A bit more elaboration about what happened in Vegas.
I met someone--or, to be more accurate, rediscovered an old friend.
And fell in love.
But there's a problem. My oldest friend in the world is bitterly upset about this right now, and it's breaking my heart. I never thought it would be possible to be so happy and so sad at the same time. So let me 'splain. No, is too much. Let me sum up.
I've known him for fifteen years, since college, and we've been great friends ever since. We made arrangements for me to visit him in San Diego, and then when he found out he would be in Vegas for a convention, I scheduled the first part of my trip so that we could meet up in Vegas on those dates and drive back to San Diego together. It occurred to me somewhere mid-trip that this would be the first time he and I had been single at the same time, and part of my brain wondered what would happen and what that would be like, but I never seriously entertained the idea of us getting together. We'd been friends for too long.
Until he walked back into the hotel room on Saturday after T left, and the penny dropped. Mutually. There's a scene in "Sex in the City" where Miranda is bitching to Carrie about her ongoing drama with Steve, and she says that she always hoped that one day, all her bullshit would fall away and she would just know. I never thought it was possible to just know, and that my usual anxious bullshit would magically disappear, but it seems I've been (happily) proven wrong.
Those of you that know me, know that when my last serious relationship ended, it almost killed me. My heart was pulverized and what little was left was buried so deep I was sure it would never see the light of day again. I didn't want to feel anything, for fear of going through something like that again, and then one day I realized I hadn't felt anything for so long that I was pretty sure my heart was dead. And then--la!--there it was, hiding in a Vegas hotel room.
Now I realize this presents logistical difficulties, not least of which is that he and I live on opposite coasts and I have sworn never to move for love again. But I can deal with that. What I can't deal with is my dearest friend in the world feeling betrayed by this. I knew she had a crush on him, but I would never intentionally sabotage her wishes. If this had been merely a hot vacation fling, I would have left him firmly in the Land of What Could Have Been and we could have had a nice giggle about it later. But it was so much more than that, right from the beginning, and I wanted her to be happy for me. For us. Especially since she knew how hurt I was last time out, how I despaired of ever finding happiness with a man again, how I secretly feared that I was somehow broken.
Well. Maybe I am broken, still. I'm heartsore over my friend's anger and I don't know what to do about it. But somehow I'm still happier than I've been in a very long time.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
More Utah
Southeastern Utah is like Mars. Nothing but rocks and dirt and completely remote, an alien landscape if I ever saw one. The northern part of the state feels familiar--giant pointy mountain ranges, grassy meadows, green forests. Southwestern Utah is somewhere between the two. Rocky, but green at the same time.
We drove down I-15 from Salt Lake City to the bottom of the state--which, p.s., is one of the prettiest and emptiest stretches of interstate I've had the pleasure of driving on. Interstate driving is lovely when people can stay the hell out of my way. I've never seen so many RVs in my life. I always wondered where people with RVs drive those things, and now I know. They all go to Utah. Driving on all the twisty two-lane mountain roads would be a blast, with an empty highway and a high-powered, high-performance, low-slung automobile. Unfortunately, I'm driving them behind slow-moving big rigs and RVs in a P.O.S. rental car. I've nearly had a stroke several times. Road rage: it isn't pretty.
But I digress. We spent Thursday exploring Bryce Canyon National Park and Zion National Park, which contained far more greenery than the previous national parks. We also drove to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, which is more remote but much more impressive than the more touristy South Rim. I've been to both now. The South Rim has more stuff (restaurants, hotels, campgrounds, amenities) but the North Rim gives you a true sense of the width of the Grand Canyon. We saw it stretch for miles, past the horizon, and even though it was cloudy and trying to rain, it was still awe-inspiring. The drive is two hours of very remote two-lane roads, through a national forest, and there are only three hotels and two restaurants within an hour and ten minutes of the North Rim. Naturally, they're all booked 13 months in advance. But we managed to find dinner on the edge of a large meadow where wild bison were roaming, and where we learned of Michael Jackson's death. RIP, Micheal. Heaven needs more freaky people.
We found a hotel room back across the Utah border and drove to Vegas the next morning. Hello, civilization! I missed you. The first order of business was to clean off all the baked-on bug goo on the car. The next was to find a hot bath, a drink, and a civilized meal, in that order. We met up with another old and dear friend of mine, in town for a geekfest. We dined at Bouchon, my first Thomas Keller restaurant, on veal cheeks and sturgeon and mussels and pork shoulder with a lovely bottle of white burgundy. It almost made up for the fact that the hotel room offered far fewer amenities than the Motel 6, for about 30 times the price. The Motel 6 had a refrigerator, microwave, coffee maker, free breakfast, free wi-fi, and more cable channels. Vegas hotel rooms have none of those things, with about three free cable channels. Not even free wi-fi. So Vegas, thank you for the meal, but I'm done with you forevermore. I have standards, and one of them is free wi-fi.
We drove down I-15 from Salt Lake City to the bottom of the state--which, p.s., is one of the prettiest and emptiest stretches of interstate I've had the pleasure of driving on. Interstate driving is lovely when people can stay the hell out of my way. I've never seen so many RVs in my life. I always wondered where people with RVs drive those things, and now I know. They all go to Utah. Driving on all the twisty two-lane mountain roads would be a blast, with an empty highway and a high-powered, high-performance, low-slung automobile. Unfortunately, I'm driving them behind slow-moving big rigs and RVs in a P.O.S. rental car. I've nearly had a stroke several times. Road rage: it isn't pretty.
But I digress. We spent Thursday exploring Bryce Canyon National Park and Zion National Park, which contained far more greenery than the previous national parks. We also drove to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, which is more remote but much more impressive than the more touristy South Rim. I've been to both now. The South Rim has more stuff (restaurants, hotels, campgrounds, amenities) but the North Rim gives you a true sense of the width of the Grand Canyon. We saw it stretch for miles, past the horizon, and even though it was cloudy and trying to rain, it was still awe-inspiring. The drive is two hours of very remote two-lane roads, through a national forest, and there are only three hotels and two restaurants within an hour and ten minutes of the North Rim. Naturally, they're all booked 13 months in advance. But we managed to find dinner on the edge of a large meadow where wild bison were roaming, and where we learned of Michael Jackson's death. RIP, Micheal. Heaven needs more freaky people.
We found a hotel room back across the Utah border and drove to Vegas the next morning. Hello, civilization! I missed you. The first order of business was to clean off all the baked-on bug goo on the car. The next was to find a hot bath, a drink, and a civilized meal, in that order. We met up with another old and dear friend of mine, in town for a geekfest. We dined at Bouchon, my first Thomas Keller restaurant, on veal cheeks and sturgeon and mussels and pork shoulder with a lovely bottle of white burgundy. It almost made up for the fact that the hotel room offered far fewer amenities than the Motel 6, for about 30 times the price. The Motel 6 had a refrigerator, microwave, coffee maker, free breakfast, free wi-fi, and more cable channels. Vegas hotel rooms have none of those things, with about three free cable channels. Not even free wi-fi. So Vegas, thank you for the meal, but I'm done with you forevermore. I have standards, and one of them is free wi-fi.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Salt Lake City, UT
Salt Lake City is the cleanest city I've ever been in. No trash, no cigarette butts, no graffiti, no peeling paint, no dead plants. It looks brand new, as if it were some weird subdivision just built. And it's more evidence that Utah is the Land of Opposites; the Mormons are all shiny and happy and neat, and everyone that isn't a Mormon has neck tattoos and facial piercings. Apparently either you're a Mormon, or you're really not.
The Temple, of course, is Mormon ground central. I didn't storm the castle, but several overly friendly Mormons tried to convert me. All the shiny, happy people in their shiny, happy city freak me out. As a New Yorker, I require a little dirt and freakiness in my cities. Fortunately, T found a bar full of anti-Mormons. It was set in an old trolley, just outside a mall, and served only beer. In any other city, it would never have been acceptable, but in SLC it was actually pretty cool. We hung out with some very chill people (with neck tattoos), drank good beer, and managed to scam the hot bartender out of a souvenir mug. Who knew SLC had something approximately a cool nightlife?
The Temple, of course, is Mormon ground central. I didn't storm the castle, but several overly friendly Mormons tried to convert me. All the shiny, happy people in their shiny, happy city freak me out. As a New Yorker, I require a little dirt and freakiness in my cities. Fortunately, T found a bar full of anti-Mormons. It was set in an old trolley, just outside a mall, and served only beer. In any other city, it would never have been acceptable, but in SLC it was actually pretty cool. We hung out with some very chill people (with neck tattoos), drank good beer, and managed to scam the hot bartender out of a souvenir mug. Who knew SLC had something approximately a cool nightlife?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Utah
After one of my sister's multiple cross-country jaunts, she informed me that she and her husband were hoping to one day buy some land in Utah and live there, or retire there. To which my (predictable) response was, "UTAH? What the hell's in Utah?" She said, "It's pretty!" And I said, "It's UTAH."
Well, now I know. Utah actually is gorgeous. Once we left Monument Valley, the landscape kept changing so frequently we almost couldn't keep up. I didn't know there were so many different kinds and colors of rocks in the world, or that the landscape could change so quickly. We would literally round a corner and everything would look completely different, with no clue that it was getting ready to change. We climbed into mountain elevations and saw actual water, and trees, and a national forest, which was balm to our dusty, rocky souls. We even saw--well, I'm not sure if they were donkeys or mules or wild burros, but they were definitely one of the above.
We spent several hours oohing and aahing at the scenery before we got to Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park just outside Moab. I'm not even sure I can describe the parks. They were both like nothing I'd ever seen before. At several points we were pretty sure we were actually on Mars. But bless the National Park Service for putting in roads through the middle of the parks. That meant we could drive through them, stopping to take plenty of pictures along the way, and still see plenty of great stuff without having to hike out to it. We saw plenty of people hiking--and I'm sure they saw even more great stuff than we did from the car--but people who want to hike over bare rock in 100-degree sunshine are hardcore. More power to them. Maybe that means I'm lazy, but I'm okay with that.
But by the time we were almost done with Canyonlands, we were having scenery overload. There are only so many different varieties of rocks you can look at in one day before your brain shuts down and you think, "Oh goody. More rocks. Where are the damn trees?" We were having civilization withdrawal and needed some buildings stat, preferably of the restaurant/bar/hotel variety. Instead of camping, which was the original plan, we got a cheap motel room, where we saw our first transsexual of the road trip--in Utah!--and headed to Buck's Grill House in Moab, which was a blessed outpost of civilization. We sat in a green backyard (with trees!) and ate some of the best food I've had on this road trip--artichoke ceviche, pork jowl lettuce tacos, duck tamales, rabbit crepes--and in Utah! Who'da thunk it?
Today, thankfully, we're headed to Salt Lake City and more civilization. We plan to storm the Mormon Temple and demand they let women in.
Well, now I know. Utah actually is gorgeous. Once we left Monument Valley, the landscape kept changing so frequently we almost couldn't keep up. I didn't know there were so many different kinds and colors of rocks in the world, or that the landscape could change so quickly. We would literally round a corner and everything would look completely different, with no clue that it was getting ready to change. We climbed into mountain elevations and saw actual water, and trees, and a national forest, which was balm to our dusty, rocky souls. We even saw--well, I'm not sure if they were donkeys or mules or wild burros, but they were definitely one of the above.
We spent several hours oohing and aahing at the scenery before we got to Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park just outside Moab. I'm not even sure I can describe the parks. They were both like nothing I'd ever seen before. At several points we were pretty sure we were actually on Mars. But bless the National Park Service for putting in roads through the middle of the parks. That meant we could drive through them, stopping to take plenty of pictures along the way, and still see plenty of great stuff without having to hike out to it. We saw plenty of people hiking--and I'm sure they saw even more great stuff than we did from the car--but people who want to hike over bare rock in 100-degree sunshine are hardcore. More power to them. Maybe that means I'm lazy, but I'm okay with that.
But by the time we were almost done with Canyonlands, we were having scenery overload. There are only so many different varieties of rocks you can look at in one day before your brain shuts down and you think, "Oh goody. More rocks. Where are the damn trees?" We were having civilization withdrawal and needed some buildings stat, preferably of the restaurant/bar/hotel variety. Instead of camping, which was the original plan, we got a cheap motel room, where we saw our first transsexual of the road trip--in Utah!--and headed to Buck's Grill House in Moab, which was a blessed outpost of civilization. We sat in a green backyard (with trees!) and ate some of the best food I've had on this road trip--artichoke ceviche, pork jowl lettuce tacos, duck tamales, rabbit crepes--and in Utah! Who'da thunk it?
Today, thankfully, we're headed to Salt Lake City and more civilization. We plan to storm the Mormon Temple and demand they let women in.
I knew I should've taken that left turn at Albuquerque
It's great doing this thing by myself, but it's also great doing it with a friend. I picked up my friend T from the airport in Albuquerque in Sunday. She's flown out from NYC for the week to accompany me to Utah, the Grand Canyon and Vegas. The situation is rife with opportunity to get on each other's nerves, but so far it's been a blast. While my valuable passenger seat real estate has been usurped, I now have someone to hand me things from the backseat and be my co-navigator. And let me tell you, that car is now loaded for bear. Good thing I got upgraded to the midsize, because I'm not sure we could fit anything else in. My packing skills have been put to the test (and have still passed with flying colors, don't worry. I am the packing MASTER).
Sunday was a beautiful day for it, hot and dry and not a cloud in the sky. She needed it, coming from rain-soaked NYC. We wandered around Old Town Albuquerque for a while, but spent the rest of the day in the hotel room chilling. I had seen Petroglyph National Monument earlier in the day. Monday we got up early and drove to Four Corners and Monument Valley.
Now, I thought I grew up in the middle of nowhere. But I didn't know nothin' about the middle of nowhere. Four Corners and Monument Valley really are in the middle of nowhere. I have never been anywhere so remote. It's hard to believe we were still in the US, and even harder to believe that such touristy destinations would be completely off the map of civilization. And that there could be so much dirt, and so little green, and so much nothing anywhere.
Part of that is because both destinations are within tribal grounds and are run by the Navajo, not by the US government. The Navajo have no desire to build up the land, so between the time we left Shiprock, NM (which, trust me, would not in any other circumstances be considered civilization) and the time we hit Moah, UT, we didn't pass anything that could rightly be considered a town. Every once in a while there would be a gas station, but we would often drive for an hour or more between those, on two-lane highways mostly devoid of traffic. No RVs or tractor trailers. No restaurants or bars, no fast food, no banks, not even billboards. I wasn't aware there was any stretch of highway left in America that hadn't been blighted by McDonald's and the promise of more McDonald's, but I've now found several.
The great thing about being so remote is that I could drive completely unemcumbered. No one in front of me, no one behind me, and while the roads were terrible, the landscape changed often enough to keep us highly entertained. Four Corners is just that--the spot where Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico meet--and is essentially a medallion set into the middle of nothing. Dusty brown dirt, gravel, rocks and mountains. As we passed into Arizona and got closer to Monument Valley, the brown dirt and rocks changed to red dust and rocks. Which doesn't sound exciting, but coming from the green and lush East Coast, we felt like we were on Mars.
Admittedly, Monument Valley is pretty spectacular. And because it's on tribal lands, it's blessedly free of billboards, fast food restaurants, and tacky gift shops. Just desert and high, lonely rocks for as far as the eye can see. I kept feeling like I was in a movie, which is understandable, because the monuments and the road that leads up to them have been in so many. There's a hotel that overlooks the valley (called, appropriately enough, The View Hotel). Because Navajo land is technically a dry county, there was no alcohol to be had. It was a shame, because that view cried out for a great bar and a cold beer.
We stayed at a campground nearby (the only one), and while we had a great time, we decided the next morning that we'd seen and been covered in enough red dirt to last us the rest of our lives. Not only was Tameka the only black person in a 400-mile radius, we were the only Americans in the campgrounds. Everyone else was either French or German. It reminded me of that "Simpsons" episode in which Homer briefly turns his house into a hostel, and Bart's room gets filled with Germans complaining about how Americans don't appreciate their national park system.
So then we got up and drove to two national parks...
Sunday was a beautiful day for it, hot and dry and not a cloud in the sky. She needed it, coming from rain-soaked NYC. We wandered around Old Town Albuquerque for a while, but spent the rest of the day in the hotel room chilling. I had seen Petroglyph National Monument earlier in the day. Monday we got up early and drove to Four Corners and Monument Valley.
Now, I thought I grew up in the middle of nowhere. But I didn't know nothin' about the middle of nowhere. Four Corners and Monument Valley really are in the middle of nowhere. I have never been anywhere so remote. It's hard to believe we were still in the US, and even harder to believe that such touristy destinations would be completely off the map of civilization. And that there could be so much dirt, and so little green, and so much nothing anywhere.
Part of that is because both destinations are within tribal grounds and are run by the Navajo, not by the US government. The Navajo have no desire to build up the land, so between the time we left Shiprock, NM (which, trust me, would not in any other circumstances be considered civilization) and the time we hit Moah, UT, we didn't pass anything that could rightly be considered a town. Every once in a while there would be a gas station, but we would often drive for an hour or more between those, on two-lane highways mostly devoid of traffic. No RVs or tractor trailers. No restaurants or bars, no fast food, no banks, not even billboards. I wasn't aware there was any stretch of highway left in America that hadn't been blighted by McDonald's and the promise of more McDonald's, but I've now found several.
The great thing about being so remote is that I could drive completely unemcumbered. No one in front of me, no one behind me, and while the roads were terrible, the landscape changed often enough to keep us highly entertained. Four Corners is just that--the spot where Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico meet--and is essentially a medallion set into the middle of nothing. Dusty brown dirt, gravel, rocks and mountains. As we passed into Arizona and got closer to Monument Valley, the brown dirt and rocks changed to red dust and rocks. Which doesn't sound exciting, but coming from the green and lush East Coast, we felt like we were on Mars.
Admittedly, Monument Valley is pretty spectacular. And because it's on tribal lands, it's blessedly free of billboards, fast food restaurants, and tacky gift shops. Just desert and high, lonely rocks for as far as the eye can see. I kept feeling like I was in a movie, which is understandable, because the monuments and the road that leads up to them have been in so many. There's a hotel that overlooks the valley (called, appropriately enough, The View Hotel). Because Navajo land is technically a dry county, there was no alcohol to be had. It was a shame, because that view cried out for a great bar and a cold beer.
We stayed at a campground nearby (the only one), and while we had a great time, we decided the next morning that we'd seen and been covered in enough red dirt to last us the rest of our lives. Not only was Tameka the only black person in a 400-mile radius, we were the only Americans in the campgrounds. Everyone else was either French or German. It reminded me of that "Simpsons" episode in which Homer briefly turns his house into a hostel, and Bart's room gets filled with Germans complaining about how Americans don't appreciate their national park system.
So then we got up and drove to two national parks...
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Sante Fe, NM
Santa Fe, despite only having a population of 70,000-something, is a fun town to hang out in. A friend of mine from Columbia introduced me to some powerful New Mexican tequila, Navajo tacos (on fry bread instead of tacos), and the happening Santa Fe nightlife, which actually is pretty happening until it shuts down at 10 pm. Yesterday it rained all day; we managed to work in the farmer's market before the deluge began. We took in the new Jim Jarmusch movie and then decided to stay in and cook.
So I spent the evening hanging out with the resident artists of Santa Fe Art Institute, eating guacamole, buffalo burgers and key lime pie. In the process we depleted my wine reserves by approximately 1/3. An excellent time was had by all.
Today I say farewell to the Santa Fe International Hostel and head to Albuquerque, where the Utah portion of the adventure begins tomorrow. If my blogging is spotty/nonexistent next week, it's because I'm out in the canyon hinterlands with no wi-fi.
So I spent the evening hanging out with the resident artists of Santa Fe Art Institute, eating guacamole, buffalo burgers and key lime pie. In the process we depleted my wine reserves by approximately 1/3. An excellent time was had by all.
Today I say farewell to the Santa Fe International Hostel and head to Albuquerque, where the Utah portion of the adventure begins tomorrow. If my blogging is spotty/nonexistent next week, it's because I'm out in the canyon hinterlands with no wi-fi.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Taos, NM and Santa Fe, NM
I am amazed by how beautiful it is out here. All these years I was picturing dirt and cactus. Shows you what I know. Taos is at a high elevation, high enough for me to get a little woozy from the altitude while I walked around. It was actually chilly in the morning. The mountains encircle the entire town, 360 degrees. And while there are an awful lot of retired hippies around, and the entire town smells like incense, and I'm sure the winters there are fierce, I can definitely see the appeal of living there.
I went to the Taos Pueblos first thing this morning. The Pueblos are a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and have been continuously inhabited for over 1,000 years. It felt like the roof of the world--mountains on all sides, and no other signs of human habitation. Landscape changes seem to come very suddenly here--as I was descending the mountains, I rounded a corner, and suddenly the red rocky earth of the plateaus was below me. No transition between mountain pine and red earth: it was just there. I passed through several gorgeous little mountain towns, including Chimayo, before finally arriving in Santa Fe.
Santa Fe isn't quite as gorgeous as the higher elevations, but it's still plenty high, and still beautiful. The town feels small and comfy; none of the buildings are very tall (you can only build so high with adobe) and everyone is very friendly. Still plenty of retired hippies, too. I went to the Georgia O'Keefe Museum, and then found the Chuck Jones Art Gallery. I am now the proud (but poorer) owner of "Spear and Magic Helmet," a small oil painting Chuck Jones did of one of the stills from--you guessed it--"What's Opera, Doc."
I am deliriously happy.
I went to the Taos Pueblos first thing this morning. The Pueblos are a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and have been continuously inhabited for over 1,000 years. It felt like the roof of the world--mountains on all sides, and no other signs of human habitation. Landscape changes seem to come very suddenly here--as I was descending the mountains, I rounded a corner, and suddenly the red rocky earth of the plateaus was below me. No transition between mountain pine and red earth: it was just there. I passed through several gorgeous little mountain towns, including Chimayo, before finally arriving in Santa Fe.
Santa Fe isn't quite as gorgeous as the higher elevations, but it's still plenty high, and still beautiful. The town feels small and comfy; none of the buildings are very tall (you can only build so high with adobe) and everyone is very friendly. Still plenty of retired hippies, too. I went to the Georgia O'Keefe Museum, and then found the Chuck Jones Art Gallery. I am now the proud (but poorer) owner of "Spear and Magic Helmet," a small oil painting Chuck Jones did of one of the stills from--you guessed it--"What's Opera, Doc."
I am deliriously happy.
The West
The great thing about this road trip (well, one of them) is that I'm free to adjust the itinerary as I see fit. Yesterday morning I got up early and drove from Dallas to Oklahoma City, fully intending to spend the night there before heading to the Texas Panhandle.
And here are some words I'm sure you never thought you'd hear from me: Oklahoma was a lot prettier than I thought it would be. I guess I was picturing a dust bowl, you know, dirt and sky. But it reminded me of Virginia and West Virginia, in a way: very green, lots of trees, lots of rolling hills and rocky outcroppings. And it was windy. I went straight to the Oklahoma City Memorial, commemorating the bombing in 1995. It was very moving and quite tastefully done; and again, WHY do we not yet have a similar 9/11 memorial? It's time.
But I couldn't see anything else in Oklahoma City worth staying for. And the open road was calling me. I don't know why, but I just felt like driving yesterday. So I did. I crossed Oklahoma into the Texas Panhandle, and shortly after the border, every cliche I ever heard about The West came true.
The land suddenly and dramatically flattened out, all the trees disappeared, and the sky grew exponentially. I'd always heard that the sky is bigger out west, that the first time you see the western sky it just seems enormous. I always thought, "well, that's dumb. The sky is big to begin with. How much bigger could it be?" But when the sky is completely unbroken in all directions, with no mountains or hills or buildings or trees, when the tallest thing in the landscape is the 18-wheeler in front of you...well, the sky really is ginormous. I was totally overwhelmed. I've never seen so much sky, or felt so small against it, or been able to track so many miles-tall cloud formations. Part of me wanted to stop right there and wait til nightfall, just to see how many stars would come out.
But I kept driving. Yesterday was the first really balls-out extended stretch of driving I've done; I think I spent a total of 11 or 12 hours in the car. It was strangely liberating. Maybe my driving muscles are finally kicking in, maybe it was the dramatic changes in scenery, maybe I was just properly caffeinated, but I was happy. All the minor daily worries dropped away. A lot of them have already been dropping away--it's amazing how much better life is when you don't have to wake up to an alarm, or go to a job you hate, or wear a bra, or think about your 401k--but for the first time yesterday, I really felt free. Perhaps I missed my calling. Perhaps I should have been a long-haul truck driver.
There wasn't anything worth stopping for in Amarillo, either, so I cranked up the 80s XM radio and continued. As I crossed the Texas-New Mexico border, the landscape changed dramatically once again. All the plains grass disappeared, to be replaced by some stunted shrubbery ("Shrubbery!") and the limitless horizon was now hemmed in by giant rocky plateaus. The rock and red earth was clearly visible in all directions. I felt like I'd once again crossed into The West, a different West. Lower New Mexico, so far as I can tell, is completely uninhabited. I didn't see signs of civilization, barring the occasional gas station, until I hit Las Vegas, NM. I had considered going straight into Santa Fe, but I decided instead to take the High Road into Taos, NM, instead.
Taos is a ski resort in the winter, but for some reason I'd failed to equate ski resort with elevation. The closer I got to Las Vegas, the more rocky plateaus appeared. As I headed north from there, the rocks and dirt and shrubbery changed into--well, home. Great, soaring, pointy mountains, twisty 35-mph mountain roads, rocky outcroppings, three-story-tall pine forests, and limitless vistas every time I rounded a corner. It was a long drive, but I felt a strong sense of accomplishment when I finally hit Taos.
So, to recap: Dallas to Taos. That's three states, close to 1,000 miles, one time change. I ate road food: beef jerky, dried strawberries, croissants, veggie chips, baby carrots, gummy bears. I took fifty or sixty pictures, stopped to pee seven times, and decided that Van Halen is the best music to listen through when driving through the Panhandle.
I feel freer and happier than I can remember being in a long time. I think I see an epiphany coming.
At one point I stopped at a random truck stop, and got a corn dog. I was clearly the only person in the truck stop that had showered in the past week. I walked back out to my car and realized I could drive anywhere I wanted, and do anything I wanted.
That corn dog tasted like grease, and freedom.
Best corn dog ever.
And here are some words I'm sure you never thought you'd hear from me: Oklahoma was a lot prettier than I thought it would be. I guess I was picturing a dust bowl, you know, dirt and sky. But it reminded me of Virginia and West Virginia, in a way: very green, lots of trees, lots of rolling hills and rocky outcroppings. And it was windy. I went straight to the Oklahoma City Memorial, commemorating the bombing in 1995. It was very moving and quite tastefully done; and again, WHY do we not yet have a similar 9/11 memorial? It's time.
But I couldn't see anything else in Oklahoma City worth staying for. And the open road was calling me. I don't know why, but I just felt like driving yesterday. So I did. I crossed Oklahoma into the Texas Panhandle, and shortly after the border, every cliche I ever heard about The West came true.
The land suddenly and dramatically flattened out, all the trees disappeared, and the sky grew exponentially. I'd always heard that the sky is bigger out west, that the first time you see the western sky it just seems enormous. I always thought, "well, that's dumb. The sky is big to begin with. How much bigger could it be?" But when the sky is completely unbroken in all directions, with no mountains or hills or buildings or trees, when the tallest thing in the landscape is the 18-wheeler in front of you...well, the sky really is ginormous. I was totally overwhelmed. I've never seen so much sky, or felt so small against it, or been able to track so many miles-tall cloud formations. Part of me wanted to stop right there and wait til nightfall, just to see how many stars would come out.
But I kept driving. Yesterday was the first really balls-out extended stretch of driving I've done; I think I spent a total of 11 or 12 hours in the car. It was strangely liberating. Maybe my driving muscles are finally kicking in, maybe it was the dramatic changes in scenery, maybe I was just properly caffeinated, but I was happy. All the minor daily worries dropped away. A lot of them have already been dropping away--it's amazing how much better life is when you don't have to wake up to an alarm, or go to a job you hate, or wear a bra, or think about your 401k--but for the first time yesterday, I really felt free. Perhaps I missed my calling. Perhaps I should have been a long-haul truck driver.
There wasn't anything worth stopping for in Amarillo, either, so I cranked up the 80s XM radio and continued. As I crossed the Texas-New Mexico border, the landscape changed dramatically once again. All the plains grass disappeared, to be replaced by some stunted shrubbery ("Shrubbery!") and the limitless horizon was now hemmed in by giant rocky plateaus. The rock and red earth was clearly visible in all directions. I felt like I'd once again crossed into The West, a different West. Lower New Mexico, so far as I can tell, is completely uninhabited. I didn't see signs of civilization, barring the occasional gas station, until I hit Las Vegas, NM. I had considered going straight into Santa Fe, but I decided instead to take the High Road into Taos, NM, instead.
Taos is a ski resort in the winter, but for some reason I'd failed to equate ski resort with elevation. The closer I got to Las Vegas, the more rocky plateaus appeared. As I headed north from there, the rocks and dirt and shrubbery changed into--well, home. Great, soaring, pointy mountains, twisty 35-mph mountain roads, rocky outcroppings, three-story-tall pine forests, and limitless vistas every time I rounded a corner. It was a long drive, but I felt a strong sense of accomplishment when I finally hit Taos.
So, to recap: Dallas to Taos. That's three states, close to 1,000 miles, one time change. I ate road food: beef jerky, dried strawberries, croissants, veggie chips, baby carrots, gummy bears. I took fifty or sixty pictures, stopped to pee seven times, and decided that Van Halen is the best music to listen through when driving through the Panhandle.
I feel freer and happier than I can remember being in a long time. I think I see an epiphany coming.
At one point I stopped at a random truck stop, and got a corn dog. I was clearly the only person in the truck stop that had showered in the past week. I walked back out to my car and realized I could drive anywhere I wanted, and do anything I wanted.
That corn dog tasted like grease, and freedom.
Best corn dog ever.
Dallas, TX
First: Fort Worth = Fort Worthless.
I drove through the Stockyards, and that was the biggest collection of fake cowboy/faux Western/tourist trap crap I have ever seen. It made me ashamed to be a tourist. So I decided to drive through downtown, instead. Sorry, Fort Worthians: I didn't see a single thing worth stopping for. I didn't even stay for Billy Bob's (the world's largest honky-tonk!). Dallas was classier, but very much a business center. There wasn't much atmosphere to the city.
My only real item on the Dallas itinerary was the Sixth Floor Museum--you know, in the book depository. It was a bit surreal. It was mostly parents and their small to preteen children. The parents looked stricken, grave. The kids looked bored. I kept picturing the 9/11 museum in twenty years (which, p.s., why do we not have one yet?), in which the parents are reliving that horrible day and crying, while the kids are just wandering around, looking bored and whining about the gift store.
I walked around downtown for a bit (see earlier comment about lack of atmosphere) and found myself at the Swirll winery and wine bar. I ended up chatting with the ladies there while I sampled various Texas wines (Becker Viognier = yum) and their own signature blends. I bought a bottle of German Muller-Thurgau-type white, and got a customized label put on it, commemorating the road trip. Now I have a great bottle for a special occasion.
I took another cooking class at Central Market, as well. As before, the chefs weren't as entertaining or informative as I would have liked, but the menu was much more interesting. We had fried okra salad, watermelon gazpacho with blackened shrimp, a balsamic glazed quail with jalapeno pesto on corn-tomato-cilantro quinoa, seared bison flank with green beans on beet mashed potatoes, and a canteloupe granita. Yum. The beet mashed potatoes were lovely--a deep, vibrant shade of pink, almost fuschia, but they didn't taste like beets at all. Fun with food.
I drove through the Stockyards, and that was the biggest collection of fake cowboy/faux Western/tourist trap crap I have ever seen. It made me ashamed to be a tourist. So I decided to drive through downtown, instead. Sorry, Fort Worthians: I didn't see a single thing worth stopping for. I didn't even stay for Billy Bob's (the world's largest honky-tonk!). Dallas was classier, but very much a business center. There wasn't much atmosphere to the city.
My only real item on the Dallas itinerary was the Sixth Floor Museum--you know, in the book depository. It was a bit surreal. It was mostly parents and their small to preteen children. The parents looked stricken, grave. The kids looked bored. I kept picturing the 9/11 museum in twenty years (which, p.s., why do we not have one yet?), in which the parents are reliving that horrible day and crying, while the kids are just wandering around, looking bored and whining about the gift store.
I walked around downtown for a bit (see earlier comment about lack of atmosphere) and found myself at the Swirll winery and wine bar. I ended up chatting with the ladies there while I sampled various Texas wines (Becker Viognier = yum) and their own signature blends. I bought a bottle of German Muller-Thurgau-type white, and got a customized label put on it, commemorating the road trip. Now I have a great bottle for a special occasion.
I took another cooking class at Central Market, as well. As before, the chefs weren't as entertaining or informative as I would have liked, but the menu was much more interesting. We had fried okra salad, watermelon gazpacho with blackened shrimp, a balsamic glazed quail with jalapeno pesto on corn-tomato-cilantro quinoa, seared bison flank with green beans on beet mashed potatoes, and a canteloupe granita. Yum. The beet mashed potatoes were lovely--a deep, vibrant shade of pink, almost fuschia, but they didn't taste like beets at all. Fun with food.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Austin, TX
Update: Texas is still hot. And even with the twice-daily slathering of SPF 45 and a great big hat, I haven't gotten so much sun in years. Each day my sightseeing has had to be cut short about 3 pm so that I could get in a cold shower and a nap before tackling the nightlife.
Day 1: En route from Houston to Austin, I passed through the little town of Luling, TX. My grandmother is from there, so I stopped to take a couple of pictures. So far as I can tell, it hasn't changed since my grandmother was there.
First, brunch at Z's, and some really great huevos rancheros. I went to UT Austin, walked around campus a bit, and made it as far as the Texas State History Museum. Not something I would usually go into, but hey, it was air-conditioned. UT Austin (besides being way cool) is most famous for its bell tower--Charles Whitman climbed up there in 1966 and opened fire on the campus, thereby originating the term "tower killer." I meant to explore downtown and the shops and bars, but I was hot. A cold shower/nap awaited. My host, and friend from Columbia, took me out for burritos and margaritas. First, though, we stopped off at Cork & Co, where I had a lovely 2006 Joullian Chardonnay, and then took in the nightly bat show at Congress Avenue bridge. The bats have become a symbol of Austin; there's a huge colony that nests under the bridge, and they exit each night around dusk. The whole bridge was lined with people waiting to see them. It wasn't quite the mass exodus I had expected--more like a steady stream of bats--but it was still cool. Even though bats smell. Yuck.
Day 2: San Antonio. It's about an hour's drive from Austin, so I headed down first thing in the morning to check it out. I have to say there wasn't much to recommend it. It was flat, hot, and dusty, and I couldn't see any signs of culture or nightlife, besides a few signs for the Spurs. I saw the Alamo, of course; I thought what everyone thinks, which is, "I thought it would be bigger." I also couldn't help thinking about Ozzy Osbourne's "incident" there in 1982; he got liquored up after a concert, wandered down to the Alamo in his wife's clothing, and pissed all over the side. Texans hold the Alamo as a shrine, so naturally they didn't take kindly to Ozzy expectorating on it. He got kicked out of the state of Texas and had to pay a big fine. Now there's a group of religious nuts on the internet that claim that ever since that incident, the numbers 666 have been slowly appearing on the side wall of the Alamo.
Since I could only entertain myself with Ozzy and the devil for so long, I then drove through the Texas Hill Country, famous for its wineries. The Hill Country is aptly named; I hadn't seen any sort of natural elevation since I left Georgia, and it's surprisingly green. But even the bright greens get washed out in the intense, 100-degree, no-clouds sun. It was a pretty drive, and I ended up in Fredericksburg, de facto capitol of the Hill Country. The main drag of the town is lined with cute little shops, food stores, beer gardens, and restaurants, and even a couple of wineries, but there were far too many old, slow tourists buying ticky-tacky crap on the sidewalks for my taste. Why people find it necessary to travel all that way to buy a pressed-tin belt buckle that says, "My grandpa went to Texas and all I got was this lousy belt buckle," is beyond me. I managed to find a good bottle of merlot at the Fredericksburg Winery, got a fresh peach milkshake at a sidewalk stand (despite the old people counting the M&Ms on their sundaes to make sure they got the "right" amount), and headed back to Austin for my daily cold shower/nap. That night we headed to Malaga for tapas and a drink called the Barton Springs, which is like a mojito, only with cilantro and gin. We met up with one of her friends, and then two other people she knew showed up and joined our table. Tapas all around! Good times.
Day 3: Rest. I spent most of yesterday being decidedly non-productive. My rental car was due for an oil change, so I swapped it out for a happily bigger and better model. Did some laundry, watched some TV. Relaxed. We then took in a movie at the Alamo Drafthouse, the greatest movie theatre in the history of the world. You can drink beer during the movie. Not only that, but you can get real food (salads, burgers, tacos, etc.), and get it delivered right to your seat while you watch the movie. They have quote-alongs, and sing-alongs, and Kung Fu Fridays, and...well, it made me want to move to Austin just to hang out there. I saw "Land of the Lost"; it was exactly what you'd expect from a Will Ferrell movie, but the best part was instead of playing boring movie theatre commercials before the movie, they ran old Will Ferrell "Saturday Night Live" clips and bits of old episodes of the original "Land of the Lost." Then we went to the Broken Spoke, a real live Texas honky-tonk, and drank Lone Star beer and discussed how hot it was.
Today: on to Dallas! Though Dallas is going to have to work hard to beat the coolness of Austin.
Day 1: En route from Houston to Austin, I passed through the little town of Luling, TX. My grandmother is from there, so I stopped to take a couple of pictures. So far as I can tell, it hasn't changed since my grandmother was there.
First, brunch at Z's, and some really great huevos rancheros. I went to UT Austin, walked around campus a bit, and made it as far as the Texas State History Museum. Not something I would usually go into, but hey, it was air-conditioned. UT Austin (besides being way cool) is most famous for its bell tower--Charles Whitman climbed up there in 1966 and opened fire on the campus, thereby originating the term "tower killer." I meant to explore downtown and the shops and bars, but I was hot. A cold shower/nap awaited. My host, and friend from Columbia, took me out for burritos and margaritas. First, though, we stopped off at Cork & Co, where I had a lovely 2006 Joullian Chardonnay, and then took in the nightly bat show at Congress Avenue bridge. The bats have become a symbol of Austin; there's a huge colony that nests under the bridge, and they exit each night around dusk. The whole bridge was lined with people waiting to see them. It wasn't quite the mass exodus I had expected--more like a steady stream of bats--but it was still cool. Even though bats smell. Yuck.
Day 2: San Antonio. It's about an hour's drive from Austin, so I headed down first thing in the morning to check it out. I have to say there wasn't much to recommend it. It was flat, hot, and dusty, and I couldn't see any signs of culture or nightlife, besides a few signs for the Spurs. I saw the Alamo, of course; I thought what everyone thinks, which is, "I thought it would be bigger." I also couldn't help thinking about Ozzy Osbourne's "incident" there in 1982; he got liquored up after a concert, wandered down to the Alamo in his wife's clothing, and pissed all over the side. Texans hold the Alamo as a shrine, so naturally they didn't take kindly to Ozzy expectorating on it. He got kicked out of the state of Texas and had to pay a big fine. Now there's a group of religious nuts on the internet that claim that ever since that incident, the numbers 666 have been slowly appearing on the side wall of the Alamo.
Since I could only entertain myself with Ozzy and the devil for so long, I then drove through the Texas Hill Country, famous for its wineries. The Hill Country is aptly named; I hadn't seen any sort of natural elevation since I left Georgia, and it's surprisingly green. But even the bright greens get washed out in the intense, 100-degree, no-clouds sun. It was a pretty drive, and I ended up in Fredericksburg, de facto capitol of the Hill Country. The main drag of the town is lined with cute little shops, food stores, beer gardens, and restaurants, and even a couple of wineries, but there were far too many old, slow tourists buying ticky-tacky crap on the sidewalks for my taste. Why people find it necessary to travel all that way to buy a pressed-tin belt buckle that says, "My grandpa went to Texas and all I got was this lousy belt buckle," is beyond me. I managed to find a good bottle of merlot at the Fredericksburg Winery, got a fresh peach milkshake at a sidewalk stand (despite the old people counting the M&Ms on their sundaes to make sure they got the "right" amount), and headed back to Austin for my daily cold shower/nap. That night we headed to Malaga for tapas and a drink called the Barton Springs, which is like a mojito, only with cilantro and gin. We met up with one of her friends, and then two other people she knew showed up and joined our table. Tapas all around! Good times.
Day 3: Rest. I spent most of yesterday being decidedly non-productive. My rental car was due for an oil change, so I swapped it out for a happily bigger and better model. Did some laundry, watched some TV. Relaxed. We then took in a movie at the Alamo Drafthouse, the greatest movie theatre in the history of the world. You can drink beer during the movie. Not only that, but you can get real food (salads, burgers, tacos, etc.), and get it delivered right to your seat while you watch the movie. They have quote-alongs, and sing-alongs, and Kung Fu Fridays, and...well, it made me want to move to Austin just to hang out there. I saw "Land of the Lost"; it was exactly what you'd expect from a Will Ferrell movie, but the best part was instead of playing boring movie theatre commercials before the movie, they ran old Will Ferrell "Saturday Night Live" clips and bits of old episodes of the original "Land of the Lost." Then we went to the Broken Spoke, a real live Texas honky-tonk, and drank Lone Star beer and discussed how hot it was.
Today: on to Dallas! Though Dallas is going to have to work hard to beat the coolness of Austin.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Houston, TX
Phew. Texas is HOT.
And I saw my first dead armadillo by the side of the road. Perhaps those two things are related.
I drove to Houston from Gulfport early yesterday morning, and let me tell you, Texas has some crappy roads. I-10 was under construction starting at the state line, extending all the way into Houston. And Houston, P.S., has more of a sprawl problem than Atlanta, although they've managed to make their tangle of interstates look prettier against a setting sun. Just past Beaumont, I passed the clean-up of what must have been a fairly major accident; there were cops, ambulances, and fire engines on the service road beside the interstate, and a Medi-vac was helicoptering in. The chopper was landing just as I passed by, which was pretty cool, except for the fact that my little rental P.O.S. car got nearly blown off the road. As it was I think I drifted suddenly about eight feet to the left.
I had lunch at Feast, a paean to all things pork. I had the pork rillettes and the pork cheek and dandelion green salad, which blessedly was more pork than salad. I came away experiencing what I'm convinced must be the greatest feeling in the world, short of orgasm--being stuffed full of pork. I went to the art museums, wandered around a bit, went into some shops, and then--THEN--I discovered Central Market.
I am in love with Central Market. It's like Trader Joe's, Fairway, and Whole Foods all rolled into one, only better, because Central Market sells wine, and Abita beer, and okra chips, and it's cheaper. AND it offers cooking classes, one of which I took. It almost makes me want to move to Texas, just so I can shop there. I know you're thinking, "Why are you so excited over a big box grocery store, Jenny?" Let's just remember I've been shopping in New York for the past ten years. The average grocery store in New York would fit into the cheese section in Central Market. You can find pretty much everything you want in NYC, but it's never all in one place. I buy wine at the wine store, and meat at the butcher store, and produce at the farmer's market, and...well, you get the idea. And everything's expensive. Where large, varied grocery stores do exist (Trader Joe's, Fairway, Whole Foods), shopping at them is invariably a clusterfuck.
So I wandered through Central Market in a daze, purchasing such heretofore unobtainable (in NYC) products as okra chips, liquid smoke, blue grits, and dried guajillo peppers. The class featured a sort of postmodern chuckwagon cuisine. It wasn't as interesting or informative as the class I took in Charleston, but the instructors were both wearing cowboy hats, and one had a handlebar moustache. Unfortunately they did not allow me to take pictures. Boo. But I learned how to make goat cheese-buttermilk ranch dressing, ribs with a black coffee-guajillo pepper barbecue sauce, dried apple and guajillo pepper grits, and a dutch oven strawberry cobbler.
And I saw my first dead armadillo by the side of the road. Perhaps those two things are related.
I drove to Houston from Gulfport early yesterday morning, and let me tell you, Texas has some crappy roads. I-10 was under construction starting at the state line, extending all the way into Houston. And Houston, P.S., has more of a sprawl problem than Atlanta, although they've managed to make their tangle of interstates look prettier against a setting sun. Just past Beaumont, I passed the clean-up of what must have been a fairly major accident; there were cops, ambulances, and fire engines on the service road beside the interstate, and a Medi-vac was helicoptering in. The chopper was landing just as I passed by, which was pretty cool, except for the fact that my little rental P.O.S. car got nearly blown off the road. As it was I think I drifted suddenly about eight feet to the left.
I had lunch at Feast, a paean to all things pork. I had the pork rillettes and the pork cheek and dandelion green salad, which blessedly was more pork than salad. I came away experiencing what I'm convinced must be the greatest feeling in the world, short of orgasm--being stuffed full of pork. I went to the art museums, wandered around a bit, went into some shops, and then--THEN--I discovered Central Market.
I am in love with Central Market. It's like Trader Joe's, Fairway, and Whole Foods all rolled into one, only better, because Central Market sells wine, and Abita beer, and okra chips, and it's cheaper. AND it offers cooking classes, one of which I took. It almost makes me want to move to Texas, just so I can shop there. I know you're thinking, "Why are you so excited over a big box grocery store, Jenny?" Let's just remember I've been shopping in New York for the past ten years. The average grocery store in New York would fit into the cheese section in Central Market. You can find pretty much everything you want in NYC, but it's never all in one place. I buy wine at the wine store, and meat at the butcher store, and produce at the farmer's market, and...well, you get the idea. And everything's expensive. Where large, varied grocery stores do exist (Trader Joe's, Fairway, Whole Foods), shopping at them is invariably a clusterfuck.
So I wandered through Central Market in a daze, purchasing such heretofore unobtainable (in NYC) products as okra chips, liquid smoke, blue grits, and dried guajillo peppers. The class featured a sort of postmodern chuckwagon cuisine. It wasn't as interesting or informative as the class I took in Charleston, but the instructors were both wearing cowboy hats, and one had a handlebar moustache. Unfortunately they did not allow me to take pictures. Boo. But I learned how to make goat cheese-buttermilk ranch dressing, ribs with a black coffee-guajillo pepper barbecue sauce, dried apple and guajillo pepper grits, and a dutch oven strawberry cobbler.
Friday, June 12, 2009
New Orleans, LA
Despite my deep and abiding love for New Orleans, I tried to stay out of the city as much as possible--I am on a budget, after all. And a girl who loves food and wine and Abita beer cannot remain on a budget in NOLA. Speaking of which, I went on the Abita brewery tour on Wednesday. The tour was boring, but the beer was great. The best part about going to Abita Springs, LA, is that all the businesses start with Abita. Heh. I stopped into the nearby Abita Brew Pub for lunch, and afterwards I loaded up the car with several different kinds. It's hard finding Abita beer outside Louisiana--they seriously need a better distributor.
I also got to drive all the way across Lake Pontchartrain. It's about a twenty-minute drive, with nothing but water as far as the eye can see. It's a little like driving between the Florida Keys. It's also a little creepy, driving so long over open water.
That night Betsy and I discovered Biker Night at one of the local marina bars. I haven't had such good people-watching in quite a while, even in New York. As you might expect, there were dozens of tricked-out Harleys, thousands of visible tattoos, and several examples of creative facial hair. Oh, plus multiple people wearing assless chaps. And drinks were 2-for-1. Good times. Several large, burly men chatted us up, and then gave us a ride on their bikes back to the car (which was all of 25 feet away). But the bikes were lovely, and made me want to learn how to drive one.
Yesterday I explored Cajun country; I drove to Lafayette, LA, then down to Houma on old 182. The interstate to Lafayette stretches for 30 miles across the Atchafalaya Swamp; more evidence of Louisiana's fascination with building bridges across vast, open stretches of water. ("Great...tracts of land!") I had crawfish enchiladas at Prejean's. Highlights of the drive down 182 included several deserted foundries, approximately nine metric tons of Spanish moss, and the "Dacquiri Drivethrough" in Jeanerette. (No, I didn't.) I had considered a swamp tour, or shrimp boat excursion, or Swim with the Alligators, or some such purportedly "Cajun" activity, but I think that will have to wait until I'm not on a budget.
Then last night came the Abita tasting dinner at Ralph's on the Park, a four-course dinner with Abita pairings. The menu:
Appetizer: terrine of wild boar with hazelnuts and black currants, served with summer peach and citrus chutney and pea shoots
Abita: Satsuma
First course: saffron-braised lamb shank with preserved lemon and golden raisins over creamy polenta
Abita: IPA
Second course: cold pecan-smoked veal flank steak served with morel mushroom saute and English peas in a red wine marrow sauce, with roasted marrow bone
Abita: Amber
Dessert: Chambord Bavarian cream bombe with root beer hard candy brittle
Abita: Purple Haze
All very lovely. Turbodog is still my favorite.
I also got to drive all the way across Lake Pontchartrain. It's about a twenty-minute drive, with nothing but water as far as the eye can see. It's a little like driving between the Florida Keys. It's also a little creepy, driving so long over open water.
That night Betsy and I discovered Biker Night at one of the local marina bars. I haven't had such good people-watching in quite a while, even in New York. As you might expect, there were dozens of tricked-out Harleys, thousands of visible tattoos, and several examples of creative facial hair. Oh, plus multiple people wearing assless chaps. And drinks were 2-for-1. Good times. Several large, burly men chatted us up, and then gave us a ride on their bikes back to the car (which was all of 25 feet away). But the bikes were lovely, and made me want to learn how to drive one.
Yesterday I explored Cajun country; I drove to Lafayette, LA, then down to Houma on old 182. The interstate to Lafayette stretches for 30 miles across the Atchafalaya Swamp; more evidence of Louisiana's fascination with building bridges across vast, open stretches of water. ("Great...tracts of land!") I had crawfish enchiladas at Prejean's. Highlights of the drive down 182 included several deserted foundries, approximately nine metric tons of Spanish moss, and the "Dacquiri Drivethrough" in Jeanerette. (No, I didn't.) I had considered a swamp tour, or shrimp boat excursion, or Swim with the Alligators, or some such purportedly "Cajun" activity, but I think that will have to wait until I'm not on a budget.
Then last night came the Abita tasting dinner at Ralph's on the Park, a four-course dinner with Abita pairings. The menu:
Appetizer: terrine of wild boar with hazelnuts and black currants, served with summer peach and citrus chutney and pea shoots
Abita: Satsuma
First course: saffron-braised lamb shank with preserved lemon and golden raisins over creamy polenta
Abita: IPA
Second course: cold pecan-smoked veal flank steak served with morel mushroom saute and English peas in a red wine marrow sauce, with roasted marrow bone
Abita: Amber
Dessert: Chambord Bavarian cream bombe with root beer hard candy brittle
Abita: Purple Haze
All very lovely. Turbodog is still my favorite.
Shrimp Creole
Tuesday night I made a super-fresh shrimp creole for Betsy. I found some huge, fresh, head-on shrimp and decided to take advantage of them. I peeled all the shrimp and put the heads and shells in a pan of water to make shrimp stock. Whole shrimp are surprisingly easy to peel; the head snaps right off, the legs come off with the tail, and then all you have to do is run your thumb up under what's left of the shell and pop it off.
I chopped up all of Betsy's ripe tomatoes--about 27, seriously--and started by sweating out chopped onion, garlic, celery, green pepper, and a little jalapeno in butter. I added a couple smoked alligator and pork sausages, then reduced that in a little white wine. I added the tomatoes, tomato paste, and shrimp stock, along with a healthy dose of salt (to help the tomatoes break down) and seasonings--bay leaves, paprika, chili powder, cumin, cayenne pepper, oregano, basil, parsley, and thyme. At the last minute I threw in the shrimp and a handful of chopped okra.
Serve hot, over rice, with Abita beer. Sit in the backyard and watch the fireflies.
I chopped up all of Betsy's ripe tomatoes--about 27, seriously--and started by sweating out chopped onion, garlic, celery, green pepper, and a little jalapeno in butter. I added a couple smoked alligator and pork sausages, then reduced that in a little white wine. I added the tomatoes, tomato paste, and shrimp stock, along with a healthy dose of salt (to help the tomatoes break down) and seasonings--bay leaves, paprika, chili powder, cumin, cayenne pepper, oregano, basil, parsley, and thyme. At the last minute I threw in the shrimp and a handful of chopped okra.
Serve hot, over rice, with Abita beer. Sit in the backyard and watch the fireflies.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Atlanta, GA; Mobile, AL; and Gulfport, MS
With 2400 miles under my belt, I think the road trip is finally getting started. I can safely say I was unimpressed with Georgia and Alabama. I'm sure there are many fine things about both states, but if there's anything in this world I'm an unwilling expert in, it's small Southern towns. I've seen approximately 900,000 pecan trees and magnolia trees, and I've realized that sometimes it's better to take the freeway.
Sunday I drove straight up 19 from Tampa to Atlanta. I'd never been to Atlanta before, and it was different than I'd imagined--there were a lot of hills and a lot of trees, and the city layout was very poorly designed. I realize there was no real design, the city just evolved and sprawled, but really. You can't expect not to have traffic problems in a city where the layout makes no sense and all the roads are filled with blind curves and trees. Pretty though. Apparently whoever designed the art museum was following the same format, because that was the most oddly laid out and confusing museum I've ever been in. The other supposed highlight, the Margaret Mitchell Museum, turned out to be a bust. They've turned an apartment building where she used to live on Peachtree Street into a museum, but they have none of her actual stuff and I didn't learn anything I didn't already know. I couldn't even bring myself to buy a tacky Gone With the Wind refrigerator magnet, so you know it was bad. I stayed with some friends from high school who live in the 'burbs. They introduced me to the Big Green Egg, which I now have to buy.
Monday morning I got up early for the drive to Gulfport, to stay with my sister. I wanted to stay off the interstate, but it took me three hours to reach the Georgia-Alabama border on back roads. I made it as far as Opelika before I decided I'd seen quite enough Confederate flags at 35 mph, thank you, and hopped on the interstate down to Mobile. I had a lovely lunch of fried pickles and a soft-shell crab po' boy at Wintzell's, and drove along old highway 90 to Gulfport.
After driving for two days solid, I had an advanced case of what my mother so colloquially calls "butt rot." Today I've been relaxing, catching up on laundry and computer stuff and enjoying the 90-degree sunshine and my sister's proximity to the beach. I went to the beach this morning to take some pictures; one of the best things about the beaches in this part of the world is that they're largely deserted. Katrina knocked out most of the beach industry (waterside surf shacks, bars, restaurants, hotels, etc.), most of which has not been rebuilt, so it's possible to be the only person on the beach for as far as the eye can see. Tonight I'll make some shrimp creole with huge, head-on, fresh Gulf shrimp, and have some frosty cold Abita Turbodog. Mmmmmmm...Abita.
Sunday I drove straight up 19 from Tampa to Atlanta. I'd never been to Atlanta before, and it was different than I'd imagined--there were a lot of hills and a lot of trees, and the city layout was very poorly designed. I realize there was no real design, the city just evolved and sprawled, but really. You can't expect not to have traffic problems in a city where the layout makes no sense and all the roads are filled with blind curves and trees. Pretty though. Apparently whoever designed the art museum was following the same format, because that was the most oddly laid out and confusing museum I've ever been in. The other supposed highlight, the Margaret Mitchell Museum, turned out to be a bust. They've turned an apartment building where she used to live on Peachtree Street into a museum, but they have none of her actual stuff and I didn't learn anything I didn't already know. I couldn't even bring myself to buy a tacky Gone With the Wind refrigerator magnet, so you know it was bad. I stayed with some friends from high school who live in the 'burbs. They introduced me to the Big Green Egg, which I now have to buy.
Monday morning I got up early for the drive to Gulfport, to stay with my sister. I wanted to stay off the interstate, but it took me three hours to reach the Georgia-Alabama border on back roads. I made it as far as Opelika before I decided I'd seen quite enough Confederate flags at 35 mph, thank you, and hopped on the interstate down to Mobile. I had a lovely lunch of fried pickles and a soft-shell crab po' boy at Wintzell's, and drove along old highway 90 to Gulfport.
After driving for two days solid, I had an advanced case of what my mother so colloquially calls "butt rot." Today I've been relaxing, catching up on laundry and computer stuff and enjoying the 90-degree sunshine and my sister's proximity to the beach. I went to the beach this morning to take some pictures; one of the best things about the beaches in this part of the world is that they're largely deserted. Katrina knocked out most of the beach industry (waterside surf shacks, bars, restaurants, hotels, etc.), most of which has not been rebuilt, so it's possible to be the only person on the beach for as far as the eye can see. Tonight I'll make some shrimp creole with huge, head-on, fresh Gulf shrimp, and have some frosty cold Abita Turbodog. Mmmmmmm...Abita.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Tampa, FL
I found out last night that one of my friends from New York will be flying out to New Mexico to join me on the Utah leg of this trip. We'll meet in Albuquerque, then head up to the canyonlands in Utah for some camping and national park-ing. My plan is to drive up through Four Corners, through southeastern Utah to Salt Lake City, then back down to southwestern Utah, and hitting the north rim of the Grand Canyon on the way to Vegas. The national parks in Utah will be among the more remote areas I plan to hit, so having some company will be lovely. I envision us cooking bacon on my camp stove, splitting a nice bottle of red, and tussling over tent real estate in the night. It'll be like Thelma and Louise, only without the crime and, you know, death.
And my friend from Tampa is considering flying out to join me on the Oregon leg of the trip. So maybe this starts a nice precedent! Speaking of Pockets, I love her dearly, but I'll be glad to restart the road trip tomorrow. Partly because I'm excited to see the Margaret Mitchell Museum in Atlanta (come on, you knew that was going to happen), partly because I'm excited to see two old friends from high school that I haven't seen SINCE high school, and partly because--and I love Pockets dearly--she has too many pets in too small a space. I'm sharing a one-bedroom apartment with her, two dogs, and four cats, and let me tell you, I was not aware that much animal hair existed in the world. Also, let's just say there was an incident involving my backpack and a cat. After repeated washings, the backpack was not salvageable, and has been replaced.
So tomorrow I'll head up to Atlanta, and then down through Alabama to Gulfport, MS, to spend a few days with my sister. I'll hit New Orleans, Cajun country, and Mobile while I'm there. For the first time, I'll visit her in my own car, so this affords me the perfect opportunity to stock up on Abita beer for the rest of the trip, and possibly beignet mix, which might come in handy in Utah. I'll also visit at least one Gulf Shore beach--I haven't had a chance to hit any Florida beaches. I spent yesterday catching up on back episodes of "Lost," and then wandered down to the Green Iguana, a South Florida bar known for the giant iguana on the roof. The bar was advertising grape Jager bombs. Grape. Jager. Bombs. The mind boggles.
Tonight I'm told we're going to a South Florida club, where I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity ("ample" being the key word) to make fun of the various silicone implants, fake tans, and man jewelry. Come to think of it, South Florida is just like Jersey, only with palm trees.
And my friend from Tampa is considering flying out to join me on the Oregon leg of the trip. So maybe this starts a nice precedent! Speaking of Pockets, I love her dearly, but I'll be glad to restart the road trip tomorrow. Partly because I'm excited to see the Margaret Mitchell Museum in Atlanta (come on, you knew that was going to happen), partly because I'm excited to see two old friends from high school that I haven't seen SINCE high school, and partly because--and I love Pockets dearly--she has too many pets in too small a space. I'm sharing a one-bedroom apartment with her, two dogs, and four cats, and let me tell you, I was not aware that much animal hair existed in the world. Also, let's just say there was an incident involving my backpack and a cat. After repeated washings, the backpack was not salvageable, and has been replaced.
So tomorrow I'll head up to Atlanta, and then down through Alabama to Gulfport, MS, to spend a few days with my sister. I'll hit New Orleans, Cajun country, and Mobile while I'm there. For the first time, I'll visit her in my own car, so this affords me the perfect opportunity to stock up on Abita beer for the rest of the trip, and possibly beignet mix, which might come in handy in Utah. I'll also visit at least one Gulf Shore beach--I haven't had a chance to hit any Florida beaches. I spent yesterday catching up on back episodes of "Lost," and then wandered down to the Green Iguana, a South Florida bar known for the giant iguana on the roof. The bar was advertising grape Jager bombs. Grape. Jager. Bombs. The mind boggles.
Tonight I'm told we're going to a South Florida club, where I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity ("ample" being the key word) to make fun of the various silicone implants, fake tans, and man jewelry. Come to think of it, South Florida is just like Jersey, only with palm trees.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Savannah, GA and Tampa, FL
I left Charleston early this morning, intending to blitz Savannah on my way to Tampa. But it was pouring in Savannah, with a forecast for heavy rain all day, so I gave up pretty quickly. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I got drenched. So I headed directly to Florida instead. I took 95 down, so that I could get there as quickly as possible, but I'll stick to back roads from now on. The interstate is fast, but mind-numbing. Why is it that all truck stops look the same?
And P.S.: people in Florida canNOT drive. Nor are they aware of the correct usages of the left lane. Grrr.
I'll be staying here for a few days, visiting my oldest and dearest friend. No sightseeing to speak of, but I hope to get in some beach time. We're currently sitting on her deck, drinking wine and discussing mutual crushes. You know who you are!
And P.S.: people in Florida canNOT drive. Nor are they aware of the correct usages of the left lane. Grrr.
I'll be staying here for a few days, visiting my oldest and dearest friend. No sightseeing to speak of, but I hope to get in some beach time. We're currently sitting on her deck, drinking wine and discussing mutual crushes. You know who you are!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Charleston, SC: Day Two
You know, all this internal blather about what I'm going to do with my life was put into perspective pretty effectively today. I got up early this morning and decided to go exploring. I walked around for a couple of hours, taking pictures of various interesting buildings and fauna. I heard a middle-aged Southern lady in a hat exclaim about taking pictures of window boxes, and I secretly laughed at her--until I realized I, too, was wearing a hat. And taking pictures of window boxes. Anyway, I started to wonder why the attraction. Charleston is pretty and all, but there didn't seem to be much of a scene (restaurant/nightlife/cultural). A city that builds its reputation on the past usually has little regard for its future: Appomattox is a classic illustration. Old houses and window boxes are nice and all, but I wasn't particularly excited by the city.
Until I found all the things that make Jenny really, really happy. To wit: food and booze. I didn't go to the aquarium, or Fort Sumter, or take any plantation tours. What did I do in Charleston? I took a cooking class and bought bourbon-aged beer and about twenty metric tons of gourmet salt. Yes, folks. I went to Charleston and bought salt.
As I was walking around, I stumbled across S.N.O.B. (Slightly North of Broad), a new restaurant and foodie haven. They have a kitchen store right next door. I went in, bought tea-smoked salt, green tomato pickles and dried cowpeas (like black-eyed peas, but smaller and darker) and discovered they were also offering a cooking class in lowcountry classics--pecan-crusted catfish, cowpea succotash and chocolate chess pie--for $25. Of course I signed up. I went back to wandering, to kill time before the class started, and stumbled across The Spice and Tea Exchange, where I bought applewood-smoked salt, alderwood-smoked salt, hickory-smoked salt, lime coconut-smoked salt, a great big rock of pink Himalayan salt (you pass it around the table and shave the salt off of it with a microplane grater) and a big pink salt brick, which can be heated and used to sear things like scallops right at the table, or chilled and used to serve sorbets, or simply used as a neat serving platter. Then I found the Charleston Beer Exchange--they did not let me exchange empties for full ones--where I discovered Allagash Curieaux, an ale that's been aged in old bourbon barrels. As far as I'm concerned, anything can be improved with the addition of either bourbon or bacon. Anything. Case in point: I learned in the cooking class that when baking anything with chocolate, bourbon can be substituted for vanilla, as bourbon makes chocolate taste more chocolatey.
I was so excited by my purchases that I went back to S.N.O.B. for a late lunch of shrimp n' grits and peach pie, complemented by a 2007 Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and a 2008 Hughes Picpoul de Pinet from Languedoc. Then as I was hauling my twenty metric tons of salt and beer back to the hostel, I stopped in at O'Hara and Flynn Wine Bar for a glass of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc. It was a terribly hot day, after all.
I got tired of trying to upload all my pictures. You can see them all at Flickr, under Two Blind Cats.
Until I found all the things that make Jenny really, really happy. To wit: food and booze. I didn't go to the aquarium, or Fort Sumter, or take any plantation tours. What did I do in Charleston? I took a cooking class and bought bourbon-aged beer and about twenty metric tons of gourmet salt. Yes, folks. I went to Charleston and bought salt.
As I was walking around, I stumbled across S.N.O.B. (Slightly North of Broad), a new restaurant and foodie haven. They have a kitchen store right next door. I went in, bought tea-smoked salt, green tomato pickles and dried cowpeas (like black-eyed peas, but smaller and darker) and discovered they were also offering a cooking class in lowcountry classics--pecan-crusted catfish, cowpea succotash and chocolate chess pie--for $25. Of course I signed up. I went back to wandering, to kill time before the class started, and stumbled across The Spice and Tea Exchange, where I bought applewood-smoked salt, alderwood-smoked salt, hickory-smoked salt, lime coconut-smoked salt, a great big rock of pink Himalayan salt (you pass it around the table and shave the salt off of it with a microplane grater) and a big pink salt brick, which can be heated and used to sear things like scallops right at the table, or chilled and used to serve sorbets, or simply used as a neat serving platter. Then I found the Charleston Beer Exchange--they did not let me exchange empties for full ones--where I discovered Allagash Curieaux, an ale that's been aged in old bourbon barrels. As far as I'm concerned, anything can be improved with the addition of either bourbon or bacon. Anything. Case in point: I learned in the cooking class that when baking anything with chocolate, bourbon can be substituted for vanilla, as bourbon makes chocolate taste more chocolatey.
I was so excited by my purchases that I went back to S.N.O.B. for a late lunch of shrimp n' grits and peach pie, complemented by a 2007 Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and a 2008 Hughes Picpoul de Pinet from Languedoc. Then as I was hauling my twenty metric tons of salt and beer back to the hostel, I stopped in at O'Hara and Flynn Wine Bar for a glass of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc. It was a terribly hot day, after all.
I got tired of trying to upload all my pictures. You can see them all at Flickr, under Two Blind Cats.
Charleston, SC
I started the real journey yesterday, when I left my parents' house for Charleston, SC. It was a relief to really get going--I'm excited to see new things, of course, but I was also anxious to leave my dad's anxiety behind. I know the constant questions were a way to relieve his own fears, but by the end, I was starting to feel that I was being constantly second-guessed.
And what better way to overcome that than on an empty highway, at 75 mph, with the XM satellite radio 80s station blaring? One of the many advantages to road-tripping alone is that no one judges you when you sing along to Tears for Fears at the top of your lungs. Turns out singing along to anything 80s at the top of your lungs is very therapeutic. I wanted to stay off the freeways, and it turns out that was the right move. The two- and four-lane highways I took to Charleston were largely deserted, and I got to see things I wouldn't have seen from I-95. 95 is a constant battle for lane supremacy; plus I got to avoid eastern North Carolina, which is nothing but hound dogs and scrub pine. I went down the middle of the state instead; old Highway 1 between Rockingham, NC, and Cheraw, SC (right on the border) was unexpectedly beautiful, especially when everything suddenly flattened out and the hills of Appalachia were left behind. Unfortunately, past Cheraw, the interior of South Carolina is exactly what you'd expect: flat, poor, and full of Jesus. The recession has hit this part of the world hard; at least one out of every two businesses I passed were shuttered.
Happily, Charleston is not like the rest of the state. It, too, is exactly what you'd expect--an antebellum town, full of lovely old architecture and lots of tourists. I wandered around for a bit, looking at the lovely old houses and trying to avoid the knots of slow-moving tourists. A couple of the restaurants I'd wanted to try were mobbed with them (note: never go to a restaurant mentioned in a guidebook), but never fear: my nose led me to ribs and beer at Sticky Fingers.
Once I'd checked into the hostel (Not So Hostel), I wandered over to the marina and treated myself to a real Dark and Stormy at a real sailor's bar, right on the docks. I sat on the dock and smelled the salt air and watched the sun set while I drank my Dark and Stormy and New York felt like a million miles away. I fell in with a group of boaters and we had a late dinner at 39 Rue de Jean . My first road trip friends! Today I plan to do more of the same: architecture, water, beer, etc., punctuated with fresh seafood and shrimp n' grits.
On the last night at home, my grandmother informed me that a driver's license was only good in one state. "No, Grandma," I said, "I'm pretty sure they're good all over the US." Then she wanted to know where mine was from. "New York," I said. "Oh, well, that's okay then," she replied. Glad we got that straightened out.
And what better way to overcome that than on an empty highway, at 75 mph, with the XM satellite radio 80s station blaring? One of the many advantages to road-tripping alone is that no one judges you when you sing along to Tears for Fears at the top of your lungs. Turns out singing along to anything 80s at the top of your lungs is very therapeutic. I wanted to stay off the freeways, and it turns out that was the right move. The two- and four-lane highways I took to Charleston were largely deserted, and I got to see things I wouldn't have seen from I-95. 95 is a constant battle for lane supremacy; plus I got to avoid eastern North Carolina, which is nothing but hound dogs and scrub pine. I went down the middle of the state instead; old Highway 1 between Rockingham, NC, and Cheraw, SC (right on the border) was unexpectedly beautiful, especially when everything suddenly flattened out and the hills of Appalachia were left behind. Unfortunately, past Cheraw, the interior of South Carolina is exactly what you'd expect: flat, poor, and full of Jesus. The recession has hit this part of the world hard; at least one out of every two businesses I passed were shuttered.
Happily, Charleston is not like the rest of the state. It, too, is exactly what you'd expect--an antebellum town, full of lovely old architecture and lots of tourists. I wandered around for a bit, looking at the lovely old houses and trying to avoid the knots of slow-moving tourists. A couple of the restaurants I'd wanted to try were mobbed with them (note: never go to a restaurant mentioned in a guidebook), but never fear: my nose led me to ribs and beer at Sticky Fingers.
Once I'd checked into the hostel (Not So Hostel), I wandered over to the marina and treated myself to a real Dark and Stormy at a real sailor's bar, right on the docks. I sat on the dock and smelled the salt air and watched the sun set while I drank my Dark and Stormy and New York felt like a million miles away. I fell in with a group of boaters and we had a late dinner at 39 Rue de Jean . My first road trip friends! Today I plan to do more of the same: architecture, water, beer, etc., punctuated with fresh seafood and shrimp n' grits.
On the last night at home, my grandmother informed me that a driver's license was only good in one state. "No, Grandma," I said, "I'm pretty sure they're good all over the US." Then she wanted to know where mine was from. "New York," I said. "Oh, well, that's okay then," she replied. Glad we got that straightened out.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Free at last, free at last
I apologize for the lack of posting--my parents live in a technological dead zone. No internet, no wi-fi, no cell phone service, no cable. And Dad wonders why I don't want to move back home.
I officially start the road trip tomorrow. I'll spend a day in Charleston, SC, then on to Savannah and then to Tampa where I'll stay for a bit. The cats are acclimating themselves nicely (though not with the dog) and I've managed to get the car into some semblance of organization. I tested out my folks' camping equipment one night, and discovered at about 4 am that the tent was not in fact waterproof. So I've ordered a new (waterproof) tent; the rest of the camping equipment was functional, thank God, and sleeping on an air mattress outdoors is no different from sleeping on an air mattress indoors. My old bones will be creaky in the morning regardless.
My dad remains amazed that I plan on camping; but I contend that camping in national parks is sort of the point, and all the camping experience I've had up to this point was with my family. Now, no offense to my family, I love them dearly: but not when we're all camping together. My dad's idea of a great vacation was to pile five people and assorted camping gear into a Toyota Camry and take us back into the wilderness for several days at a time. Now, would you be happy crammed into a tent with your parents, assorted small children running around screaming, and no flush toilets or hot water? Especially when your dad then herded you all back into said Toyota Camry and spent the day oohing and aahing at various Civil War battlegrounds? To further the torture, extended relatives were often involved, meaning there were even more screaming small children and at least one grandmother badgering me to play Scrabble with her. In contrast, I will be camping all by myself at actual campgrounds, with modern plumbing, and nary a battlefield in sight. Many people have questioned my intention to drive cross-country solo; but I enjoy my own company all the time. I'd rather be alone than spend extended periods of time in a car with...well, just about anyone. Even the people I love dearest in the whole world would start to irritate me after about hour 10 on the interstate.
I've been playing with my new camera, which is super-cool. I've attached pics of the homestead.
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