-22T10:57:00.002-05:002018-11-24T08:02:38.542-05:00Montgomery to Selma...and Then Some<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3WOWPxJ3Z-hgqDpLOBNca3k3Ficc-HKYUYca8hT2_SvhxSkMjPCK_A-ZhVOEe0pBub6H_xbttiAntrNjzr7ylzvQ-AUPMnSCtbwbsYeUcOV82ZNJ-CcsSHnnIYwBwtv8QpEpo33Z4SHz/s1600/Selma+to+Montgomery+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3WOWPxJ3Z-hgqDpLOBNca3k3Ficc-HKYUYca8hT2_SvhxSkMjPCK_A-ZhVOEe0pBub6H_xbttiAntrNjzr7ylzvQ-AUPMnSCtbwbsYeUcOV82ZNJ-CcsSHnnIYwBwtv8QpEpo33Z4SHz/s320/Selma+to+Montgomery+Trail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After a lunch, Bruce, Martha, and I put the town of Selma into the GPS. Our plan was to do the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/semo/index.htm" target="_blank">Voting Rights Trail</a> backwards, driving from Montgomery to its starting place, the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/civilrights/al2.htm" target="_blank">Brown Chapel AME Church</a> in Selma. The church is just a few blocks from Selma’s famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmund_Pettus_Bridge" target="_blank">Edmund Pettus Bridge</a>. <br />
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Even today the trip is largely rural.<br />
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Mid-trip, we stopped at the National Park Service’s Visitors’ Center. The enormous parking lot had so few cars in it, I wondered if the place were even open.<br />
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I wasn’t too familiar with the story of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selma_to_Montgomery_marches" target="_blank">civil rights activists trying to walk from Selma to Montgomery in 1965</a>, demanding equal access to the polls. Sure, I’d seen the famous film of the police dispersing marchers at the Edmund Pettus Bridge, but that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge.<br />
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In a large swath of the U.S., from the end of the Civil War until the passage of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voting_Rights_Act_of_1965" target="_blank">Voting Rights Act</a>, the right to vote was pretty much limited to white folks. In 1960, eighty percent of the residents in Lowndes County, Alabama were African-American and not a single one was registered to vote. Not even one! However, 117% of the eligible white voters had registered. <a href="https://www.teachingforchange.org/selma-bottom-up-history" target="_blank">In the early 1960s, the right to vote became a focal point of the civil rights movement.</a><br />
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Marchers from the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Christian_Leadership_Conference" target="_blank">Southern Christian Leadership Conference</a> and other groups endured tear gas, beatings from the police, and nasty police dogs as they exercised their right to protest non-violently. With protection from the Federal government, the marchers—whose numbers had swelled to 25,000— finally made it from Selma to Montgomery on the their third try.<br />
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As I checked out the exhibits, I became a little embarrassed that voting for me has never been a problem. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever waited in a line of more than three or four people to vote. The whole process takes five or ten minutes. The idea that another American would have to march 54 miles just for a chance to have his or her voice heard via the ballot box is astonishing.<br />
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When we were finished at the visitors' center, we drove on to Selma. <br />
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The Edmund Pettus Bridge still marks the entrance to Selma.<br />
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The passage of the Voting Rights Act is noted by a marker at the end of the bridge.<br />
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Brown Chapel AME Church isn't far from the bridge. <br />
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We walked around Selma for a little bit.<br />
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Time seems to have passed the town by.<br />
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Time wasn't going to pass us by, we still had things to see! <br />
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From Selma, we continued on to Marbury to see its Confederate cemetery. The <a href="https://ahc.alabama.gov/properties/confederate/confederate.aspx" target="_blank">website for Confederate Memorial Park</a> said that it closed at dusk. We figured we’d get there with a little time to spare.<br />
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We were almost to Marbury when we stopped for coffee at a modern looking gas station/convenience store. I'd already stopped at one that was right out of<i> The Waltons</i> and it had no coffee. Budweiser pounders yes, coffee no.<br />
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The clerk, a woman who should moonlight as a Loretta Lynn impersonator, had just started a fresh pot of java when I walked in. She assured me that it would just be a minute and I said I’d wait. It wasn’t as if those dead Confederates were going anywhere.<br />
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After two customers came in to buy lottery tickets, Loretta Lynn's doppelganger, not recognizing me from a wanted poster, came out from behind the counter to chat me up while the coffee brewed. Her accent was as thick as the bulletproof glass that protected her and her inventory of cigarettes and scratch-off tickets. I suggested that I could just stick my cup under the stream of coffee to get a head start on things. She wasn’t having any of it.<br />
<br />
I knew not to argue; the thought had crossed my mind that the bulletproof glass might be there to protect me from her. I could see her going all Dirty Harry on someone who tried to hurry the Maxwell House along, as she urged caffeine-starved and jittery Yankees to go ahead and make her day.<br />
<br />
At last, coffee stopped streaming into the pot, signaling that it was done. I carried Styrofoam cups for Martha and me over to the coffee maker.<br />
<br />
That’s when I saw them.<br />
<br />
Ants.<br />
<br />
I said, <i>“Uh, you know, you have a few ants here?”</i> trying to be as nonchalant as possible.<br />
<br />
The understatement of the Deep South--the one that rebranded the Civil War as "The Recent Unpleasantness"--was rubbing off on me.<br />
<br />
A New Yorker would have said, <b><i>“Jesus H. Christ, what’s with the fucking ant farm?! They're all over the goddamned place!!”</i></b><br />
<br />
There were at least a zillion ants walking around that coffee maker. Maybe even two zillion; I didn't want to count.<br />
<br />
If this had been a cartoon, the ants would be carrying off the store's stash of Hostess Twinkies. No amount of bulletproof glass would stop them.<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Oh, they’re comin’ in again”</i> she replied as if she were referring to cows coming back to the barn for their afternoon milking. Her tone said that it was perfectly normal for a convenience store to be overrun with ants.<br />
<br />
I’d already paid for my coffee. Running out of the place without it would have been rude. In fact, it might have risen to the level of a microaggression, though this exact situation wasn’t covered in my recent diversity training.<br />
<br />
While the ants were everywhere, they didn’t seem to be on the coffee maker itself. That’s what I chose to believe anyway.<br />
<br />
I was desperate enough for my afternoon Joe that I decided to take my chances with a few ants in my coffee. I'm sure they're considered a delicacy someplace. Someplace I've never heard of, I mean.<br />
<br />
Before I got into the car with the coffee, I shook myself the way a dog would shake after a dip in a farm pond. In theory this would have any shaken ants off me, but in reality, I only demonstrated that it was a good thing I didn't have my heart set on a career in dance. <br />
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It was close to dusk when we arrived at the Confederate Memorial Park, on the site of the former <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alabama_Confederate_Soldiers_Home" target="_blank">Alabama Confederate Soldiers Home</a>. The home was built in 1902 for indigent Confederate veterans and their wives. The last vet died in 1934, but the facility stayed open until 1939 when the last few widows moved to other locations.<br />
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The carving on the marble tombstones has long since become impossible to read. <br />
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Fortunately, the State of Alabama had replaced each marker with an in-ground marker made of granite.<br />
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Lots of the tombstones had coins left on them. Snopes says that <a href="https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/coined-tradition/" target="_blank">the stuff about coins on tombstones</a> is hokum. They're just coins. In other words, finding a Kennedy half-dollar on a tombstone doesn’t mean that the person who left it there was with the deceased when they heard about JFK’s assassination and so on.<br />
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After we had wandered around it became too dark to take photos and it was time to drive back to Birmingham.<br />
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I drove up to the cemetery gates.<br />
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They were closed.<br />
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Holy crap!<br />
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And not only were they shut, they were padlocked.<br />
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With a really big, we-mean-business, sort of padlock.<br />
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Yes, We were locked inside a Confederate cemetery in East Jesus, Alabama...at night.<br />
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It wasn’t a good place to be for a Yankee, a Democrat, and a homo…not to mention for Bruce and Martha.<br />
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Martha tried to call the cemetery office, but she got a recording. No one works late at Confederate cemetery on a Friday night.<br />
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I considered calling 911. However, waiting for some sort of local cop to notice that we weren't from around there, were we, and then go on tell us that we were in a heap of trouble before asking if the movie <i>Deliverance</i> meant anything to me was not high on my list of things to do.<br />
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The cemetery was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, and I hoped there might be a break in it. I walked along the fence to see if there might be another way out.<br />
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When I saw two fence posts smack dab next to each other, connected by a loop of wire, I let out a little yay. And then I thanked my father, may he rest in peace, for taking me hunting on a ranch in South Dakota when I was 12 years old. I never appreciated that trip at any time in the last 49 years the way I did in that very moment. Because of that trip, I knew what a gate in a wire fence looked like and how to open one. The gate could have been easily overlooked, especially by a city slicker of the Yankee, Democrat, and homo variety.<br />
<br />
I squeezed the two fence posts closer together with my body and removed the loop of wire holding the posts together. I moved the barbed wire gate aside so that there was plenty of room for me to drive across the lawn, through the opening in the fence, and out of the cemetery.<br />
<br />
I went back to the car, really, really, pleased with myself. In fact, in my entire life I’m not sure if I have ever been that pleased with myself. For at least 15 minutes (OK, maybe more) I was completely insufferable. It wasn’t my best moment ever. But I was the big hero (to myself at least) even if I'll always be the last kid picked last in gym class. <br />
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Final score: Team Yankee-Democrat-Homo 1, Team Dead Confederacy 0.<br />
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In short order we were parked in a traffic jam on the Interstate 65 on the way back to Birmingham. We stopped, for no apparent reason, for more than an hour. Compared to the prospect of a night in a Confederate cemetery, an endless line of taillights looked pretty darned good. <br />
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Next stop: The Barber Motorcycle Museum. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-11507267901922320262018-11-09T20:28:00.003-05:002018-11-09T20:28:47.618-05:00Visiting Montgomery, Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After the <a href="http://www.thewanderingwahoo.com/2018/11/visiting-montgomery-part-1.html" target="_blank">lynching memorial</a>, we drove around Montgomery in a bit of shock. The memorial really hits you in the gut. In theory we were trying to find a restaurant, but we didn't do very well on that score. <br />
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Instead of eating, we went on to our next planned stop, the <a href="http://www.firstwhitehouse.org/" target="_blank">First White House of the Confederacy</a>.<br />
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I know what you’re thinking, how could you go from the lynching memorial to the First White House of the Confederacy? Yes, it was quite the compare and contrast moment. The lynching memorial represents how we look at our history today. The First White House of the Confederacy shows us how it was done in the past. If you are familiar with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lost_Cause_of_the_Confederacy" target="_blank">Lost Cause idea of the Confederacy</a>, this is Lost Cause on steroids. I thought it might be kitschy enough to be fun.<br />
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A little history lesson is probably in order. Montgomery was the capital of the Confederacy from February 4 until May 29, 1861. Since <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jefferson_Davis" target="_blank">Jefferson Davis</a>, its president, wasn’t from Montgomery, he needed a place to live. The Confederate government leased a home for him and his family.<br />
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It’s called the First White House of the Confederacy to distinguish it from that other White House of the Confederacy, the one in Richmond. One of the Confederacy’s many failings was the failure to find an original name for its executive residence.<br />
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I don’t really know what I was expecting—a docent in a hoopskirt, I think—but I certainly wasn’t expecting to be met by an African American woman—not in a costume—when I pushed open the door. She couldn’t have been friendlier and more welcoming; my guess is that she doesn’t get many customers. She offered bottles of cold water. While I was grateful for it, I thought that food and drink were frowned upon in museums.<br />
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Just inside the front door there was a lovely photo montage of the regents of the White House Association. Regent is the term for a woman in fashionable, not sensible shoes, who headed a preservation organization a LONG time ago.<br />
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The First White House of the Confederacy was built between 1832 and 1835 by William Sayre, an ancestor of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda. In the late 19th century the newly organized <a href="https://www.hqudc.org/" target="_blank">United Daughters of the Confederacy</a> adopted the idea of preserving the house.<br />
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In PR speak worthy of rebranding the Civil War as “the recent unpleasantness”, the United Daughters of the Confederacy became “entangled in personal differences” and that effort went nowhere.<br />
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Another preservation group, <a href="http://www.firstwhitehouse.org/first-white-house-association/" target="_blank">The White House Association</a>, modeled after the <a href="https://www.mountvernon.org/preservation/mount-vernon-ladies-association/" target="_blank">Mount Vernon Ladies Association of the Union</a>, eventually picked up the ball (gown) and got the job done.<br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varina_Davis" target="_blank">Mrs. Jefferson Davis</a> was selected as the group’s first Queen Regent. In fact, she was the group’s only Queen Regent. The post has been vacant since Mrs. Davis’ death in 1906. The group’s current regent is Seibels Lanier Marshall (Mrs. Jim Marshall). At least I think so; the website hasn’t been updated in some time.<br />
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The house is not on its original site. It’s been moved to a place of honor across the street from the Alabama State Capitol.<br />
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In case you’re wondering, the Lurleen Wallace State Office Building isn’t too far away. <br />
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The museum was your standard issue boring house museum. If you are into 19th century decorative arts, it might be your thing. On the ground floor there was little to ooh and aah over for the true Davis groupie; most of the furniture did not belong to the Davis family. If you are looking for the desk where Varina Davis wrote her husband’s honey-do list (e.g. 1. Defeat Union 2. Have slaves clean gutters 3. Take Jefferson Jr. for haircut), skip the ground floor.<br />
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The real mother lode is upstairs in a room chock full of cases filled with relics.<br />
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The sacred relics are in cases that look as if they haven’t been freshened since the death of Regent Mrs. Jesse Drew Beale in 1905. Although this wasn’t mentioned at the tour, she was mother-in-law of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_Ewing_Bouvier_Beale" target="_blank">Edith Ewing Bouvier “Big Edie” Beale</a> and grandmother <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_Bouvier_Beale" target="_blank">Edith Bouvier “Little Edie” Beale</a>, relatives of Jackie O made famous in the cult movie <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grey_Gardens" target="_blank"><i>Grey Gardens</i></a>.<br />
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One of my favorite artifacts was Mrs. Davis’ lorgnette.<br />
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But the coffee cups from the Sultan of Turkey were nice too...<br />
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..as was Jefferson Davis' pith helmet...<br />
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...and the rosary made by Varina Davis from her daughter's hair.<br />
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OK, perhaps the place really is as creepy as Grey Gardens, just without the cats, raccoons, Little Edie singing, and so on. <br />
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Interestingly enough the house is closed on June 5 for Jefferson Davis’ birthday.<br />
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It’s all kitschy and creepy and for a history geek like me, fun. Even if they don’t mention that Jackie O was Non-Queen Regent Jesse Drew Beale’s people.<br />
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So, if kitschy and creepy, old-fashioned Lost Cause house museums are your thing, go. Otherwise, it’s probably ok to move it down to the list of second tier Montgomery attractions.<br />
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At the end of our visit the docent was very helpful in pointing us towards the <a href="https://www.thefitzgeraldmuseum.org/" target="_blank">F. Scott Fitzgerald Museum</a>. It was in a neighborhood not too far from downtown Montgomery.<br />
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Literary types know that <a href="http://www.fitzgeraldinsaintpaul.org/a-selection-of-saint-paul-sites-of-f-scott-fitzgerald/" target="_blank">F. Scott Fitzgerald was from St. Paul, Minnesota</a>, but his wife, the former <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zelda_Fitzgerald" target="_blank">Zelda Sayre,</a> was from Montgomery. This particular museum (and I use the term lightly) claims to be the only museum dedicated to the Fitzgeralds.<br />
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My first clue that something was up was the state of the driveway.<br />
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I think the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ho_Chi_Minh_trail" target="_blank">Ho Chi Minh Trail</a> might have been in better shape when it was being pounded daily by bombs dropped by B-52s. Seriously, you could twist an ankle walking up to the front door.<br />
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The house is an extra large bungalow. Not something I expected to find in Montgomery, but surprises seemed to be the order of the day. <br />
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The front door was dirty and in bad repair. It didn’t need just a little tender loving care, it needed a full work up at the Mayo Clinic. <br />
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The Fitzgeralds lived in the house slightly longer than the Davis family lived in the First White House of the Confederacy. Unfortunately for us, they left even less of a mark on their house than the Davis family did.<br />
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The interior looked as if someone bought an old fraternity house, took the furniture out, framed issues of old <i>Life</i> magazines, hung those on the walls, and called it a day. <br />
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We were subjected to a video (judging by the hairstyles, VHS-era) that we watched with two other tourists/victims and then we were free to walk around and check out the exhibits.<br />
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As far as actual Fitzgerald memorabilia, there wasn’t much. Once again, there is no sacred desk and honey-do list (1. Write the Great American novel (again). 2. Buy booze 3. Buy more booze). <br />
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A highlight of the collection was Zelda Fitzgerald’s cigarette holder.<br />
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There was also a nice 1920s vintage toaster that didn’t seem to have belonged to anyone in particular. In the immortal words of Dave Barry, I am not making this up.<br />
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And what’s worse, Scott and Zelda were in no way related to Jackie O, Jackie Chan, or even Jackie Collins.<br />
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After about 10 minutes of looking at copies of newspapers and still photos of the 1974 film version of <i>The Great Gatsby </i>starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, we’d had enough. I thought I might actually detach a retina due to excessive eye rolling.<br />
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The rather listless person in charge came around and said that we could go online to pay the admission fee. Yeah, I was going to get right on that.<br />
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In short, it was easily the worst “museum” I’ve been to in a very long time.<br />
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Somewhat by accident we found a fantastic place for lunch in Montgomery’s outer 'burbs. How could we not stop at a place called <a href="http://www.thelittledonkey.com/birmingham-menu/" target="_blank">Little Donkey</a>?<br />
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After a great lunch, we were on our way to Selma and the next stop on our trip. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-28885346186932632582018-11-03T12:45:00.001-04:002018-11-05T07:33:43.058-05:00Visiting Montgomery, Part 1The morning after our encounter with Vulcan, we were up and at ‘em early so that we could have breakfast and be on the road to Montgomery.<br />
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We walked down the street to the Salem’s Diner, which according to someone someplace, was the number one diner in Alabama.<br />
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I’m sort of a strict constructionist when it comes to diners. They are a purpose-built diner (preferably with lots of stainless steel) or a converted railroad car. Something in a strip mall, while it may have many diner-like qualities (Formica booths, a counter, plain food, sassy waitresses) is not a diner.<br />
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And so, for me, at least, the Salem’s Diner wasn’t a diner. But it was diner-ish. Formica booths, check; counter, check; plain food, check. But it was so small that there was only one sassy waitress. I think there were four booths and as many stools at the counter.<br />
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What it lacked in size, it made up in character. The walls were covered, salon style, with vintage sports memorabilia, including someone’s golf score card. As the architect <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Venturi" target="_blank">Robert Venturi</a> said, “less is a bore” and this was far from boring.<br />
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If there was a blank spot on the wall, someone pounded a nail into it and hung a picture there.<br />
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What I know about Alabama and Auburn sports you can put in a thimble, but Salem’s Diner seemed like a good place to be if you were a fan. The owner’s father was the late (as of 2001) <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed_Salem" target="_blank">Ed Salem</a>, a big deal on the University of Alabama’s 1950 football team. He went on to play for a year for the Washington Redskins and in the Canadian Football League.<br />
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Interestingly enough, the place is famous for Philly cheesesteaks. As a Pennsylvanian, I scoffed. And now that I’m back home in Pennsylvania, I’m still scoffing. This would be like a restaurant in Lancaster, Pennsylvania being famous for its grits.<br />
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Cheesesteak claims aside, I loved the atmosphere, in large part due to the gaggle of jolly, aging jocks that seemed to fill every booth and stool in the place.<br />
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Our waitress was great too, just the right combo of friendly and sassy.<br />
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Bruce and I had eggs, and they were quite good.<br />
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Martha’s pancakes, on the other hand, were cold.<br />
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I hope that it was just an off day. In theory at least, there are days when neither Alabama nor Auburn wins. Martha’s day breakfast wise, this was one of those days.<br />
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After breakfast we fired up the GPS and pointed our rental car towards Montgomery.<br />
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We had tickets to see the Equal Justice Initiative’s National Memorial for Peace and Justice. <br />
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The memorial is located on a six-acre site on a hill overlooking the city.<br />
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Designed by <a href="https://massdesigngroup.org/" target="_blank">MASS Design Group</a> in conjunction with the staff of the <a href="https://eji.org/" target="_blank">Equal Justice Initiative</a>, the work is a powerful reminder of America’s sordid record of lynching and racial relations.<br />
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When the staff member at the Memorial scanned our tickets, she told us not to take selfies with, or pose with the sculptures. I’m glad that she thought we were young enough to even consider taking a selfie.<br />
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Shortly after entering the memorial, visitors come to a sculptural group by <a href="https://kwameakotobamfo.com/" target="_blank">Kwame Akoto-Bamfo</a>, an artist from Ghana. It’s of a group of young Africans, nearly naked and straining at shackles, their faces wracked with fear and horror. I thought it was supposed to represent people being sold into slavery. It’s a powerful and disturbing piece, but I wasn’t expecting it since so much of the press I’ve seen is about the larger, abstract portion of the memorial.<br />
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People take selfies with this? I shook my head.<br />
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After the sculptural group, a gravel path leads up a gentle slope to the memorial. The right side of the path borders a tall concrete wall.<br />
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It’s punctuated by five very large text panels that tell the Readers’ Digest version of the story of the lynching of African-Americans in the United States in the years after the Civil War.<br />
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The central portion of the memorial is a large, open, rectangular structure. Seemingly hundreds (I didn’t count) of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weathering_steel" target="_blank">COR-TEN steel</a> boxes are suspended equidistant from the ceiling. <br />
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Each box is incised with a state name, county name, and the names and dates of all the men, women, and children who were lynched in that county.<br />
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The boxes are arranged in rings, in alphabetical order. Alabama is on the outermost ring, Virginia and West Virginia are on the innermost ring.<br />
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The floor of the memorial is a gently sloping ramp so that as audience members walk through the memorial, the first boxes you come to are at eye level and the final ones are hanging well above visitors’ heads.<br />
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On the third leg of the memorial, there are a series of plaques telling the most basic stories of lynchings. They’re grim.<br />
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Really grim.<br />
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If you’ve somehow missed our country’s difficult racial past, it’s going to hit you here.<br />
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A bench has been built into the wall in case you want to sit and reflect.<br />
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When you get to the end, visitors are invited to walk up the small grass hill that’s at the center of the memorial. The docent explained to me that instead of the lynching victim being at the center of the crowd, now the viewer would be in that spot, surrounded by the steel memorials to all the lynching victims. It’s another solemn moment.<br />
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As you leave the central portion of the memorial, the docent explains that the steel boxes lined up outside the memorial are duplicates of the hanging boxes. Starting next year, the memorial plans to start sending them, as sites are prepared, to the counties where the lynchings took place. It’s a way to bring the piece to a much wider audience.<br />
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It's a short walk from this large conceptual work to a slightly larger than life sculpture of three women by <a href="https://danakingart.com/" target="_blank">Dana King</a>, marking the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montgomery_bus_boycott" target="_blank">Montgomery Bus Boycott</a> of 1955-1956.<br />
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Before reaching the exit, visitors walk by an abstract sculptural work by <a href="https://www.hankwillisthomas.com/" target="_blank">Hank Willis Thomas</a> and a stone slab bearing the poem <i>Invocation</i> by <a href="http://www.elizabethalexander.net/" target="_blank">Elizabeth Alexander</a>.<br />
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The central portion memorial is quite powerful, but I think it would have been more so if the sculptural works outside the main body of the memorial had been erected at a different site. I was reminded of <a href="https://www.nps.gov/vive/index.htm" target="_blank">Maya Lin’s Vietnam Memorial</a> and how Ross Perot and others insisted on adding some representational statuary to the ensemble. The abstract work is quite capable of standing alone.<br />
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After visiting the Memorial, we went to the <a href="https://museumandmemorial.eji.org/museum" target="_blank">EJI Museum</a> which is a short drive away in downtown Montgomery. I was glad that we had purchased tickets in advance. It was crowded. The ticket taker asked for our zip codes and remarked that most of their visitors aren’t from the local area. She reminded us that we weren’t to take photos inside the museum.<br />
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The museum is mostly text panels and some video installation, very slick and <i>au courant</i>. I don’t recall that there were lots of works of art or original documents.<br />
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The ban on photos had to be about ensuring a good visitor experience when there is a large crowd. (Thank you Google for the photos!) The place was packed. The story the museum told about slavery, the Jim Crow era, and today’s civil rights struggle is shocking at times. I thought I was well versed and informed on the topic, but I was wrong.<br />
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We read and see videos about atrocities committed by ISIS or the Taliban or some other group of people and tend to think, oh, we’re not like that. Unfortunately, we are just like that. <br />
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Before going the memorial, I read about a <a href="https://www.encyclopediavirginia.org/James_The_Lynching_of_John_Henry_1898" target="_blank">lynching that look place in Charlottesville in 1898</a>, just down the road from my old apartment. As horrible as it was, it pales in comparison to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Turner" target="_blank">the story of Mary Turner</a>, lynched in Georgia in 1918. As the cartoonist Walt Kelly said, <i>I have met the enemy and he is us. </i><br />
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On the way to the car, I made a brief stop at the bookstore. I know I’ve never been to a museum store with merch so attractively priced. The Equal Justice Initiative really wants visitors to buy its books, mugs, t-shirts, and to share its story. Its hope is that we learn from our troubled racial past (and present). I couldn't agree more. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-10905602224126700022018-10-26T12:19:00.000-04:002018-10-26T15:14:09.329-04:00Alabama Bound: Vulcan, Man of Iron, Not IronyAfter the Hertz parking lot debacle, the we didn’t stop until we came to the Alabama Welcome Center, just after we crossed from Georgia into Alabama. State welcome centers are always good stops for free road maps, clean bathrooms, and picking up brochures for places that you didn’t know existed.<br />
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This one had a big monument of the Alabama state motto out front. Yikes. While Alabama was admitted to the Union in 1919, it didn't adopt this state motto until 1939. <br />
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As state mottoes go it’s not quite as violent as New Hampshire’s <i>Live Free or Die</i>, or doesn’t require a knowledge of rudimentary Latin like Virginia’s <i>Sic Semper Tyrannis. </i>However, in the all around oomph department, it doesn’t even come close to New Jersey’s <i>Not Only Toxic Waste But Also No Self Serve Gas</i>.<br />
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Oh well, at least it wasn’t a monument celebrating the Ten Commandments.<br />
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Officially welcomed and with map and rack cards for the <a href="http://bryantmuseum.com/" target="_blank">Paul W. Bryant (no relation) Museum</a> and the <a href="http://www.bateshouseturkey.com/" target="_blank">Bates Turkey Farm and Restaurant</a> in hand, we set out for Birmingham. I'm still sorry that we couldn't fit the Bates' place into our itinerary. <br />
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Before even checking into the hotel, we headed for the giant statue of Vulcan that overlooks the city.<br />
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Vulcan is a little shorter than the <a href="http://www.thewanderingwahoo.com/2014/12/a-visit-to-arkansas-part-1.html" target="_blank">Christ of the Ozarks</a> in Arkansas and <a href="http://www.lucytheelephant.org/" target="_blank">Lucy the Margate Elephant</a> in New Jersey, two of my favorite giant statues. But Vulcan is on a 10-story pedestal atop a small mountain overlooking Birmingham, a much better site than his compadres have in a mostly unbuilt Jesus-themed amusement park in the Ozarks, and on a not-very-attractive swatch of the Jersey Shore. What Vulcan lacks in height he makes up in location, location, location.<br />
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We bought tickets at a booth at the base of the park and then walked uphill to the Vulcan Museum. It’s a few steps from museum to the actual Vulcan Tower.<br />
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The first wow moment at Vulcan occurs when you walk into the museum/visitors’ center. They’ve placed a Louise Nevelson-ish sculpture of cast iron stuff—manholes, radiators, gears, pipes, and whatnots, celebrating Birmingham’s days as the largest industrial center in the south. It’s quite nice, really.<br />
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The museum behind the sculpture tells the tale of the statue and gives you a brief glimpse into Birmingham as a manufacturing center. I thought of it as a cousin to the museum at the base of the Hoover Dam, only the blue collar workers in these exhibits were wearing more clothes and lacking in the Tom of Finland-esque <i>je ne sais quoi</i> of the guys in the exhibits in Hoover Dam. This is the Bible Belt, after all. <br />
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The <a href="http://visitvulcan.com/" target="_blank">park’s website</a> (which is great, btw) tells the story of the statue, which was created by an Italian American sculptor working in New Jersey, Giuseppe Moretti.<br />
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The Birmingham Commercial Club commissioned Moretti to sculpt the giant Vulcan in order to showcase Alabama’s industrial might at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisiana_Purchase_Exposition" target="_blank">1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis.</a> This was in the era when businessmen thought giant statues were a good idea. The Birmingham Steel and Iron Company used molds created by Moretti to cast the statue in 21 separate pieces of iron which were assembled at the Fair. Birmingham's Vulcan is the largest cast iron statue in the world.<br />
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Vulcan stands at his anvil, with a hammer in his left hand, holding aloft a rather cartoonish spear in his right hand. He’s wearing apron that droops to expose his heaving-in-a-manly-sort-of-way left pec. He’s sporting an Eddie Haskell-esque hairstyle accompanied by a totally butch and <i>au courant</i> hipster full beard.<br />
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He wears non-OSHA approved non-steel toed gladiator sandals. You have to hand it to the guy, he knows the value of statement shoes.<br />
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While Mr. Moretti made a valiant attempt, Vulcan’s head seems too large for the rest of the body, and as a result, Vulcan looks like a 56’ tall bobblehead doll. Interestingly enough, you can buy a Vulcan bobblehead in the gift shop. <br />
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After Vulcan’s gig at the World’s Fair—where his prizing wining status makes me wonder about the competition—he was brought back to Birmingham and reassembled—incorrectly—at the Alabama State Fair Grounds. I’m unsure if the knee bone didn’t connect to the thigh bone, or exactly what.<br />
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This was the start of Vulcan’s checkered past, and at various points he held up a Coke bottle, a pickle sign, and even a giant ice cream cone. Apparently, the heat from Vulcan’s forge did not melt that particular kind of ice cream.<br />
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Vulcan was moved to his current home as part of a WPA project and presumably the museum building dates from this time. Vulcan’s career in advertising wasn’t over however, and in 1946, at the instigation of the Birmingham Jaycees, Vulcan started to hold a green neon beacon that turned red on the days that there was a traffic fatality in Birmingham.<br />
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As you can imagine, all those years hanging out at the Alabama State Fair and concentrating on traffic fatalities did a real number on him and he underwent a full restoration in 2003-2004.<br />
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Now he’s back to his buff self, and even wears the same size trousers as he would have worn at the 1904 World’s Fair....had he worn trousers there anyway.<br />
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Unless you bring a drone—which I didn’t—it’s hard to get a good look at Vulcan. But he has a nice butt and trust me, you can’t say that about all the giant statues.<br />
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I took the elevator to the 10th floor outdoor observation deck to see Birmingham spread out before me like the buildings of Plasticville that went with my old Lionel train set.<br />
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The floor of the deck is mesh so you can look straight down, always a fun thing if you’re afraid of heights.<br />
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When I was on the deck, we could see and hear the University of Alabama at Birmingham marching band on its practice field in the distance. Although they weren’t playing <i>Sweet Home Alabama</i> it was way more festive than the spread of hors d’oeuvres the Birmingham Estate Planning Association was laying on at for a cocktail function in the park as we left.<br />
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I minded the signs and did not run down the stair steps, equally impressed by Birmingham’s industrial might and Vulcan’s ageless physique.<br />
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<div class="place-desc-large">
<div class="place-name">
<a href="http://visitvulcan.com/" target="_blank"><b><i>Vulcan Park and Museum</i></b></a></div>
<div class="address">
<i>1701 Valley View Dr.</i></div>
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<i>Birmingham, AL 35209</i></div>
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<i>Museum open 10:00 am to 6:00 pm most days; Tower 10:00 am until 10:00 pm. </i> </div>
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Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-85095657327449499012018-10-23T22:18:00.000-04:002018-10-23T22:18:46.275-04:00Alabama Bound: In a World of Hertz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My friends Martha and Bruce were headed to Alabama—she was giving a paper at a conference—and they asked me to tag along. I hadn’t been there in quite some time, so I said sure, count me in. The plan was to fly to Atlanta and then drive to Birmingham and so on.<br />
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After an on-time landing in Atlanta, M, B, and I went to pick up our rental car. Based on the time it takes to get to Hertz Counter, via moving sidewalk, tram, and broken escalator, I’ve come to the conclusion that the rental car center might might actually be in South Dakota. <br />
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The rental car center is gigantic. In fact, it makes the biggest one I’ve been to--in Las Vegas--look puny. <br />
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It was my lucky day. There was no line at the Hertz counter.<br />
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Shontay, the nice customer service rep, asked me if I wanted to upgrade to a Range Rover. I laughed. A Range Rover? She had to be kidding. <br />
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Then she asked me if I were in Atlanta visiting family. I said no, I wasn’t. I told her that I come from a long line of white trash she should be glad that none of my relatives lived there. She laughed. We were practically besties. I didn't even need to drop my cousin Kobe's name.<br />
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Shontay completed my paperwork quickly and didn’t hector me about upgrading the insurance or adding a fuel package, premium cup holder, or designer highway flares. In just a few minutes I was in the parking garage allegedly picking out my car. <br />
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Our section of the garage—for non-Range Rover-ing descendants of white trash—was mostly empty. Actually, I had a choice of one car. And that was fine. As of last week, I’d cast off my long held belief that the way to a man’s heart was through my rental car. As long as it gets you there and back, who cares what a rental looks like?<br />
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Once I figured out where at least 20% of the car's essential controls were, I started it up and drove over to the check-out booth. As instructed, I handed over my paperwork and driver’s license to the gate agent, Shontay (no relation). We engaged in some friendly banter, she gave us bottles of cold Dasani water. When she'd finished checking out my documents and license, she lowered the gate, deactivated the big metal teeth in the pavement, and sent us on our way. <br />
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There was one more gate and set of big metal teeth to clear—all of 100 feet away--before heading out into the cauldron of Atlanta airport traffic. Clearly Hertz does not think that less is more in the gates and big metal teeth department. The gate was up, the teeth were down. Three days of cultural tourism were on the horizon.<br />
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I headed for freedom. <br />
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And then it happened. <br />
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The gate came crashing down. <br />
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The metal teeth deployed. <br />
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An alarm went off. <br />
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And my first thought was “How did I screw this up?” <br />
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You see, I’ve a history with rental cars. <br />
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There was that time In Tempe, Arizona. I pulled out in front of someone. It was my fault. There was a pretty darned large dent in that car.<br />
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In Seattle, I scraped something in a parking lot. It was my fault. But that was nothing that some Comet Cleanser and judiciously applied dirt didn’t fix.<br />
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And that time a long time ago in England…with the broken rear view mirror? Definitely my fault. <br />
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But I was pretty sure that this time wasn't my fault.<br />
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The gate didn’t leave a dent on the roof, but Hertz’s Spike Systems Inc. Model CS-72-HTC did a number on my front tires. My left front tire was flat. And in short order, my right front tire was flat too.<br />
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After what seemed like a long time, but was probably only a minute, an apologetic Hertz employee not named Shontay appeared. She sent for the manager.<br />
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I asked if this had ever happened before and she said that it had. My experience was somewhere between a one off and a just another day at the office. <br />
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And it wasn’t even my fault.<br />
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In a few minutes, the manager arrived bearing more paperwork. She was effusively apologetic. She didn’t mean for the trip to start that way. She had a me sign a bunch of stuff and told me that I’d get a discount on the rental.<br />
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She had someone bring another car around. One that didn’t have flat front tires or show evidence of being hit by a parking lot gate. It wasn’t a Range Rover. <br />
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We moved our bags into the new car. I gave the parking lot gate the hairy eyeball before easing the car into traffic. We were on our way.Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-16504261078073669082018-10-06T19:34:00.002-04:002018-10-06T19:34:22.381-04:00Shuffling Off to Buffalo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Not too long ago I had an idea.<br />
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It was time to go to Buffalo.<br />
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No, I’d never been.<br />
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Because, you know…it’s<i> Buffalo.</i><br />
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But Buffalo has more than its share of architectural and historic landmarks—and Niagara Falls is nearby—so it was easy to put together a day or two of geeky touring. Food wise, people swear by the wings. My friends Martha and Bruce said that they were game for an adventure. And so off to Buffalo we went.<br />
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The first stop was Buffalo’s passport office. I wanted to see Niagara Falls from the Canadian side of the river and the days of crossing the border with just a drivers’ license are long gone. My passport expired in late August, so I needed to get a new one on an expedited basis.<br />
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Security was tight; there were three guards in the postage stamp sized lobby of the passport office. The guards gave me detailed instructions about which line to get in, which chair to sit in, and which window to approach. They probably think that if you’re too stupid to sit in the right place, you’re too stupid to get a passport.<br />
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Fortunately, I got in the right line, sat in the right row, and approached the right window. My papers were in order I was told to return in a few hours for my new passport.<br />
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Our next stop was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_City_Hall" target="_blank">Buffalo City Hall</a>. There was a time when an impressive city hall was a point of pride for local governments. Philadelphia, San Francisco, and yes, Buffalo, have city halls that are tourist destinations…for architecture nerds at least.<br />
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Buffalo’s impressive 32-story Art Deco pile, designed by Buffalo architects, Dietel and Wade, was completed in 1931. The architects pulled out all the stops when it came to decorating the lobby.<br />
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We took the elevator tor the Observation Deck. The elevator, like the rest of the building, wasn’t air conditioned, and the two city employees sharing the car with us told us that the elevators got stuck between floors from time to time. It was about 90 degrees in the elevator. We hoped it wasn’t our lucky day.<br />
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The elevator stopped a couple of floors from the top of the building. We hoofed it up the final two floors. I love the fact that whoever made the sign wasn't exactly sure where we were going...and no one has bothered to make a nice new sign. As Bruce says, "OK is good enough!"<br />
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The views from open air observation deck were spectacular. The winds were fierce. I’m not good at heights; I wondered if anyone had been blown over the plexiglass railing, like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auric_Goldfinger" target="_blank">Auric Goldfinger</a> being sucked out of his jet. <br />
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I could see the headline:<br />
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<b>Geeky Tourist Dead in City Hall Mishap <br />
High Winds, Lack of Coordination to Blame </b></div>
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Fortunately, we made it back to the ground floor safely. </div>
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We were a tad early for our next stop so we make a quickie visit to <a href="https://www.spcbuffalo.org/" target="_blank">St. Paul’s Cathedral</a>, designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Upjohn" target="_blank">Richard Upjohn</a>, the architect of New York City’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trinity_Church_(Manhattan)" target="_blank">Trinity Church</a>. The brown sandstone church sits on a triangular site resulting from Buffalo’s radial street plan, inspired by L’Enfant’s plan for Washington DC. Episcopalians aren’t minimalists when it comes to interior decoration, so there was plenty to take in, including a Tiffany window. <br />
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The cathedral hadn’t yet adopted the State College Presbyterian Church men’s room doctrine of lift the handle for number one; depress the handle for number two. As they say, God moves in mysterious ways. <br />
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Our third stop on our architecture nerd themed weekend was an early skyscraper, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prudential_(Guaranty)_Building" target="_blank">Guaranty Building</a>, right across the street from the cathedral. We had reserved spots on the 2:00pm tour through <a href="https://preservationbuffaloniagara.org/" target="_blank">Preservation Buffalo Niagara. </a> <br />
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The Guaranty Building (sometimes referred to as the Prudential Building) was designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Sullivan" target="_blank">Louis Sullivan</a> (the form follows function guy) and built in 1896. Along with its slightly older sibling, St. Louis’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wainwright_Building" target="_blank">Wainwright Building</a>, it’s pictured in many histories of American architecture. Like Buffalo itself, the building has had its share of good years and bad. The building is enjoying good times now and is immaculately maintained by its owner, a large law firm. <br />
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There were only five of us on the tour. There is a pleasant ground floor museum the size of a large Starbucks, with a video, text panels, archival photos, and even a model of the building. The exhibit goes into some detail on how the building's orange terracotta sheathing was made. <br />
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Our knowledgeable and friendly docent walked us through the exhibits, then through the lobby of the building, past the elevators, and out onto the sidewalk. And that was the tour. As Peggy Lee sang, <i>“Is that all there is?” </i><br />
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I suppose the law firm didn’t want us visiting the document shredding room or seeing the boardroom where partners light Cuban cigars with $100 bills. People are so touchy these days. Our guide made up for the brief tour by suggesting we see the downtown branch of M&T Bank to see its collection of “not always PC” vintage mechanical banks. It was just a block away from the passport office, so after picking up my new passport, we stopped in. <br />
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The Beaux Arts confection that used to be the Buffalo Savings Bank was built in 1901, when the stability of a financial institution was expressed in bricks and mortar.<br />
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The building, with a domed banking hall and a quarry’s worth of white marble, shouted that deposits were safe there. Interestingly enough, the bank became insolvent in 1991.<br />
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Our docent was right, the collection of mechanical banks wasn’t PC but was worth the visit. <br />
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When we’d finished at the bank, it was time to check in to the hotel. We bunked for the weekend at the <a href="https://www.hotelhenry.com/" target="_blank">Hotel Henry Urban Resort Conference Center</a>. Even after staying there, I still don’t grasp the concept of “Urban Resort”. <br />
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The building was built from 1872-1880 as the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richardson_Olmsted_Complex" target="_blank">Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane</a>, and provided state of the art mental health treatment (such as it was) for up to 600 patients. It’s an enormous place, designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Hobson_Richardson" target="_blank">H.H. Richardson</a> amid grounds laid out by landscape architect <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_Law_Olmsted" target="_blank">Frederick Law Olmstead</a>, the designer of New York's Central Park. The salubrious atmosphere created by top notch architectural and landscape design was supposed to turn lunatics, the deranged, and chronic masturbators into model citizens, or at least accomplished basket weavers. <br />
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As a hotel, it’s plenty handsome from the exterior if you like Richardsonian Romanesque architecture. Of course, you need to overlook the chain link fence that seems to be a semi-permanent fixture on the grounds, not to mention the dilapidated parts of the complex. <br />
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I’m not sure how well the place worked as an insane asylum (or “wellness center” as one of the front desk staff members called it) but as a hotel, it has some issues. <br />
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For starters, it’s difficult to find the entrance to the property. Signs, apparently, are for weenies. <br />
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After I found the entrance, at the back of the building, I had to ask the valet how to get to the front desk—it’s not obvious. He told me that it was up two flights of stairs. Considering the fact that the main floor has an 18’ ceiling, that’s a decent hike.<br />
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It was another hike down the grand staircase to my room. The hotel’s hallways doubled as its fancy farm to table dining area. Guests (trust me, no bellman was in sight) carry their bags right by diners chowing down on non-GMO free-range heirloom organic wings accompanied by vegetables that no one has ever heard of. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but I don’t particularly enjoy a floor show of people schlepping roller bags past my table when I’m eating dinner.<br />
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I opted for one of the less expensive rooms, overlooking a dumpster and an enormous HVAC unit. <br />
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Except for the view, my small room was nice enough. There were two beds, a tiny desk and a chair that no one was ever going to sit in. It was day two before I figured out how to work the window blinds, and operating the shower control required graduate level courses in fancy European plumbing fixtures. The bed was ok if lower to the ground than usual, but there was no clock, no drinking glasses, and the TV was small-ish. When I checked out I suggested to the clerk that they call the My Pillow Guy about getting some decent pillows.<br />
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Oh, and I never really figured out why this sign was on the door we used to take a short cut from the parking lot to our rooms. A nod to its days as a "wellness center", no doubt. <br />
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So, as hotels go, a solid “meh”. <br />
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I’m glad I stayed there, but if you want a hotel where they do everything right, you’re better off at a Courtyard by Marriott. <br />
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Friday evening we enjoyed tasty non-wingy Italian fare at <a href="http://aromabryant.com/" target="_blank">Trattoria Aroma</a>. Anthony, our waiter, was the life of the party. Shortly before we left, I wanted to ask him about a place to go for breakfast. Who better to ask than a cute and seemingly hip server? <br />
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<i>“Anthony, may I ask you a personal question?” </i><br />
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He responded with alacrity: <i>“I’m single and gay!”</i><br />
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As B&M laughed, pointed my way, and said <i>“So’s he!”</i> <br />
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I said, um, I just wanted to ask where should go for breakfast.<br />
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Anthony wasn’t much help—he said he was in church instead of out for breakfast. Seriously, that was his answer. Fortunately, the folks at the next table were locals and gave us some ideas.<br />
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So, the next morning we headed out to the farmers’ market for a look around before stopping in a local sandwich joint for breakfast. Wings weren't even on the menu.<br />
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Afterward we zipped over to our 10:00 tour at the <a href="http://www.martinhouse.org/" target="_blank">Darwin D. Martin House</a>.<br />
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The Martin House, built for an executive at Buffalo’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larkin_Company" target="_blank">Larkin Company</a>, is one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s most impressive commissions from the Prairie Style period of his career.<br />
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Darwin Martin, a man with a prodigious soup strainer, was one of Wright’s best clients, commissioning not only his estate but also the Larkin Company’s administration building (now demolished). Wright built two other homes in Buffalo for Larkin Executives.<br />
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The tour started in the visitors’ center more formally known as The Eleanor and Wilson Greatbatch Pavilion. You can’t miss its name, it’s in enormous letters right there at the check-in desk. The Martin House is the only house museum I’ve been to where the brochure for the visitors’ center is larger than the brochure for the historic property itself.<br />
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The pavilion, named for the guy who invented the implantable cardiac pacemaker, was designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toshiko_Mori" target="_blank">Toshiko Mori</a>, the first tenured woman at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design.<br />
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Yes, it’s a lovely glass pavilion. However, while you sit there watching the orientation video, you see every person who comes in late or wanders in off the street. I could go on, but I’ll spare you a couple of paragraphs worth of complaining.<br />
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After the video—which attributed Martin’s interest in his home to childhood abandonment issues and needing a big place to house his mustache—we were all outfitted with an earpiece and temporary hearing aid so that we could hear what the docent was saying even if we were at the end of the tour. It was a thoughtful touch considering the fact that I was the youngest person there.<br />
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Our $30 tour took us to several different buildings on the site. The first stop was the gardener’s cottage, built in 1909. The Martin’s gardener was tasked with providing fresh flowers daily for every room in the Martin House, which he did until Darwin Martin’s death in 1935. The place was lovely and really quite livable, but you will have to take my word for it since interior photography was not permitted. The Martin House corporation uses the gardener’s cottage as a guest house today. <br />
After visiting the gardeners’ cottage, the docent took us into the Martin House.<br />
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As soon as you’re at the front door of the big house, you see you what a work of art it is. Some of the stained glass windows contain hundreds of pieces of glass, the millwork is incredibly elaborate, and even the mortar joints in the masonry were lavished with care (and bronze paint). Interior photos were also frowned on in the big house, too--thank you Google images.<br />
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The Martin House Restoration Corporation has raised almost $50 million on its restoration. The house really has enjoyed an amazing rebirth, even if it’s not yet finished. Some of the rooms are unfurnished and will remain that way; others are only sparsely furnished. <br />
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The yard is a construction site<br />
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The final building on the tour was the Barton House, built by Wright for Darwin Martin’s sister, Delta Martin Barton and her husband. It’s much simpler than the Martin House, and likewise sparsely furnished. <br />
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The tour ends in the gift shop (of course) where you can buy Frank Lloyd Wright chess sets and lots of other Wright inspired tchotchkes. Visitors may take all the photos they want. <br />
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The tour had its high points and its low points. On the plus slide of the ledger, the docent didn’t make up stuff as he went along…for the most part, anyway. He did tell us that the Martins had lots of mirrors for Christian Scientists. (Huh?) The no photography rule was a downer but the hearing aids were helpful. And, in the best idea ever, the docent gave us each a comment card to complete and mail in. I’ve never, ever had that happen at the end of a tour. <br />
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After the Martin House we made tracks for Niagara Falls. We wanted to get there before The Donald created an international incident with Canada and closed the border.<br />
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We parked in the City of Niagara Falls’ enormous parking garage and paid the equally enormous $30.00 (in advance!) to park.<br />
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Niagara Falls is all about mass tourism. There were people of every age, size, shape, color, you name it, around and about. It was quite the change from the Martin House and our small group of ear hearing-aid wearing old codgers.<br />
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We walked across the Rainbow Bridge and waited in line for 20 minutes go to through passport control. The Canadian side of the falls is lovely, with a formally landscaped terrace separating the touristy falls experience from the hotels filled with honeymooners, tourists, and so on.<br />
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After some to-ing and fro-ing we finally figured out how to get in the elevator to take us the boat trip to the base of the falls. On the American side of the border, the boat is the <i>Maid of the Mist</i> and passengers wear blue ponchos; in Canada it’s a Hornblower Cruise and the ponchos are red. <br />
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Shortly after we left the dock there was a short safety briefing—if we sink, there are life preservers someplace. At least I think that’s what the guy said. And shortly after that, there was a bunch of cheering at the front of the boat because…a couple had just gotten married…she in a big white dress, he in a tuxedo. I wondered if they were saving their red ponchos for the wedding night.<br />
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One thing you can say about a poncho—it doesn’t make your ass look fat, it makes all of you look fat. <br />
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The trip up the river to the falls is brief, but the falls are spectacular. In the words of Martha’s neighbor Mary, it’s a lot of water. I wasn’t tempted to make plans to return to go over the falls in a barrel.<br />
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After our boat ride, we made our way back to the Rainbow Bridge to walk back to the US of A. Interestingly enough, you have to put four quarters in a turnstile in order to leave the Canada. Paper money is not accepted, it has to be four quarters. This creates a bottleneck at the change machines. Perhaps by creating a momentary delay, Canada wants us to reconsider leaving.<br />
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Our plan after Niagara Falls was to go to Buffalo’s Pierce Arrow car museum but that was thwarted when we learned that the museum was closing early that afternoon for a private function. (I’m thinking Wingfest, if not a bar mitzvah.) <br />
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After considering a visit to the Albright-Knox Museum of Art, we opted instead for Forest Lawn Cemetery, the final resting place of many Buffalo notables. This is not to be confused with the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles; Buffalo’s Forest Lawn came first—it was founded in 1849. <br />
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Our first stop was the visitors’ center/gift shop—you know it’s a great cemetery if it has a visitors’ center not to mention gift shop. Only the best of the best cemetery gift shops sell presidential PEZ dispensers featuring Presidents Franklin Pierce and Millard Fillmore. <br />
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After we picked up our map of the cemetery, the extremely affable Director of Tourism pointed out the final resting places of some Buffalo notables. <br />
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I don’t know how the conversation rolled around to Buffalo bigwig Grover Cleveland, but his grandson had been to Forest Lawn recently and she was kind enough to show us her photo with him. The walrus look runs in the Cleveland family. <br />
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Our first stop was to be the grave of Buffalo dentist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_P._Southwick" target="_blank">Alfred P. Southwick.</a> He was the inventor of the electric chair, and I don’t mean the kind of powered chaise lounge that dentists use. He invented “Old Sparky”, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julius_and_Ethel_Rosenberg" target="_blank">Julius and Ethel Rosenberg</a> kind of electric chair. Near Dr. Southwick’s final resting spot was that of the electric chair’s first customer, murder <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Kemmler" target="_blank">William Kemmler</a>. Although the Wiki account of the Kemmler’s execution sounds horrible, when it was over, Dr. Southwick said “We live in a higher civilization from this day.” Oy!<br />
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Unfortunately, we weren’t able to find Dr. Southwick or Mr. Kemmler. Perhaps we shouldn’t have been looking for a gravestone topped by Reddy Kilowatt. <br />
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But we did find the grave of Millard Fillmore, the 13th President. He and his family are in small plot, marked with an obelisk and surrounded by a low iron fence. The American flag flies overhead.<br />
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I was quite surprised to find another mourner…ok, visitor, at President Fillmore’s grave. I mean, Millard Fillmore? Seriously?<br />
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Our fellow pilgrim was a handsome and genial Ohio State grad, now a lawyer, and in town with his girlfriend/wife/whatever for a baptism. She remained in their car. He never referred to her as anything other than “she” or “her”. He noted that “she wasn’t into this kind of stuff”.<br />
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I chuckled.<br />
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In the meantime, my mind raced to months hence, after he had decided he wasn't into<u><b><i> that </i></b></u>kind of stuff and had gone on to date someone older, who likes long walks on the beach, Frank Sinatra, bourbon, black coffee, and so on. Not that I know anyone who fits that description. <br />
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<i>“How did you guys meet? Do you work together?”<br />
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<i>“Actually, we met at Millard Fillmore’s grave.” </i><br />
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But I digress. <br />
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We had a great time talking about which historic sites we’d been to and which were still on our lists. He said he was going to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Judge_Advocate_General%27s_Legal_Center_and_School" target="_blank">The Judge Advocate General's School (aka The JAG School)</a> shortly. We yammered about Charlottesville for a bit and I was reminded for the umpteenth time that there was something about a man in uniform.<br />
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Before Mr. Future Military Lawyer went back to “her”, he told me about a great app called History Here, a product of the History Channel, that identifies nearby historic sites using GPS technology. He used it to find the Fillmore grave. I told him that I’d be downloading it pronto. He promised to read my blog. <br />
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After that interlude we went on to find Rick James, Darwin D. Martin, and the Blocher Mausoleum, which is about the choicest thing ever.<br />
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You can read more about it <a href="https://www.mausoleums.com/portfolio/blocher-mausoleum/" target="_blank">here</a>, but the reader’s digest version is that it looks as if its architect (and/or client) smoked WAY too much opium or dabbled in psychedelics. It’s a granite and glass version of that clear plastic canister people use at the drive-in bank, standing on end.<br />
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Inside the canister, blindingly white carrara marble life-sized renditions of Mr. and Mrs. Blocher mourn the early death of their son James as an angel descends to lay a wreath upon James’ noggin.<br />
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James, another Buffalonian with one helluva mustache, is on a sofa—recumbent, as art historians would say—holding a Bible, and fully dressed right down to what look like Frye boots. It’s appropriate that his footwear is so prominent in the sculpture because his father, a shoe manufacturer, is one of the people credited with popularizing the idea of right and left shoes. The mausoleum is surrounded by a matching benches and planters. It’s one of the weirdest funeral monuments I’ve ever seen.<br />
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That evening, in lieu of wings, we ate at an Asian place near the hotel. We stopped at a coffee shop-ish sort of place for coffee and dessert. The flirty barista asked if we were tourists. I showed him my photo of the photo of Grover Cleveland’s grandson. Yeah, I'm good at dating. <br />
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On Sunday morning we fired up History Here on my phone and used it to find the actual spot where President McKinley was shot by anarchist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Czolgosz" target="_blank">Leon Czolgosz</a> at Buffalo’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pan-American_Exposition" target="_blank">Pan American Exposition</a> in 1901. The McKinley Death Rock, as Google calls it, in its best Joe Friday just the facts tone, is a small monument placed in the grass strip that divides the lanes of a middle-class residential street. McKinley High School is at the end of the block. My guess is that as Death Rocks go, it’s one of the best. <br />
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Nothing makes you peckish like a Death Rock, so we stopped at Bertha’s Diner for a bite to eat. Not only was the food tasty—Damn! I didn’t order wings—but the service was excellent. <br />
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All fueled up, we drove to <a href="http://www.silo.city/" target="_blank">Silo City</a>, which self-identifies as “your average, everyday historic grain elevator complex that doubles as a music venue, theater backdrop, poetry site, and industrial film location”. You can this about Buffalo-nians, they do not hide their abandoned grain elevators under a bushel basket. <br />
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Silo City is industrial decay at its finest. I’m not sure how many silos there are—thirty-something at least—and the last one was used in the 1980s. They’ve had plenty of time to rot and fester. Trust me, they show their age. <br />
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Instead of holding mass quantities of wheat, corn, and malted barley, the site is now used for the occasional concert, art installation, and prom. <br />
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The site has its on-site hipster bar/restaurant (thankfully closed on Sunday mornings) not to mention a caretaker/hermit/homesteader in residence. He lives in a ramshackle place that seems too skanky for human habitation. <br />
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The nice folks at <a href="https://explorebuffalo.org/" target="_blank">Explore Buffalo</a> offer tours of the place so that you can learn all about Buffalo’s days as a key cog in the agricultural industrial complex. You have a choice of the grounded tour or the vertical tour. The grounded folks go into the ground floor work areas of a flour mill, two grain elevators, and a malthouse. <br />
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The vertical types experience the whole shebang. There’s no elevator at the grain elevators so it’s a ten story climb up stairs, some of which are via an open spiral staircase.<br />
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The trip down is easier, though it does include a short trip down a ladder. <br />
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Back in the day, guys went from floor to floor on the manlift, which was essentially a conveyor belt that had handholds and footrests.<br />
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Count me out. <br />
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Our tour guide was the second coming of county agent Hank Kimball from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Acres" target="_blank"><i>Green Acres</i></a>, but as a retired teacher he was good at keeping our interest and answering questions. His sidekick wasn’t quite so voluble but her job was to act as sort of a sheepdog and round up the stragglers on the tour.<br />
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You don’t want to be lost and alone in an abandoned grain elevator.<br />
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The other folks on our tour included a Sinead O’Connor look-alike from Nova Scotia, three Buffalo locals, including one who was wearing Buffalo Bills branded shoes.<br />
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There were two twentysomethings in town for the Association of Preservation Technology conference, one of whom carried (and photographed) a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Jacobs" target="_blank">Jane Jacobs</a> doll with her. I asked her if she would be throwing a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Moses" target="_blank">Robert Moses</a> doll off the tenth floor and she replied that she liked to keep things positive.<br />
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After two and a half hours we had a pretty good idea of where the grain came in and where it went out and why it doesn’t do either of those things any longer. <br />
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And after two days we had a pretty good idea about Buffalo.<br />
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It's a cool place. You should go.<br />
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And perhaps order some wings. I hear they’re pretty good. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-41858507762278109382018-08-26T19:47:00.000-04:002018-08-26T19:47:01.178-04:00One Hundred Degrees of Dry Heat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ugh, not another trip to Las Vegas. Doesn’t he go anywhere else?<br />
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I’m sure it seems that way.<br />
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Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t have good friends in Duluth. (Which I am sure is lovely at this time of year...)<br />
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Yes, I abandoned Happy Valley and its 20+ inches of rain since the first of June for Las Vegas, to see my friends Tracy and The Other Rick, and enjoy a few days of sunshine and 100 degrees of dry heat. Sometimes you just need to be reassured that the sun really does exist and that you still know how to lose money in a video poker machine. This was one of those times. <br />
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Getting anywhere from State College is a two flight business for the flush and a drive to the big city and a direct flight for the thrifty traveler. I wasn’t feeling that flush, and so drove to Pittsburgh where I left my car—with the driver’s window (accidentally) all the way down—in section 17A of Extended Parking. I was fortunate my car wasn’t filled with water on my return!<br />
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As a thrifty but demanding traveler, I sprung for Early Bird Boarding on Southwest Airlines. My $15 got me position B29, which sounded only slightly better than Boarding Group Z. After I tagged Southwest in a grumble tweet about my purchase, I was contacted by a very nice customer service representative who asked me to wait until the return leg of my trip and to let the company know how things worked out. If I wasn’t satisfied he offered a full refund. Yay Southwest!<br />
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I snagged an aisle seat next to a leathery couple--leathery as as in too much sun on the golf course rather than regulars at the <a href="http://sf-eagle.com/" target="_blank">San Francisco Eagle</a>--who could not even offer up a hello. Not even one word. Perhaps I should to pay to upgrade my deodorant rather than my boarding position! <br />
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Shortly after landing and changing out of my traveling clothes (i.e. compression socks), Tracy and I headed to the <a href="https://www.premiumoutlets.com/outlet/las-vegas-south" target="_blank">Las Vegas Premium Outlet Mall.</a> It’s the site of one of my best Las Vegas experiences ever, buying green Ralph Lauren trousers embroidered with martini glasses and shakers for $9.95.<br />
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Like a heroin addict chasing a high, I return to the outlet mall every year looking for the perfect pair of party trousers. This year, I settled for garden variety khakis at the smaller-than-it-used-to-be Brooks Brothers. There’s nothing festive about them and they weren’t even close to $9.95. Oh well, maybe next time. <br />
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Over at the Ralph Lauren store, party trousers were likewise nowhere to be found. However, Ralph was selling camo jeans with a matching fatigue jacket for well north of $200. Presumably they were someone’s idea of BDUs for Operation Checkbook Emptying. <br />
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Shoppers looking for a slim fit Polo shirt in size XXL were in luck—there were tons of those. I think the outlet stocked up expecting a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marfan_syndrome" target="_blank">Marfan Syndrome</a> convention. Who else would want a slim fit shirt in a 2XL? Tracy found some things, and in a shopping first, a coupon Ralph texted me (it could have been Ricky, they're old, they might share a phone) saved Tracy actual money. <br />
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After our shopping adventure it was time for a little R&R around Tracy and The Other Rick's pool. The pool guy, an earnest fellow named Grant, came by to do whatever pool guys do—adjust the chemicals, skim out the crud, and so on. I asked if he’d ever fallen into a pool in the line of duty and he said no, but his phone had landed in the drink once. He mentioned the difficulty of finding a professional looking swimsuit with a pocket for one’s phone. (Ralph, if you're listening...can you whip up something...maybe in camo?) Grant had the good sense not to hear me when I pointed out that in porn, pool guys wear Speedos. <br />
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Saturday evening, Tracy, The Other Rick and I went to <a href="https://www.circuscircus.com/en/restaurants/the-steak-house.html" target="_blank">THE Steak House at Circus Circus.</a> Yes, the THE is in caps. The (lower case) Steak House must be someplace else.<br />
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Circus Circus is a funny location for a nice restaurant because it’s a pretty darned low end place. In addition to its circus-themed casino (which smelled as if they pipe in extra cigarette smoke), there are midway games like skee-ball, throwing darts at balloons, and perhaps even a pick-a-duck stand. Except for the missing farm smells, it’s like an indoor version of the Centre County Grange Fair.<br />
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The place has its share of tacky tchotchke shops, selling every kind of Vegas branded trinket imaginable, including Las Vegas Raiders yoga pants where the logo gives gives new meaning to the term "red zone". <br />
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THE Steak House is like stepping into the wayback machine for a bit of “Old Vegas” fine dining. Don’t go there looking for any sort of <i>nouveau nouvelle</i> sous-vide free range non-GMO heirloom gluten-free ancient grains nonsense. It’s the sort of place where you expect to see Don Draper at the next table enjoying a Canadian Club and a Lucky Strike or three before dinner. <br />
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Our waiter introduced himself as Richard. The Other Rick and I introduced ourselves as Richards as well. So, a three Dick night. Yes, I chuckled.<br />
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The food lived up to its billing. The wedge salad was the perfect old school accompaniment to a big honkin’ steak. When Richard brought my steak, I was reminded of the scene from the credits of the Flintstones where Fred Flintstone orders ribs at the drive-in restaurant and they’re so big that they tip over his car. My steak wasn’t just huge, but it was also cooked to perfection…over a wood fire, no less.<br />
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THE Steak House isn’t for the faint of wallet, but the food was fantastic. <br />
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Sunday was time for more R and R, lounging and loitering by the pool and whatnot, enjoying the 100 degrees of dry heat. <br />
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Late in the afternoon, we morphed into looky loos and visited the model homes on the other side of the wash/gulch/draw/arroyo or whatever that vacant depression of desert behind The Other Rick and Tracy's house is called.<br />
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From the backyard the site looks completely inhospitable and an utterly crappy place to build houses, but then again, from the point of view of an Easterner, the same can be said for about 99.9% of Nevada. <br />
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We put on our moderately good bib and tucker and arrived there shortly before the end of business hours.<br />
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According to <a href="https://www.pulte.com/homes/nevada/the-las-vegas-area/henderson/blackrock-210065" target="_blank">the builder’s website:</a><br />
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<i>… Blackrock, is an elegant, gated community featuring Pulte Homes’ most popular collection of one- and two-story homes in the valley. Featuring a contemporary architectural style that has become native to the neighborhood, homeowners will enjoy the privacy of the rugged natural setting, next door to Green Valley’s entertainment and retail district.</i><br />
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I didn’t see any evidence that the development’s “contemporary architectural style” had become native to the neighborhood, and I have an actual college degree in architectural history.<br />
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We stopped at the builder’s HQ, picked up the brochure and walked next door—a distance of perhaps four feet—to see our first model home. <i>La Vista, Tivoli, Cesena,</i> and the <i>Vittoria</i> awaited our inspection. Obviously these homes were named by the Italian cousins of people who name colors for J Crew.<br />
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The model homes didn’t look a thing like my house, or even a thing like any house in State College. They looked like a Pottery Barn catalog. Or at least what a Pottery Barn catalog looked like when I used to get a Pottery Barn catalog.<br />
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Each home was decorated in in blacks, browns, and grays. Perhaps they are expecting an influx of Amish? What little color there I saw was relegated to the occasional children’s room.<br />
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The builder thoughtfully placed what museum professionals would call “didactic materials” (i.e. labels) on certain features of the houses so that you would know how special they were.<br />
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The plain, ordinary closet was <b>Storage</b><i>: Out of sight, conveniently close</i>, immediately differentiating it from a storage unit across town.<br />
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The extra special closet was called the <b>Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet</b>. This dream closet was not someplace where you hide your sexual orientation, that stack of romance novels featuring Fabio on their covers, or the fact that all of your relatives voted for Donald Trump. No, the <b>Life Tested Dream Closet</b> is a Walk-in closet with ample shelving. <br />
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Frankly, my <b>Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet</b> had better include a lot more than ample shelving. I’m thinking shirts with collars that never fray arranged in perfect Roy G Biv order, 32” waist trousers that still fit, and a sock drawer arranger who will come on schedule, like Grant the pool guy, to ensure that my dress socks, argyles, Smart Wools, no-shows, and miscellaneous socks stay arranged by color, length, expiration date, and so on.<br />
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Most of the houses had bathrooms as big as my bedroom and kitchens made for something other than cooking. I guess they’re designed for meetings since the kitchen island was now the <b>Executive Kitchen Island</b>: Larger, for more room around the natural gathering spot.<br />
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There was the occasional agricultural-industrial complex <b>Barn Door</b>, which offered to Keep Your Style on Track with this Eye-Caching Space Saver, presumably saving all that space wasted by the <b>Executive Kitchen Island</b>.<br />
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If you have Frenchified nether regions, move elsewhere. Blackrock is not a bidet friendly development! If your daily ablutions include a Euro-wash “down there” while you watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=neEe1itDC_k&t=45s" target="_blank">Jerry Lewis clips</a> on your iPhone, you are flat out of luck.<br />
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Prices at Blackrock start at $485,880 for the 2,100 stripper square foot <i>Stella</i> model. That means no white wall tires, no factory air, no am/fm 8-track tape deck and no <b>Life Tested--Registered Trade Mark--Dream Closet</b>. Your building lot, of course, is <u><i><b>not </b></i></u>included. Blackrock’s pricing brings to mind Captain Kangaroo’s disclaimer about Schwinn bicycles: Prices slightly higher in the west and the south.<br />
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OK, maybe I would like to live at Blackrock. But I’d need to have some work done—lipo, some Botox, dye job. And then I’d need new clothes (black, browns, and grays), new furniture, (black, browns, and grays) and new whatnot (guess what colors?), not to mention a new car. Nothing but a Lincoln Compensator, as big and as costly as an aircraft carrier will do. Alas, there's another Vegas dream with little chance of coming true!<br />
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After a post-tour dinner, we once again braved the 100 degrees of dry heat and went to <a href="https://www.neonmuseum.org/" target="_blank">The Neon Museum</a> for its show <a href="https://www.neonmuseum.org/visit/brilliant" target="_blank">Brilliant.</a> If you have not been to The Neon Museum, the next time you’re in Vegas, go! It’s great.<br />
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The museum presents <a href="https://www.neonmuseum.org/visit/brilliant" target="_blank"><i>Brilliant</i></a> in its North Gallery, a collection of unrestored signs that’s across the street from the main body of the museum. Though none of these 40 signs actually light up, using a technique called projection mapping, light is projected onto them so that they look as if they’re lit. It’s way cool.<br />
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The signs do their thing to a soundtrack of Vegas icons Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Liberace, and so on. And it’s great. Except for one thing. The next to the last song is Elvis Presley’s <i>Viva Las Vegas!</i> followed by some more modern, endless, instrumental crap. Perhaps if I were younger I'd know the tune. But I'm old and I didn't have a clue. <i>Hey Neon Museum, end the show with</i> Viva Las Vegas!<i> Always leave them wanting more!</i><br />
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After the show, as audience members mill about looking for that special Instagram moment, the museum projects a short slide show about the history of Las Vegas and some of its more interesting cultural milestones. Definitely stick around for that.<br />
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The next day I rented a car and drove out of town to see some stacks of painted rocks in the desert. Yes, I paid an obscene amount of money to rent a car at the hotel so that I could go out into the desert to look at painted rocks. Guess how hot it was? <br />
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However….these weren’t just any painted rocks. This is a public art project called <a href="http://sevenmagicmountains.com/" target="_blank">Seven Magic Mountains</a>, which translates into plain English as Seven Day Glow Phallic Symbols Out in the Middle of Nowhere. The work was created by a Swiss artist named Ugo Rondinone. The phallic symbols, I mean magic mountains, are stacks of “locally sourced” rocks painted in presumably non locally sourced dayglow paint. The stacks of rocks are roughly 30 feet tall; they’re scheduled to be on display for two years starting in 2016, so run, do not walk, to see them.<br />
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The work was funded by the <a href="https://www.nevadaart.org/" target="_blank">Nevada Museum of Art</a> and the <a href="http://www.artproductionfund.org/" target="_blank">Art Production Fund</a>, though if you drill down on the website, you see that its sponsors also include Aria, a Vegas hotel/casino; Banana Republic, the clothing store in better malls everywhere; Warhol Superstar, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Holzer" target="_blank">Jane Holzer</a>, and Nevada’s top highway builder, Las Vegas Paving Corporation. Strange bedfellows indeed. <br />
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According to the work’s website, the artist, <a href="https://ugorondinone.com/" target="_blank">Ugo Rondinone</a>, was born 1964 in Switzerland but now lives in New York. (I’d like to see him get those big rocks in a New York apartment!) He has “long embraced a fluid range of forms and media” which “creates the conditions for an expansive emotional range”. Presumably if I were to be more fluid in my embrace I would have more than a limited emotional range. Yet another thing to work on in therapy!<br />
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The website goes on to say that Rondinone’s work is “recognized for its ability to channel both psychological expressiveness and profound insight in the human condition and the relationship between human being and nature. Referring concurrently to the natural world, romanticism and existentialism, his works encapsulate a 'mental trinity' that has underpinned his art for more than twenty years.”<br />
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That’s pretty much what I thought too.<br />
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So in my rented RAV4, a car which I’ve never liked since I didn’t know if it's pronounced RAVE 4 or RAV 4, I headed south on Las Vegas Boulevard, past Caesar’s Palace, Bellagio, Mandalay Bay and even the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign. I drove past an outlet mall, some locals casinos, plenty of discount liquor stops.<br />
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But I didn’t go as far as Exit 12, the home to the World’s Largest Chevron Station.<br />
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Before too long I could see some fluorescent dots in the distance. As they grew larger I could see that this was the place. There was no mistaking stacked locally sourced boulders painted in non locally sourced colors.<br />
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I pulled off into the parking area. There were about 20 cars there. There was no ticket booth or gift shop, but it was obvious where everyone was going. What few signs there were seemed to be directed at gophers; they were smaller than license plates and at ground level. There was a dirt path that led from the parking lot to the rocks, which were about 100 yards away.<br />
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Even on a Monday morning at 11:00 am, in 100 degrees of dry heat, there were about 40 people there. They were mostly photographing each other or taking selfies. I didn’t see anything that looked like a human or animal sacrifice and if anyone was praying or taking celestial observations, I missed it.<br />
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I saw people jumping up and down for the camera, a few serious poses, and others trying to look alluring. I didn’t see any guys whip it out and try to add an eighth magic mountain to the tableau. Perhaps I just picked an off day. Who knows?<br />
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One of the funders called the work “a modern-day Stonehenge” and pointed out that it “has its own sense of purpose and spirituality”<br />
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OK, a modern day <a href="http://carhenge.com/" target="_blank">Carhenge</a>, maybe. I’m not sure I’d go as far as Stonehenge, even the faux Stonehenge in Odessa, TX. And what’s with the “sense of purpose”? Since when do inanimate objects have any senses at all?<br />
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I enjoyed the Magic Mountains, but my enjoyment came from watching the other folks take pictures, point and yammer, and try to make sense of a bunch of locally sourced boulders painted in non locally sourced day glow colors on a you know how hot day in the desert outside of Vegas. <br />
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One of my favorite bits was the Seven Magic Mountains' mini me of locally sourced pebbles--in their natural hues!--that someone had created at some distance from the rock totems. <br />
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I wondered if the form of the thing mattered at all. Would any bit of giant photogenic stuff dusted with some art history hokum drawn a crowd? I think so. <br />
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Was it a religious experience for me? No.<br />
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Sure, I loved it, but had a driven a few miles longer, I would have loved the World’s Largest Chevron Station. I'm fickle like that. <br />
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But I'm glad I went. I needed a new selfie anyway. <br />
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I skipped the chance to go on to the World’s Largest Chevron Station, so after my world was rocked, I headed back to the hotel pool.<br />
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When I went to the john instead of peeing in the pool, I learned about Russ von Hoeslcher’s Independent Crypto Currency Group. Someone thoughtfully left his already even highlighted card at each of the urinals.<br />
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When I think of the word Crypto, its surname is Commie. That’s right, I’m a child of the Cold War. <i>Duck and cover, y’all</i>. Somehow, I found the intestinal fortitude to pass on the crypto currency even though it could be so big that a modest investment might allow me to move into Blackrock, rich enough that I could demand that they install an Executive CEO King of the World Bidet.<br />
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That evening Tracy and I went to Caesar’s Palace to see <a href="https://www.caesars.com/caesars-palace/shows/absinthe/" target="_blank"><i>Absinthe</i></a>, a comedy/variety show in the Spiegeltent on the Roman Plaza.<br />
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Wiki tells me that a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spiegeltent" target="_blank"><i>spiegeltent</i></a> is a wooden and canvas tent, decorated with mirrors and stained glass that is used as an entertainment venue. So, it’s a little different from the less tent-ish mirrored wretched excess that makes Las Vegas fun.<br />
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According to its website the show was recently named “the #1 greatest show in Las Vegas history”. Leave no superlative unturned, it goes on to claim that the “ridiculously talented and sexy performers from across the globe mix outrageous comedy with jaw-dropping feats of virtuosity and danger.” <br />
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This I had to see.<br />
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The Other Rick scored us VIP tickets with a complimentary bottle of bubbly. Even though I have sworn off champagne since my experiences at the Beaux Arts Balls of 1977, 1978, and 1979 (call me a slow learner!), I filled my flute right up. Repeatedly. As my mother used to say, "When in Rome shoot Roman candles!"<br />
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<i>Absinthe</i> is a variety show, with an emcee, his sidekick, and a bunch of brief acts by jugglers, trapeze artists and so on.<br />
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The emcee, known as the Gazillionaire, and the sidekick, aka The Green Fairy (a nickname for absinthe), have a hilarious comedy act that includes teasing every possible cultural group in the audience not to mention plenty of references to every kind of bodily function nice people don't talk about at the dinner table, not to mention, yes, circumcision. If there’s a less PC show in Las Vegas, I can’t imagine what it would be.<br />
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I laughed until my stomach hurt and then made a note that if we ever have a family reunion in Las Vegas, I’m getting everyone tickets. It’s a very Bryant kind of an evening, kind of like Cards Against Humanity with a side order of The Ed Sullivan Show, only more so.<br />
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It’s not just the comedy that’s great, but the variety acts are topnotch too. They perform on a tiny stage—it’s 10 feet in diameter—and right in front of you too—no one is more than 11 rows from the action.<br />
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There is a wacky juggling act called Life on Mars, a group of buff Slavic tumblers, and a pair of gymnasts dressed as English bankers who perform to a soundtrack of Handel. There are twins who tap dance--yes, tap dance!--unlike anyone you've ever seen.<br />
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Then there’s David O’mer, dressed only in a pair of jeans, whose props are a footed bathtub filled with water and rope hanging from the ceiling of the tent. He actually<i><b> is </b></i>all that and a bag of chips.<br />
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OK, the copywriter was correct about the ridiculously talented and sexy performers. Run, do not walk. to see <i>Absinthe. </i><br />
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I was still chuckling two days later when I flew back to Happy Valley<i>, </i>thinking about my next trip to Vegas. I don't have any plans, but Miss Diana Ross beckoned to me from a poster in the hotel elevator. She'll be performing in Vegas in a few months. She's 74...she can't possibly look like that...or can she?<br />
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If I take the plunge and book a ticket, you'll be the the first to know.Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-52717990796786315142018-05-24T18:36:00.001-04:002018-05-24T21:05:38.724-04:00Honk if You're Horny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other day I sent a link to a <i>Business Insider</i> article to a friend of my late brother Rob. Since Matt works at Amtrak, I thought he’d be interested in <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/china-bullet-train-speed-map-photos-tour-2018-5" target="_blank">the piece about Chinese bullet trains</a> that go from Beijing to Xi’an in 4.5 hours. For those of you unfamiliar with Chinese geography, that’s like going from New York City to Chicago. If you try to do that on an American train, it takes about 22 hours. <br />
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Matt thanked me and in the next few keystrokes told me that there would be a “horn honk” that very weekend in Altoona, Pennsylvania, at the site of the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve.</a> <br />
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Yes, I know that a “horn honk” sounds like some sort of euphemism straight people would look up on <a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/" target="_blank">Urban Dictionary</a> and then wish they hadn’t. <br />
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But it’s really not anything like that. <br />
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A horn honk is a gathering of train horn enthusiasts. Matt is one, and my brother Rob was one. <br />
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I’d never been to a horn honk but the thought of a bunch of guys getting together to toot their own horn, so to speak, sounded like something not to miss, and not just in the Urban Dictionary kind of way. <br />
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I know what you’re saying: “People collect train horns? WTF!” <br />
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Yes, Virginia, people collect train horns. <br />
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If you have to collect something, it sure beats Scottie dog memorabilia. <br />
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When I think of collecting oddball stuff, sooner or later I return to an article by <a href="https://roadfood.com/about-roadfood/" target="_blank">Jane and Michael Stern</a>, published in the September 21, 1987 issue of <i>The New Yorker</i>. I don’t know why this article stuck in my brain, but it’s there, like a piece of gum stuck to the underside of the counter in a diner. The article was about a weekend long swap meet for collectors of Scottie dog memorabilia held in a Ramada Inn in Indiana. Just a wee bit crazy as they might say back on the <i>auld sod</i>. I suppose this is what Americans did in their spare time before someone invented the internet and laced it liberally with porn. Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure!<br />
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I’m not much of a collector. But life as a minimalist is something I aspire to, not my current situation. While I am, to the best of my knowledge, the only person on eBay who buys Old McNichol’s Stonewall China, I make lots of excuses about that.<br />
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1. I use it regularly. OK, I use some of it regularly.<br />
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2. I am only trying to complete a set...that no one will want when I'm dead.<br />
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3. It’s a chic Russel Wright-ish mid-century design. What do I know about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russel_Wright" target="_blank">Russel Wright</a> or chic?<br />
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4. It’s inexpensive...because I'm the only guy in America who wants it.<br />
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OK, I collect more stuff than I care to admit to. But not Scottie dog memorabilia or train horns. That would be crazy. <br />
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So, last Saturday, after my sister and I did a lap through the Penn State Master Gardener’s plant sale, my sister said, “<i>Would you like to go to Martin’s Greenhouse?</i>” I said sure, and by the way, we could also go to a horn honk at the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>. I mentioned that Rob’s friend Matt said he would be there. <br />
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She said, <i>“When were you going to spring this on me?</i>”<br />
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At the last possible moment, obviously. <br />
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So, with our plants in the back of her truck, we set out for our first horn honk. At the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>, no less. <br />
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How famous is something if it incorporates the words World Famous in its title?<br />
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The <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a> was built in the middle of the 19th century just outside the city of Altoona by the Pennsylvania Railroad. It’s on the main line from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and helps the train ascend the face of the Allegheny Mountains. Yes, it’s shaped like a horseshoe, a big horseshoe. In fact, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horseshoe_Curve_(Pennsylvania)" target="_blank">Wiki tells us</a> it’s 2,375 feet long and 1,300 feet wide at its widest point. That’s a big horseshoe. During World War II as many as 50 trains a day went around the curve transporting troops and whatnot (guns, ammo, Betty Grable pinups, etc.). Its importance to the war effort was such that the Germans planned to have saboteurs blow it up. Fortunately for us, some of the commandos defected and that was that. The National Park Service declared the curve a National Landmark in 1966. Makes sense that it’s World Famous, right? <br />
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My sister and I hadn’t been there since we were kids. I’m not much of a train buff so unless a train was going by I thought it underwhelming. When a train went by it was somewhat less underwhelming. As I recalled, in addition to the actual curve, there was a static display of a rusting steam locomotive parked next to the tracks. Its honking days were lone gone. <br />
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As we drove up the country road to the site, we heard a train horn. We were definitely going in the right direction. But then a pickup truck, with huge air horns mounted on its roof, passed us going in the opposite direction. Had we missed the goings-on we wondered? I thought Matt said that they’d be there honking all day? <br />
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We needn’t have worried. After a few more turns, and a few more blasts of distant and not so distant air horns, we were at the base of the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>. There, in the parking lot of the new (at least to us) visitors’ center and matching picnic pavilion, were perhaps 15 trucks and cars, most of which had giant air horns mounted to their roofs. The long tables in the picnic pavilion were covered with giant air horns, like great cast iron mushrooms sprouting in a lawn after a rain. I had no idea that there were so many different varieties of air horns. <br />
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Carolyn parked and we walked over to the scrum of honkers. Everyone pretty much ignored us.<br />
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Obviously, no ticket or secret handshake was required to enter. <br />
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I asked someone if he knew Matt and if so, was Matt there. This fellow said he hadn’t seen him yet, meaning that we knew exactly zero people there. In other words, not a good place for a shy introvert like me. Shortly afterward, someone came up to me and asked me if I were Doc’s brother. <br />
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Have I mentioned that my brother was Rob to his family but Doc to his friends?<br />
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Soon enough we were chatting with two of Rob’s friends. We shared the reminisces someone would share at a viewing, except with a sound track of train horns echoing in the lee of the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>, instead of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUEI140Su9M" target="_blank"><i>How Great Thou Art</i> done by Tennessee Ernie Ford</a> playing over the sound system of the Koch Funeral Home.<br />
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As Rob slash Doc would have told us, the basic premise of a horn honk is that people mount train horns on their vehicles and then drive around blowing them. That’s all there is to it. It’s equal parts loud, crazy, and fun. On this particular Saturday all the principals were guys, though my guess is that the hobby has a certain appeal to women in sensible shoes. If there were any locals there, I didn’t meet them. Horn folks had come from Maryland, Ohio, Michigan, and even California for the event. <br />
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Because a train horn requires LOTS of compressed air to make its joyful noise, horns are usually mounted on racks attached to the roofs of full sized trucks that have an air compressor or air tank mounted in their beds. Presumably honkers take the air handling equipment out when they need to tote a full-sized sheet of plywood someplace. A couple of guys had their horns mounted on racks on their crossover SUVs, but they were the exception rather than the rule. <br />
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With the horns attached to your vehicle, it’s just a matter of running some big air hoses from the horns to the air tank and adding some controls in the cab to complete your rig. It was pretty simple, really.<br />
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Honkers would fill their air tanks, pull out of the parking area and give a few blasts of the horn as they drove down the road a mile or two. Then they’d turn around and give a few blasts on the way back. It was practically the second coming of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Broadway_Limited" target="_blank"><i>Broadway Limited.</i></a> It was good clean LOUD fun.<br />
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How loud was it? It was loud. As loud as a train, really. Since the site was at the base of the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>, we were smack dab against a steep mountain so there was an echo.<br />
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One of the guys was stationed at a camera mounted on a tripod so that he could record each honking episode, perhaps to share with the guys and women in sensible shoes who could not make it that day.<br />
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If that guy had any hearing left, I’d be shocked. <br />
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It’s not just a matter of showing up with your truck and blowing your horns once and calling it a day. The horns have a universal mounting, so the guys swap out their horns so they can have a go at someone else’s unit, so to speak. There were several picnic tables laden with horns—sized large and even larger—waiting for their big moments. It was a grown up straight guy version of playing with Barbie dolls. <br />
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Some little girls want to see how Barbie looks in a wacky hat, headed to a royal wedding, or maybe in a lab coat, since she’s also a famous scientist. Sure, to adults she looks like Barbie, but kids can easily imagine that she's Pippa Middleton on her way into <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_George%27s_Chapel,_Windsor_Castle" target="_blank">St. George's Chapel</a>, or Marie Curie as portrayed by Stormy Daniels in <i>MILF Nobel Prize Laureate.</i><br />
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I think borrowing someone else’s horns gives the horn aficionado the chance to make believe he’s taking a ride on the Reading or about to stop at a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Harvey_Company" target="_blank">Harvey House</a> on the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atchison,_Topeka_and_Santa_Fe_Railway" target="_blank">Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe</a>.<br />
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Alas, to the untutored like Carolyn and me, one set of train horns sounded just like another set of train horns mounted on a pickup truck. <br />
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I asked if someone would give me a ride so that I could see what this was all about from the honker’s point of view. One of the senior honkers, Ed, said sure he’d give me a lift. The word at the honk was that he’d called my brother Mr. Know it All, something I’m sure I called Rob slash Doc more than once myself. Ed drove a bright red Chevrolet Avalanche with two air tanks in the its bed. <br />
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Before we left, Ed pointed out the workings of the horns under the hood of the truck. He’d installed a starter motor connected to a gonkulator that powered the compressor that filled his tanks. Or was it the other way around? I have all the mechanical aptitude of an oyster and so my understanding of all of this was modest, to say the least. What I did understand was that he was no Ed Come Lately to the honking business. He’d been at the hobby since the earth cooled. In fact, he said that the first time he came to the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>, the Pennsylvania Railroad was still using steam locomotives. <br />
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In a short time, Ed and I were all powered up and ready to go. He patiently explained how the air hose came from the tanks to the controls mounted on the console between the front seats. Some of the valves were right out of Home Depot but the main lever—dare I call it the joystick?—was something unique to air horning. Men lie about their joysticks all the time (trust me on this one) but there was no overselling this one. It was the real deal.<br />
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After lots of horn themed sexual innuendo and with a wave to my sister and our new good buddy Ron (who were already laughing), we were off. Shortly after we pulled out of the parking lot, Ed told me to let ‘er rip. I don’t think those were his exact words, but that was what he meant. I pulled the joy stick back gingerly. It was my first time at this kind of yanking. <br />
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Ed explained that you could actually blow the smaller horns in a set of horns separately by pulling the lever back just a little bit, since they required less air than the bigger horns in the group. I got the impression Ed was one of those “in for a penny, in for a pound” kind of guys. I pulled the lever back with more gusto. <br />
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<i><b>Yowza!</b></i><br />
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What was it like? <br />
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Did you ever see <a href="https://archive.org/details/SF121" target="_blank">that video of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge</a> from 1940 where it vibrates to the point of collapse in a 40 mph wind? Or have you ever imagined what <a href="http://www.magicfingers.com/" target="_blank">Magic Fingers</a>, the coin-op gizmo that made motel beds vibrate, would be like if it were powered by a jet engine?<br />
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That’s what my ears felt like when I blew those horns at full blast. <br />
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And yes, it was pretty darned cool.<br />
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In a moment, I was transported to that under-appreciated 1964 Disney film, <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0058230/" target="_blank">The Incredible Mr. Limpet</a>, where Don Knotts, playing Henry Limpet, turns into a fish (a fish who wears glasses, actually) and uses his booming voice as a sonic secret weapon to destroy German U-boats in World War II. The Nazis would hear his voice over their sonar sets and in their Colonel Klink accents shout <i>“Das Limpet! Das Limpet”</i> before Don Knotts would send the bad guys to Davy Jones’ Locker. <br />
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Blowing that those airhorns, just down the road from the <a href="https://www.railroadcity.com/visit/world-famous-horseshoe-curve/" target="_blank">World Famous Horseshoe Curve</a>, I had turned into the land-based Incredible Mr. Limpet, right down to the glasses. <br />
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We drove down the road for a mile or two, and turned around, and I gave the horn another couple of blasts on the way back. <br />
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Ed was a great teacher and an even more gracious host. It was a blast, so to speak. <br />
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Carolyn and I agreed that we should have brought the box of Rob’s earthly remains along for the trip. I think they’re in a box in her garage. The plan is to scatter them from a train ride on the <a href="https://www.wmsr.com/" target="_blank">Western Maryland Scenic Railroad</a> one of these days, but we haven’t gotten around to scheduling that yet. I think his friends would have gotten a kick out of seeing him too, even in a box from the Great American Crematorium in Midland, TX. Were the horn on the other air hose, I’m sure Rob would have toted my cremains along with him---and then accidentally left me in a booth at Dairy Queen.<br />
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After my ride, and while we still had at least some hearing, Carolyn and I said our goodbyes and headed home. We were both glad to meet some of Rob’s friends and reminisce a bit. Since Rob was very specific about not wanting a funeral, we didn’t do much of that after he died, so we were overdue. And, since Carolyn and I are both planners, we talked about how the honkers should sell risqué t-shirts and find a food truck and tell the Blair County visitors bureau and maybe introduce the world to their hobby.<br />
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Then again, why mess with success? It was a honkin' good time just the way it was. Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2591480218770044199.post-43671362764320584722018-04-25T17:53:00.004-04:002018-04-26T10:07:23.805-04:00April in New York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If it’s April, it’s time for my not-quite-annual trip to New York City.<br />
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The trip started out as it usually does, waiting in the Walmart parking lot for the Megabus. I was hopeful that Thursday travel would mean that the bus wasn’t crowded; the seating is tight and I didn’t feel like getting intimately acquainted with a new friend. I reserved a seat on the upper deck. It wasn’t exactly the lap of luxury but it beat having to settle for the seat by the bathroom door.<br />
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Sure, I would miss the fifty yard-line seat when someone opened the bathroom door and a dead body with a needle still stuck in its arm fell out—something that really happened in State College—but it was a sacrifice I was prepared to endure.<br />
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As soon as we were under way, the driver got on the PA and announced that our rest stop would be near Mifflinville. I thought he said Mifflintown—which is en route to Philadelphia, not New York. If someone could get on the Megabus to Philadelphia instead of New York, it would be me.<br />
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My fellow bus riders seemed like the typical Megabus crowd. Most of the people who got on with me were Asian students, but there were a handful of grown up academic types too. I sat across the aisle from two twenty-something granola types. They had lots of organic snacks with them. The woman in front of me was carrying paperwork from the Allegheny County Jail. I think she might have been a former customer.<br />
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Soon enough we’d arrived at our rest stop. The driver announced that we’d be resting for 45 minutes.<br />
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Our dining choices were the truck stop’s convenience store, Arby’s, McDonald’s, and Subway. It was a veritable groaning board of fast food. It was no wonder that the bark eating couple brought free range heritage non-GMO organic kale chips flavored with sawdust. After taking the tour of the convenience store, I settled on McDonalds. I was hopeful that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.<br />
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After lunch, I took a nap to make sure that my several weeks’ worth of saturated fats would be sure to settle in where they would do the most damage. I woke up when we hit a huge pothole on the far side of the Delaware Water Gap. Welcome to New Jersey!<br />
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I make jokes about the Megabus being low rent, but my hat is off to our driver. He maneuvered that thing through Manhattan traffic like someone who’d done it a thousand times. He was always in the proper lane, he didn't take any crap from New York drivers, and he wasn’t cowed by the throngs of pedestrians looking into their phones as they crossed streets, unaware of the world around them.<br />
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The bus stopped at 27th Street and 7th Avenue, right by the Fashion Institute of Technology. Banners hanging in its windows advertised an exhibition of the work of Norman Norell. I made a mental note to see it.<br />
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After grabbing my bag from the bowels of the bus, I took the subway downtown to my home for the next few days, the <a href="http://www.wnewyorkdowntown.com/" target="_blank">W Downtown</a>.<br />
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My twenty-second floor room wasn’t a whole lot bigger than a king-sized bed, but the bathroom was generously proportioned. My father used to say of campers and boats, “sleeps four, screws eight”. If he’d been speaking about my hotel room he’d have said sleeps two, shits four.<br />
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From my west facing window, I could see a sliver of the Hudson River. I also had a view of Battery Park City and Cass Gilbert’s pre-Woolworth West Street Building. I’ve had worse views.<br />
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The <a href="https://www.archdaily.com/783965/world-trade-center-transportation-hub-santiago-calatrava" target="_blank">WTC Transportation Hub</a>, designed by Santiago Calatrava is just a block from the hotel. I've never caught a train there, but it's a great place to take a photo. <br />
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Bright and early Friday morning I went out for my obligatory shoe shine. It’s one of my New York rituals. Some folks go to Broadway shows; I get a shoe shine. There’s something very relaxing about sitting in the chair while, for a few bucks, the shoeshine person makes my shoes look better than brand new. A shoeshine has to be the best deal in the city.<br />
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My go-to is <a href="https://www.yelp.com/biz/stanleys-cobbler-shop-church-new-york" target="_blank">Stanley’s</a>, on Church St. in the Financial District. Stanley’s was established in 1957, just like me. It’s the kind of place where the Mets are always on TV, there’s always a <i>New York Post</i> to read, and I can scarcely understand what the employees say.<br />
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I usually look at a Playboy someone left behind. Yes, I’m all about the articles. Every year, I think, “Oh, they still print this?” The party jokes aren’t nearly as funny as I thought they were when I was in junior high.<br />
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After my shoeshine, I dodged raindrops and the going out of business sale at Shoegasm and headed over to the Whitney Museum of American Art to see the exhibition <a href="https://whitney.org/Exhibitions/GrantWood" target="_blank"><i>Grant Wood: American Gothic and Other Fables</i></a>. He's not to everyone's taste, but I'm glad he may be getting his <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/437922/why-most-people-dont-get-grant-wood/" target="_blank">fifteen minutes of fame</a>. <br />
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Lots of his paintings have been reproduced in American history texts over the years, so I was expecting to see some familiar stuff. <br />
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Since I’d bought a ticket online I was able to skip the line of New Yorkers, all dressed in black. I was the only passenger in the elevator where the elevator operator called me “young man”. A modern building with elevator operator? What’s up with that?!<br />
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I didn’t know, that Wood, in the Arts and Crafts tradition, had tried his hand at metalwork, glass, and fiber arts before landing for good on painting. He designed a corncob chandelier for the Montrose Hotel in Cedar Rapids.<br />
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One of his early works, <i>The Adoration of the Home</i>, commissioned by a realtor, made me chuckle.<br />
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A guard remarked that I was the only person in the room with <i>American Gothic</i>. I resisted the urge to take a selfie.<br />
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The text boxes told me that Wood was a repressed homosexual, though they skipped the opportunity to reference say that his drawings foreshadowed the work of Tom of Finland.<br />
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Grant Wood died of pancreatic cancer in 1942, at age 51. I hear pancreatic cancer is a bad way to go.<br />
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After Grant Wood, I zipped through some of the other galleries. I enjoyed the <a href="https://whitney.org/Exhibitions/AnIncompleteHistoryOfProtest" target="_blank">art relating to protest movements</a>, but <a href="https://whitney.org/Exhibitions/ZoeLeonard" target="_blank">the show on Zoe Leonard</a> was lost on me. One of her pieces was a big collection of suitcases, one for each year of her life. Oh, she has baggage, I get it.<br />
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There was the requisite amount of American Gothic kitsch in the museum shop, including a portrait bust rendered in Lego blocks. Its price was available on request (member discount: 10%) which is another way of saying “You don’t want to know”.<br />
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After getting my fill of The Whitney, I took a walk up the <a href="http://www.thehighline.org/" target="_blank">High Line</a> to 245 Tenth Avenue, home of the <a href="http://www.yossimilo.com/" target="_blank">Yossi Milo Gallery</a>. Although the rain had stopped, it was still too cold for anything other than a brisk walk. Judging from the snippets of conversation I heard as people walked buy, most of the people on the High Line that morning were tourists from other countries. Perhaps the High Line has turned into one of those things that real New Yorkers don’t do, like the Statue of Liberty?<br />
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I enjoyed the few guys here and there who seemed to be getting photographed for their SCRUFF profiles.<br />
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I hadn’t heard of either the Yossi Milo Gallery or the photographer Markus Brunetti until shortly before my trip. Thanks to a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/04/arts/design/markus-brunetti-review-yossi-milo-gallery.html" target="_blank">front page review in the New York Times</a>, I was now in the know. Brunetti shoots photos of European churches in astonishing detail.<br />
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He takes thousands of digital photos and then somehow melds them together into one super high res image. The images are large—the review said one was 10 feet tall. The detail was so fine that you could see a pigeon sitting high on the façade of one of the cathedrals, just waiting to take a crap on a sculpture of St. Swithin.<br />
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The show wasn’t very big but the work is amazing. In fact, I could get into having one of those images in my house. Alas, as J.P. Morgan said about the cost of a yacht, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. I didn’t ask.<br />
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Since I was in the neighborhood, the next stop was that Fashion Institute of Technology exhibition on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Norell" target="_blank">Norman Norell</a>.<br />
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I’d not heard of him, but he was a big deal as a women’s clothing designer in the 1950s and 60s. He died in 1972, on the eve of an exhibition of his work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.<br />
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According to Wiki, Norell, born in Indiana as Norman David Levinson, was “sickly” as a child. He loved the theatre and moved to New York City as soon as he could. Sometime after arriving in New York, he stopped being Norman David Levinson and “adopted the more <i>soigné</i> moniker” Norman Norell. My guess is that he was an unrepressed homosexual. It’s hard to be repressed and have a <i>soigné</i> moniker at same time.<br />
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I don’t know much about fashion, but I did learn that Norell was a great at a Pilgrim collar. Actually, I didn't know that there was a thing called the pilgrim collar. The secret is in the interfacing, whatever that is.<br />
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The mermaid dress, that was one of his successes too. Don’t quote me on this, but a mermaid dress might be something made from jersey and covered in sequins. Then again, it might be something else entirely; the room was pretty dark and the evening gown competition was never one of my better events.<br />
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After a quick bite of lunch, it was time to head up to Grant’s Tomb. <br />
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Yes, I know you’re asking the question. Who goes to New York City and goes to Grant’s Tomb? <br />
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No one. <br />
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However, I’d just finished the new <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/10/books/review-grant-biography-ron-chernow.html" target="_blank">U.S. Grant bio written by Ron Chernow</a> and so it seemed like the right thing to do. Officially known as the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/gegr/index.htm" target="_blank">General Grant National Memorial</a>, it’s the biggest mausoleum in America. It houses the earthly remains of both U.S. Grant and his wife Julia Dent Grant—who, interestingly enough, became a friend of Mrs. Jefferson Davis when they were both widows in New York. <br />
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There were a handful of other visitors there when I was there. And I do mean a handful—there weren’t more than five of us at any one time. They’d probably read the Chernow book too. Not all that long ago, the place was in a terrible state—think Detroit ruins porn on the Hudson—but it looks pretty good today. <br />
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Getting to the memorial is half the fun—it’s a long ride on the #1 train—and then quite a walk from the station. Even so, you should go once, just to say thanks to a real American hero who, if not forgotten, has certainly fallen precipitously in the public’s esteem.<br />
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It's a huge thing, but then, at his death, US Grant was as big as Obama, both the Bushes and Carter combined. And marking death with a big something was hot in the 19th century. Napoleon and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Memorial" target="_blank">Prince Albert</a> are not exactly wilting violets in the memorial department.<br />
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Right after Grant’s Tomb, I walked across the street to <a href="https://www.trcnyc.org/" target="_blank">Riverside Church</a>, constructed in the late 1920s through the generosity of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. If Gothic churches are your thing, you’ll love it. It’s stunning. There was a choir of young adults making a joyful noise to The Lord. It sounded lovely. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay long since I wanted to go back downtown to see a show at the <a href="https://www.icp.org/" target="_blank">International Center for Photography</a>.<br />
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The show was <a href="https://www.icp.org/exhibitions/then-they-came-for-me-incarceration-of-japanese-americans-during-world-war-ii" target="_blank"><i>Then They Came for Me: Incarceration of Japanese Americans During World War II</i></a>.<br />
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In early 1942, shortly after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt signed an executive order requiring Americans of Japanese ancestry living in the western states be relocated to internment camps.<br />
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Though today it seems inconceivably racist, Roosevelt’s decision was later backed by the U.S. Supreme Court in <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korematsu_v._United_States" target="_blank">Korematsu v. US</a>. </i><br />
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Approximately 120,000 US citizens and resident aliens were uprooted from their homes and businesses and forced to move into camps located in remote parts of the west. While this is a shameful episode in American history, no one should confuse the camps with Japanese or German concentration camps. No one was gassed, there were no crazy medical experiments performed on inmates, and prisoners were not forced to build a railroad through the jungle, as in <i><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bridge_on_the_River_Kwai" target="_blank">The Bridge on the River Kwai</a></span>. </i><br />
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The exhibit documented the lives of the camp residents from FDR’s issuance of Order 9066 until late in the war when the “threat” had passed and the camps were closed. Some of the photos are by famous photographers like Dorothea Lange and Ansel Adams, while others were shot by unknowns (at least to me). It’s quite moving.<br />
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As I checked out the exhibits, they reminded me of the only time I remember my father writing his congressman.<br />
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The Federal government was considering giving financial settlements to Japanese Americans whose lives had been uprooted by internment. As you would expect from someone whose foreign policy views were best expressed by the maxim, “the only good German is a dead German”, he was against it. He pointed out to Rep. William F. Clinger that his high school classmate who went down with the <i>USS Arizona </i>at Pearl Harbor did not receive a settlement from the Japanese government. <br />
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In 1990, after action by Presidents Reagan and George H. W. Bush (and my father’s death) camp survivors began to receive redress payments of $20,000 to each surviving internee.<br />
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Run, do not walk, to see this exhibition. Both the photos and the stories they tell are amazing.<br />
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Friday evening, I tried out reflexology and so, Saturday morning, with my qi reinvigorated, refurbished, and rearranged, I was ready for an early morning at the <a href="https://www.nyhistory.org/" target="_blank">New-York Historical Society.</a><br />
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I went to see Pulitzer Prize winning historian <a href="https://www.nyhistory.org/programs/presidents-thomas-jefferson-monticello-versailles" target="_blank">Annette Gordon-Reed and Carol Berkin</a> “explore the complex legacy of Thomas Jefferson”, focusing on his pre-Presidential career. At $48 a head, this was not going to threaten a shoeshine as the best deal in the city.<br />
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My first impression was that the two presenters didn’t look much like their photos. I guess this phenomenon is not limited to realtors or guys on Grindr. Instead of a formal lecture, the two historians chatted back and forth, as if it were a talk show. Ms. Berkin played the part of Jimmy Fallon, and Ms. Gordon-Reed was the big star with a bad hangover promoting her latest movie. After the talk I went to the gift shop and bought Ms. Gordon-Reed’s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Most-Blessed-Patriarchs-Jefferson-Imagination/dp/1631492519" target="_blank">new book</a> so that I could have it signed.<br />
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Signed book in hand—even at the New-York Historical Society the line to have a book signed by a historian isn’t very long— I did the jiffy tour of the other temporary exhibits.<br />
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One was on Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King and the parallels in the last years of their careers. The second covered the use of migratory bird feathers in fashion in the 19th c. Creepy stuff.<br />
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As I tried to go into marquee exhibit on the Vietnam War, a guard stopped me and told me that I needed to show my admission sticker. I explained that I’d paid for the talk and so didn’t have one.<br />
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She directed me back to the admission desk where they wanted me to fork over another $21, after my $48 lecture ticket and buying the book at retail. Yeah, no thanks.<br />
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I got mad and maybe a little even with a bad review on Google.<br />
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There was just time to walk through Central Park (something I’d never done) to meet tour guide Deborah Zelcer for her tour <i>Art Wars! The Founding of the Met, MOMA, and the Whitney, (and What Each Will Argue Is Art)</i>. Not exactly a catchy title, but it still sounded like an interesting tour. <br />
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I learned about Ms. Zelcer and her business <a href="http://www.prowlernyc.com/home.html" target="_blank">Prowler NYC Tours</a> by listening to the Bowery Boys podcast. <a href="http://www.boweryboyshistory.com/" target="_blank">The Bowery Boys</a> (Greg Young and Tom Meyers) talk—in an informal and engaging way—about the history of New York City. Ms. Zelcer was a guest expert on one of the episodes I’d heard.<br />
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We met on the street corner across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was skeptical at first. It was cold. It was windy. I’d already walked I don’t know how far, but it sure felt like far enough. I hadn’t had any lunch. But once the tour started, I was all in.<br />
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Deborah has an engaging personality and stage presence out the ying-yang. She was a true New Yorker when it came to dealing with wayward bicyclists, trucks, and crazy people, all of which New York has in abundance. They didn’t deter her in the slightest.<br />
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We went from the Met to the somewhat defunct <a href="https://www.nationalacademy.org/" target="_blank">National Academy of Design</a> to the <a href="https://www.guggenheim.org/" target="_blank">Guggenheim</a> via Jackie O’s old apartment building. After the Guggenheim we went by Ronald Lauder’s <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">Neue Galerie</a>, ending up at the <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/visit/met-breuer" target="_blank">Met Breuer</a>. Ms. Zelcer explained how the design of each building reflected on the movers and shakers who put them up. Her tour navigated that middle spot in a Venn Diagram of the things of interest to historians/architects and things of interest to the wider public.<br />
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It would have been nice if we could have included <a href="https://www.frick.org/" target="_blank">The Frick Collection</a> and perhaps even the <a href="http://www.mcny.org/" target="_blank">Museum of the City of New York</a> in the outing, but I think Ms Z. believed in the show business adage, ‘always leave them wanting more”. I tried to tip her but she said that a good review was better. The next time you’re in New York, go on one of her tours—she offers a bunch. She was great.<br />
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After the tour made haste to the <a href="https://www.downtonexhibition.com/" target="_blank">Downton Abbey costume show</a>. It’s quite amazing that several years after the show was on TV, an exhibit of costumes and whatnot (more costumes than whatnot) is still packing them in. Grant’s Tomb would be astonished if it had as many people in a day as I saw at the Downton Abbey show in an hour. The costumes were great, but since I’d learned all about Pilgrim collars and mermaid dresses, I was expecting technical details about silhouette, interfacing, plackets and all that. Uh, no. But hey, I saw Lady Mary’s basic black cocktail dress. That thing was tiny. She apparently did not eat.<br />
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Saturday evening was set aside for the traditional (at least for my friends C. and D.) dinner at one of Manhattan’s divey-est of dive bars, <a href="http://www.earinn.com/" target="_blank">The Ear Inn</a>. It’s two small rooms crammed with twenty to seventy somethings trying to be heard over the din created by twenty to seventy somethings who’ve had some cheap (by New York standards anyway) drinks. My friend Molly told me that a friend of hers (a jazz trumpeter) is in the band that plays there on Sunday nights. It would be the perfect place to take a date that you don’t want to talk to, hear, or spend much money on.<br />
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Sunday meant taking the train back to central Pennsylvania. I had about an hour’s wait in Penn Station since there was some sort of mechanical problem with the train, but once we boarded it was a pleasant trip. At first, you look out at the back of every toxic waste dump and scrap metal yard in North Jersey, but soon enough, you’re looking at the back of the never going to be gentrified parts of Philadelphia.<br />
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Shortly after we left Paoli, there was an announcement over the PA asking any doctors or nurses on the train to come to the back of the train. They didn’t ask for anyone who had experience with insurance forms, so there wasn’t anything I could do to help. Then the train made an unscheduled stop in Exton. Obviously, something was going on.<br />
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When I got off the train in Lewistown, the conductor said that someone had a heroin overdose and had to be taken off the train in Exton.<br />
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Yikes. I thought that only happened on the Megabus!Rick Bryanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14330925995132208687noreply@blogger.com1