This is a little out of order, it fits back with the Toronto stories, but I just had to catch myself up and make sure I told you about this one, before I forgot...
Labour day long weekend in Toronto spells A-I-R-S-H-O-W. Fine if you’re an ‘Anorak’ and you like sitting around in the cold and wet (in your anorak) inhaling jet fuel all morbidly waiting for something to crash – but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Where T and T live, it means a weekend of ‘CROOOOOAAAHHHH’ as jets fly overhead and rattle the windowpanes.
Sticking around in Toronto was not an option so we hit the open road in the Honda (incidentally the long lost Canadian twin of my own black Honda), in search of small town adventure. We were off to paint the town Beige! T had presented me with some options of where we could go, but as I hadn’t heard of any of them, I asked her husband (also T) to decide. He chose, Bobcaygeon.
Bobcaygeon is a little town in the Kawartha Lakes region of east-central Ontario and the name of a single by Canadian band, the Tragically Hip. Although I’d never heard either reference, T+T assured me that Candians all know the song Bobcaygeon and so it would be a quirky place for us to visit – like saying you’ve actually been to Bonnie Doon.
It rained most of the way there, and most of our first afternoon. We secured lodgings with Joyce, who could have been the fifth Golden Girl, a lovely Canadian lady who’d lived at the little inn on the edge of the lake her whole life. Her parents had owned it before her and Joyce, as the name might foretell, was no longer a girl.
We whiled away our rainy afternoon eating butter cakes (deliciously deadly), and deep fried pickle (not so delicious) at an unremarkable sports bar in the main street. On Joyce’s advice we enjoyed a delicious meal at the local Chinese and took a stroll around the village after dinner.
In the space of five minutes, we saw, not one but two shooting stars right in the main street of Bobcaygeon - the first I’d seen in 13 years. Is that because since then I’ve lived in cities, or because I don’t bother to look at the stars anymore, like I did when I was wide-eyed and 17?
We toyed with the idea of calling it a night, but decided instead to head to the another inn which had a bar and some pools tables for a quick drink and a few frames. Lets just say, it’s lucky we weren’t playing those uniquely Australian pool rules where you have to run around the table with your pants around your ankles, or that might have happened to me while I was playing T.
The pool table seemed to work fine, while we were playing. Tenille exhibited the famous spider pool stance. A body shape so angular and sculptural, that her husband wrote a poem about it. After we’d finished playing and we decided to let the locals have a game, the pool table decided it was swallow the balls and not release them. There was much jiggling and rocking of the pool table, T extracted half a kilo of chalk squares, but still the balls wouldn’t release.
At about the same time a large group of girls who would have been 19 top end, took over the bar. What had been a quiet local drinking hole in a sleepy fishing town was suddenly transformed into a bad surburban nightclub, complete with bad modern R’n’B hits.
Where there are young, stupid drunk girls – young, stupid, drunk, opportunistic boys soon follow. It didn’t take long before the small bar was run of its feet quite literally. The barmaid was in a complete flap and an assortment of random helpers tried to restock the fridges in the dinky little bar faster than they were being emptied. And then somebody switched on the Karaoke machine.
We hadn’t even noticed they had one. But the girlies did. And so began an hour or more of painful modern R’n’B hits sung badly and with no performance. The secret to karaoke is that you actually have to know the words to what you’re singing or most people can’t actually sing and keep up with the bouncy ball.
We’d had a few drinks and T and I decided we wanted to sing something. But the young kids had decided they had a ‘closed shop’ on the Karaoke machine. Annoyed, we persisted in trying to win over the girlies to let us sing one song, but they kept insisting that they were singing the next song on this CD etc. It was painful to listen to as Karaoke generally is. And then they made the fatal mistake of playing, Rapper, Vanilla Ice’s 1990 hit, Ice Ice Baby. These kids weren’t even born when this song topped the charts and brought hip hop to a mainstream worldwide audience – they had heard it though and were trying to sing along, but they didn’t know the rap.
They’d pushed us too far, and watching them butchering what should have been a classic Karaoke moment, was too much to bear. T and I barged to the microphones and I said, “I actually know this song” and grabbed the microphone out of some kid’s hand and started rapping. I’ve always had a great memory for obscure and useless details (that never extended to the periodic table of elements unfortunately) but I did remember all the words.
With crowd pleasing 1990s hip hop moves T and I belted out,
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle
Dance go rush to the speaker that booms
I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave it you better gain weight
You better hit bull's eye the kid don't play
If there was a problem yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
And so we continued to the end of the song. The young kids had stopped their yahooing and were actually getting in to T and my rap, dancing along. When we finished, there was much applause and “That was really awesome”. Little did they know that while they were busy being conceived I’d been rapping along to that one at the year 7 disco.
After that, getting a hold of the mike for another powerful duet, this time of Gloria Gaynor’s “I will survive” complete with ‘hot hot hot’ disco moves was not so difficult. We’d won over the rude, badly dressed, talentless kids with our intimate knowledge of early 90s hip hop. Because everything old is someday cool again.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Whitehouse black sniper
I arrived in DC and got that ‘arriving in San Fran’ feeling all over again. Sketchy neighbourhood, lots of sirens (which were to be a recurring theme during my three days in DC.) This time though, I put on my big girl knickers and just toughened up. I could have spent my first afternoon and night holed up in the spare room of Ayeh’s house, or I could go out exploring. With only a week before I had to head back to OZ, I wasn’t going to waste any more time being a big sooky-la-la.
I walked from Ayeh’s house to the subway at 4.30pm with vague plans to go to the National Mall, maybe the Whitehouse. In the fifteen minute walk to the subway, I was the only person ‘without’ colour that I saw. It was such a contrast from so much of the America I had already experienced.
I bought a subway ticket and minutes later popped up at the Navy monument. I wandered down in the general direction of the Whitehouse and stumbled across the Hoover Building – FBI headquarters – completely by accident. There’s something a little bit James Bond about peering at the security tagged employees emerging from the Hoover Building – after all, they’re FBI. They do however, look absolutely nothing like James Bond (any of the versions). They look mostly like geeky CITEC employees (Kieran, naturally I don’t mean you).
I continued walking along Pensvylvania Avenue and soon I was again face to face with another iconic slice of Americana – the Whitehouse, with black snipers. Since 9/11 I understand that security is a big deal in the US, but black snipers on the Whitehouse? Way to go to ruin a good photograph!
I snapped lots of images of bright blue sky contrasting the gleaming white structure of the Whitehouse with black suited spidermen toting machine guns darting around on the roof. Personally, I think they should get the Whitehouse snipers some white uniforms. I’m surprised nobody else has thought of this yet. Think about it. For starters, it would my much cooler in summer, it would be much better for tourist photographs, and to a certain extent, they’d be camouflaged, which surely would aid in their task, don’t you think? I wonder if Obama has fixo-grams? Perhaps I should send this in to the Whitehouse suggestion box?
After a few photos it was starting to get dark, and being a traveling day, I was starving due to my self-imposed ban on crappy, overpriced airport food. I decided on dinner at a place called Poets and Busboys, a famous bookstore slash restaurant slash political meeting point which was unfortunately 20 blocks away – but I needed the exercise. After a delicious meal of meatloaf and iced tea I was back at Ayeh’s place.
Ayeh is another lovely airb’n’b host – my last for this trip. Strangely not crazy, not even odd. Just a sweet Iranian born overeachiever. She’s working for a think tank in DC while also completing her PhD in Economics. Like I said, classic overachiever. The only things she had in common with the other Airb’n’b hosts was the whole no cooking thing – and the stove-top kettle (which Missy explained to me in Texas is due to the fact that they all have coffee makers and don’t drink tea – so the kettle is really a decorative piece rather than a functional kitchen gadget).
I walked from Ayeh’s house to the subway at 4.30pm with vague plans to go to the National Mall, maybe the Whitehouse. In the fifteen minute walk to the subway, I was the only person ‘without’ colour that I saw. It was such a contrast from so much of the America I had already experienced.
I bought a subway ticket and minutes later popped up at the Navy monument. I wandered down in the general direction of the Whitehouse and stumbled across the Hoover Building – FBI headquarters – completely by accident. There’s something a little bit James Bond about peering at the security tagged employees emerging from the Hoover Building – after all, they’re FBI. They do however, look absolutely nothing like James Bond (any of the versions). They look mostly like geeky CITEC employees (Kieran, naturally I don’t mean you).
I continued walking along Pensvylvania Avenue and soon I was again face to face with another iconic slice of Americana – the Whitehouse, with black snipers. Since 9/11 I understand that security is a big deal in the US, but black snipers on the Whitehouse? Way to go to ruin a good photograph!
I snapped lots of images of bright blue sky contrasting the gleaming white structure of the Whitehouse with black suited spidermen toting machine guns darting around on the roof. Personally, I think they should get the Whitehouse snipers some white uniforms. I’m surprised nobody else has thought of this yet. Think about it. For starters, it would my much cooler in summer, it would be much better for tourist photographs, and to a certain extent, they’d be camouflaged, which surely would aid in their task, don’t you think? I wonder if Obama has fixo-grams? Perhaps I should send this in to the Whitehouse suggestion box?
After a few photos it was starting to get dark, and being a traveling day, I was starving due to my self-imposed ban on crappy, overpriced airport food. I decided on dinner at a place called Poets and Busboys, a famous bookstore slash restaurant slash political meeting point which was unfortunately 20 blocks away – but I needed the exercise. After a delicious meal of meatloaf and iced tea I was back at Ayeh’s place.
Ayeh is another lovely airb’n’b host – my last for this trip. Strangely not crazy, not even odd. Just a sweet Iranian born overeachiever. She’s working for a think tank in DC while also completing her PhD in Economics. Like I said, classic overachiever. The only things she had in common with the other Airb’n’b hosts was the whole no cooking thing – and the stove-top kettle (which Missy explained to me in Texas is due to the fact that they all have coffee makers and don’t drink tea – so the kettle is really a decorative piece rather than a functional kitchen gadget).
The Robie House
I felt guilty about spending so much time in Macy’s yesterday, when there is so much more to see in Chicago. So I planned a full itinerary of cultural excursions for my last full day in the windy city. I started out early at the Chicago Art Institute down at Millennium Park. Another fine American Gallery with a very impressive collection of French impressionists. Between the Chicago Art Institute and the Met I think their combined collections could rival my favourite, the Musee D’Orsay in Paris. But then again, maybe it’s just been a long time since I was last in Paris. Sigh.
After lunch I headed out to the suburbs to the edge of the University of Chicago to my pre-booked tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House, touted as his finest example of Prairie Style residential architecture. Being in the suburbs, it was a bit tricky to get to, but I had a brilliant plan. I would catch the el most of the way there and then just hop a cab from the El station right to Robie House. Perfect – in theory.
I arrived at the el station out in the suburbs with 40 minutes to spare before the tour started. After missing out on a few things in San Fran and New York, I’d made sure I had booked ahead when I was still in Toronto. So, I wandered out of the el station onto the main street to hail a cab. Hmmmm, no cabs. Hmmm. 10 minutes ticked by. Hmmm. I went and asked the station security guards if they knew the number for a local taxi company. They looked at each other unhelpfully and said no, the didn’t know the number for a cab. Hmmm turned into a huff.
So I went back outside and spent a further 15 minutes trying to catch the phone numbers of cabs whizzing past the el station with passengers in them. A highly unsuccessful pursuit. Time was ticking by, now I had only 10 minutes until the tour started and I was still at the el station.
I went back inside and asked the station master if he knew the number for a cab, he didn’t but they looked something up in a phone book and gave me the number of a local supplier. I called the number. Nobody answered. I called a few times, and nobody answered.
I went back inside and asked to see the phone book again, and this time called Yellow Cabs. They said they could get a cab to my location in about 20 minutes or so. That would be 10 minutes after the tour had already started. ‘Don’t bother, I replied’.
Now I was really pissed off. I was actually furious. Furious at all the useless people standing around who don’t know something as simple as the number to call a cab. I know it’s not their job to help me. But they’re all just mooching around and I have shelled out $50 for this tour and it’s the last tour of the day on my last day in Chicago.
I walked back inside, mad as hell now to ask the station manager where the bus outside goes to. I said I wanted to go to the Robie House at which point the young guy who had helped me with the phone book said, “Why didn’t you say that in the first place – you just catch the number 55 bus across the street and walk two blocks”. Grrr. I ran across the street to wait for the number 55 bus. The tour had already started five minutes ago. Then a vacant cab started driving towards me. I practically stood in the middle of the road to flag it down and arrived flustered at the Robie House only 15 minutes late. Fortunately they were able to catch me up to where the rest of the tour group was at – in the children’s playroom.
In the early 1908 Fredrick Robie, commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to build a grand home for him, his wife and two children at the edge of the University of Chicago. Frank Lloyd Wright created a masterpiece for the family that even now reveals a level of domestic innovation that’s still not mandatory in all new homes – like a ducted vacuuming system. The final bill was $58,500 which roughly translates to about $1.3 million in today’s money.
The home was completed in 1910 and included a three car garage. This is at a time when the model T Ford had only been around two years. One bay of the garage included a mechanics pit and the another included a carwash. A carwash!
Inside the home, the custom dining table designed by Wright included plinths at each corner that housed electric lamps. Electric lamps built into the dining table in 1910 people. The original shower, which has been restored in the home is an industrial-looking contraption that features a series of chrome pipes that circle and loop around. The pipes have a series of jets coming from them so the bather, stands in the centre and water spurts from jets in every direction at various heights to wash you quickly and efficiently – again, lets not forget this is Illinois in 1910!
The home is a masterpiece. Both in terms of the craftsmanship and use of materials – the different types of wood etc, and also in terms of the pure innovation for the time.
The tour was definitely a highlight from my Chicago leg and I’m glad that I persevered with the challenging transport arrangements to get there.
And then it was Friday night, my last night in Chicago. Patrick whom I’d met at the Green Mill the night before had told me not to make plans, that if I wasn’t doing anything, he’d like to take me to some places that most tourists wouldn’t know about.
He called in the middle of the taxi incident to ask if I’d like to go sailing from Monroe Harbour at 6pm. Having missed out on sailing at the Hamptons, I said ‘yes’. Getting to Monroe Harbour was a cinch after my adventures earlier in the afternoon. So I waited for Pat and whoever else was coming sailing, it had sounded like maybe it would be a group of his friends? He got stuck in traffic and arrived eventually, with an older guy, Captain Dan, who turned out to be his dad.
So the three of us went sailing out on Monroe Harbour on Patrick and Captain Dan’s yacht as the sun set over Chicago. It was definitely a magical experience and a completely unexpected adventure in Chicago.
After a few hours we sailed back into the harbour and Patrick and I went out to a bar in Wicker Park, near I was staying. Who knew five blocks up from the sketchy Polish triangle near where I was staying were a throng of uber trendy bars and clubs? And so after a kind of unfriendly start, I managed to find some really friendly locals in Chicago and as always, ended up on a crazy, unplanned adventure with local folks.
After lunch I headed out to the suburbs to the edge of the University of Chicago to my pre-booked tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House, touted as his finest example of Prairie Style residential architecture. Being in the suburbs, it was a bit tricky to get to, but I had a brilliant plan. I would catch the el most of the way there and then just hop a cab from the El station right to Robie House. Perfect – in theory.
I arrived at the el station out in the suburbs with 40 minutes to spare before the tour started. After missing out on a few things in San Fran and New York, I’d made sure I had booked ahead when I was still in Toronto. So, I wandered out of the el station onto the main street to hail a cab. Hmmmm, no cabs. Hmmm. 10 minutes ticked by. Hmmm. I went and asked the station security guards if they knew the number for a local taxi company. They looked at each other unhelpfully and said no, the didn’t know the number for a cab. Hmmm turned into a huff.
So I went back outside and spent a further 15 minutes trying to catch the phone numbers of cabs whizzing past the el station with passengers in them. A highly unsuccessful pursuit. Time was ticking by, now I had only 10 minutes until the tour started and I was still at the el station.
I went back inside and asked the station master if he knew the number for a cab, he didn’t but they looked something up in a phone book and gave me the number of a local supplier. I called the number. Nobody answered. I called a few times, and nobody answered.
I went back inside and asked to see the phone book again, and this time called Yellow Cabs. They said they could get a cab to my location in about 20 minutes or so. That would be 10 minutes after the tour had already started. ‘Don’t bother, I replied’.
Now I was really pissed off. I was actually furious. Furious at all the useless people standing around who don’t know something as simple as the number to call a cab. I know it’s not their job to help me. But they’re all just mooching around and I have shelled out $50 for this tour and it’s the last tour of the day on my last day in Chicago.
I walked back inside, mad as hell now to ask the station manager where the bus outside goes to. I said I wanted to go to the Robie House at which point the young guy who had helped me with the phone book said, “Why didn’t you say that in the first place – you just catch the number 55 bus across the street and walk two blocks”. Grrr. I ran across the street to wait for the number 55 bus. The tour had already started five minutes ago. Then a vacant cab started driving towards me. I practically stood in the middle of the road to flag it down and arrived flustered at the Robie House only 15 minutes late. Fortunately they were able to catch me up to where the rest of the tour group was at – in the children’s playroom.
In the early 1908 Fredrick Robie, commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to build a grand home for him, his wife and two children at the edge of the University of Chicago. Frank Lloyd Wright created a masterpiece for the family that even now reveals a level of domestic innovation that’s still not mandatory in all new homes – like a ducted vacuuming system. The final bill was $58,500 which roughly translates to about $1.3 million in today’s money.
The home was completed in 1910 and included a three car garage. This is at a time when the model T Ford had only been around two years. One bay of the garage included a mechanics pit and the another included a carwash. A carwash!
Inside the home, the custom dining table designed by Wright included plinths at each corner that housed electric lamps. Electric lamps built into the dining table in 1910 people. The original shower, which has been restored in the home is an industrial-looking contraption that features a series of chrome pipes that circle and loop around. The pipes have a series of jets coming from them so the bather, stands in the centre and water spurts from jets in every direction at various heights to wash you quickly and efficiently – again, lets not forget this is Illinois in 1910!
The home is a masterpiece. Both in terms of the craftsmanship and use of materials – the different types of wood etc, and also in terms of the pure innovation for the time.
The tour was definitely a highlight from my Chicago leg and I’m glad that I persevered with the challenging transport arrangements to get there.
And then it was Friday night, my last night in Chicago. Patrick whom I’d met at the Green Mill the night before had told me not to make plans, that if I wasn’t doing anything, he’d like to take me to some places that most tourists wouldn’t know about.
He called in the middle of the taxi incident to ask if I’d like to go sailing from Monroe Harbour at 6pm. Having missed out on sailing at the Hamptons, I said ‘yes’. Getting to Monroe Harbour was a cinch after my adventures earlier in the afternoon. So I waited for Pat and whoever else was coming sailing, it had sounded like maybe it would be a group of his friends? He got stuck in traffic and arrived eventually, with an older guy, Captain Dan, who turned out to be his dad.
So the three of us went sailing out on Monroe Harbour on Patrick and Captain Dan’s yacht as the sun set over Chicago. It was definitely a magical experience and a completely unexpected adventure in Chicago.
After a few hours we sailed back into the harbour and Patrick and I went out to a bar in Wicker Park, near I was staying. Who knew five blocks up from the sketchy Polish triangle near where I was staying were a throng of uber trendy bars and clubs? And so after a kind of unfriendly start, I managed to find some really friendly locals in Chicago and as always, ended up on a crazy, unplanned adventure with local folks.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra
This fits back in the Chicago entries before Savannah....
You know from the whole ‘bright pink cleav incident’ (as it has now entered common parlance), Chicago seemed a little sketchy and unfriendly at first.
Days two and three changed all that. I’d like to scratch the record on Chicago and report that the folks of the mid-west are indeed super friendly.
Day 2 I got trapped in Macys for hours – some problem with the doors whereby I could go in, but then I got confused in piles of discounted jeans and couldn’t seem to find my way clear for three hours. As I said to mum on the phone later in the day – it was a bit of a red-letter day for me. For the first time in my life I tried on several pairs of jeans that fitted straight away. No half a foot of denim to cut off the bottom. I almost shrieked with joy in the changeroom, ok I did actually do a silent ‘dance of joy’. I was a little over-excited with the saleslady who laughed and thinks I should call my momma more often, because if I was her daughter, she’d be real worried about me traveling around by myself. I couldn’t decide on the Calvin Kleins or the DKNYs – so I bought both. That’s two pairs of jeans that look like they were custom made for me for less than $100 US. Bargain!
After my spot of retail therapy I headed downtown to the John Hancock Centre’s observation deck to get a good look around Chicago. Nicknamed, ‘Big John’, it’s a modern looking black building more youthful looking that it’s 1960s birthday. Sure it’s not the tallest building in Chicago – that would be Sears Tower, but Sears Tower is in the middle of nowhere on the edge of town. What exactly is there to look at from there?
In the early afternoon I headed back to my little room in the B’n’B to rest up before my big night at the Green Mill jazz lounge in Lincoln. My good friend Ritch had been very insistent before I left fair Brisvegas that I had all the details for the Green Mill. When I did a Google Map search of the location on the infamous day 1, it seemed about 40 minutes drive away from where I was staying. On the basis that I’d be returning home in the wee hours of the morning, I almost didn’t go. Until Kapra, the innkeeper told me that the cab ride would only be about 20 bucks. Nothing, in the grand scheme of things.
The Green Mill Jazz Lounge was easy to find when I stepped off the EL. Bright green flashing lights everywhere. I slid inside past a dude with a scary-looking mo’ hoping to grab a bite to eat and a good spot at the bar before the gig kicked off at 9pm. Except, they didn’t do food at the Green Mill, so I dined on chips and pretzels – not ideal, oh and a couple of French Martinis – so there’s fruit there?
The Green Mill is an old gin joint that hasn’t really changed since the 1920s. An original jazz lounge that had been a speakeasy during prohibition. Behind the bar were photos of Al Capone and his associates in the Green Mill during the 1920s and at 8pm the barman lit a green candle in front of the photos creating a sort of ‘gangster shrine’ to the bar’s former underworld patrons. Slowly the bar started filling up as the 9pm kick off approached.
Slowly a large group of musicians dressed in black started shuffling in the side door carrying their instruments. I hadn’t noticed earlier that there was space for no less than 13 band members at the front of the stage. An older grey-haired man in a black tuxedo took the microphone announcing the Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra
and they sprang into life.
Trumpets, trombones, drums, piano, saxophone – you name it all kicked in. And so did the swing dancers. Old and young, couples started to take the floor before the band Lindy hopping and swinging in time with the old time tunes. Apparently Thursday is the best night of the week to go – as it’s the only night of the week that they have swing dancing.
An American guy called Patrick, was kind enough to ask me to dance, and all that I had learned in the six or so swing dance classes I’d taken in the Valley five years ago had escaped me. I was out of time, bumbling along, but fortunately Pat was patient. And so we swung the Green Mill on Thursday night.
At the end of the last set sometime after 1.30pm, I headed out in the night in Lincoln to get a cab across town. It was a little nerve-wracking as I had no idea how to get home from where I was, completely reliant on the cab driver’s knowledge of the area to get me home. Again, as we most tense moments in this trip – nothing to worry about. I was soon tucked up in by bed at the Two Urns B’n’B, with the image of the gleaming instruments filling my head.
You know from the whole ‘bright pink cleav incident’ (as it has now entered common parlance), Chicago seemed a little sketchy and unfriendly at first.
Days two and three changed all that. I’d like to scratch the record on Chicago and report that the folks of the mid-west are indeed super friendly.
Day 2 I got trapped in Macys for hours – some problem with the doors whereby I could go in, but then I got confused in piles of discounted jeans and couldn’t seem to find my way clear for three hours. As I said to mum on the phone later in the day – it was a bit of a red-letter day for me. For the first time in my life I tried on several pairs of jeans that fitted straight away. No half a foot of denim to cut off the bottom. I almost shrieked with joy in the changeroom, ok I did actually do a silent ‘dance of joy’. I was a little over-excited with the saleslady who laughed and thinks I should call my momma more often, because if I was her daughter, she’d be real worried about me traveling around by myself. I couldn’t decide on the Calvin Kleins or the DKNYs – so I bought both. That’s two pairs of jeans that look like they were custom made for me for less than $100 US. Bargain!
After my spot of retail therapy I headed downtown to the John Hancock Centre’s observation deck to get a good look around Chicago. Nicknamed, ‘Big John’, it’s a modern looking black building more youthful looking that it’s 1960s birthday. Sure it’s not the tallest building in Chicago – that would be Sears Tower, but Sears Tower is in the middle of nowhere on the edge of town. What exactly is there to look at from there?
In the early afternoon I headed back to my little room in the B’n’B to rest up before my big night at the Green Mill jazz lounge in Lincoln. My good friend Ritch had been very insistent before I left fair Brisvegas that I had all the details for the Green Mill. When I did a Google Map search of the location on the infamous day 1, it seemed about 40 minutes drive away from where I was staying. On the basis that I’d be returning home in the wee hours of the morning, I almost didn’t go. Until Kapra, the innkeeper told me that the cab ride would only be about 20 bucks. Nothing, in the grand scheme of things.
The Green Mill Jazz Lounge was easy to find when I stepped off the EL. Bright green flashing lights everywhere. I slid inside past a dude with a scary-looking mo’ hoping to grab a bite to eat and a good spot at the bar before the gig kicked off at 9pm. Except, they didn’t do food at the Green Mill, so I dined on chips and pretzels – not ideal, oh and a couple of French Martinis – so there’s fruit there?
The Green Mill is an old gin joint that hasn’t really changed since the 1920s. An original jazz lounge that had been a speakeasy during prohibition. Behind the bar were photos of Al Capone and his associates in the Green Mill during the 1920s and at 8pm the barman lit a green candle in front of the photos creating a sort of ‘gangster shrine’ to the bar’s former underworld patrons. Slowly the bar started filling up as the 9pm kick off approached.
Slowly a large group of musicians dressed in black started shuffling in the side door carrying their instruments. I hadn’t noticed earlier that there was space for no less than 13 band members at the front of the stage. An older grey-haired man in a black tuxedo took the microphone announcing the Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra
and they sprang into life.
Trumpets, trombones, drums, piano, saxophone – you name it all kicked in. And so did the swing dancers. Old and young, couples started to take the floor before the band Lindy hopping and swinging in time with the old time tunes. Apparently Thursday is the best night of the week to go – as it’s the only night of the week that they have swing dancing.
An American guy called Patrick, was kind enough to ask me to dance, and all that I had learned in the six or so swing dance classes I’d taken in the Valley five years ago had escaped me. I was out of time, bumbling along, but fortunately Pat was patient. And so we swung the Green Mill on Thursday night.
At the end of the last set sometime after 1.30pm, I headed out in the night in Lincoln to get a cab across town. It was a little nerve-wracking as I had no idea how to get home from where I was, completely reliant on the cab driver’s knowledge of the area to get me home. Again, as we most tense moments in this trip – nothing to worry about. I was soon tucked up in by bed at the Two Urns B’n’B, with the image of the gleaming instruments filling my head.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Ghostly Savannah
Every night that I walked around Savannah I would see no end of kitsch ghost tours at dusk. You know the kind, an old hearse converted into an open top bus, a ghoulish looking guy (who is probably ugly enough without the makeup to scare the average punter) as the driver etc. A local had recommended that I tour the Bonaventure Cemetery while I was in town, so I booked a cab and set off.
The cab driver clearly smoked in the cab anytime there weren’t any passengers in it. He was a wheezing, bandana-wearing nutter. Just perfect. So we got to talking about the cemetery and completely unprompted he starts telling me about the ghost living at his house.
Apparently thirty years ago or more the wheezing cab driver was living in a different house somewhere on the outskirts of Savannah and was digging up part of his yard with plans to build a garage. He's digging away when he comes across the human remains of a confederate soldier (complete with rifle, which he kept) and a 12 year old Indian girl. Since then, the Indian girl has haunted the cabbie, even moving with him to his new house.
She sleeps in the middle of his bed and if he tries to sleep there too, she pushes him in the night or takes the blanket right off the bed. So he sleeps on the couch, and has done so for years. “But it’s your house”, I protested, he said he’s tried various things over the years, but she just wants to push him out of his bed.
True or not, it was a entertaining tale for the ride to the Bonaventure Cemetery. We arrived and I entered through the gates to the 100 acres of cemetery on the edge of town that used to be an old cotton plantation that edges down to the river. The boulevards of the cemetery are planted with massive oak trees which were part of the original plantation some 200 years ago, now dripping with Spanish Moss, like most of Savannah. After the ghost stories in the cab, I was a little apprehensive about my Sunday afternoon stroll alone in the cemetery.
More tourists arrived soon and the cemetery lost some of its ghoulish feeling, as I shook off more of the cab driver’s ghost stories, but after two hours I was well and truly done and walked back the front and waited for another cab.
Back at the B and B, I thought I’d continue with the ghoulish theme and since it was my last night in Savannah, I booked in for a walking ghost tour. They’re a dime a dozen, but this was one was reviewed in Tripadvisor as actually scary with knowledgeable guides.
The tour guide was your classic strange theatre-restaurant type employee. About 40,with obviously dyed Grecian 5000 black hair in a bit of an Elvis coiff with sideburns and black goatee. He was of course dressed from head to toe in black and wore Bono style 'not really black' sunglasses. Altogether odd-looking, but I guess it’s OK in his line of work. His name was Nicodemis and unfortunately he was Australian. I say unfortunately, because he’s not the country's finest ambassador – and his appearance, combined with the lame jokes and accent had some of the other tour guests grimacing. When I say ‘other guests’, I really mean me.
What started off lame quickly became more than a little spooky as night fell over Savannah and we criss-crossed the squares and the cemetery listening to stories of tragic suicide and accidents. Things really stepped up a notch when we went to the abandoned hospital which hasn’t been used in forty years. It’s on the edge of Forsyth Park and according to our guide, during the Yellow fever outbreak the hospital dug a series of mortuary tunnels under what is now the park and just buried the victims in it as they didn’t know what to do with them and we’re afraid the number of dead bodies would scare the townspeople. When he showed us the trapdoor beside the hospital that ran across the road, I think we all took a step back and found a new level of respect for the weirdo leading our tour.
The tunnel ends at a local doctor’s house who is a Mason (as most of Savannah’s influential leaders are) and is locally infamous for his ‘natural causes’ death certificates. Apparently he’s the man in town to go to when you have an aids related death in the family you’d like to keep on the 'down-low'.
After the hospital we wound back through the streets of Savannah exploring more sites, but they became so creepy that I couldn’t even walk up the stairs of some of the old abandoned houses and look inside the windows, I was too scared. But I wasn’t the only one.
It was a very quick walk, more like sprint from the end of the tour back to the B and B, and once I was safely inside drinking my milk and eating my cookies, I was glad that I’d left the ghost tour ‘til last. If you’re ever in town, I highly recommend it.
A couple of ghost story links for you…
Wesley Espy 1902 - 1934
The son of a federal judge, Wesley Espy’s untimely death on Calhoun Square was painted as a fall from a tall porch at the Espy home. It is more culturally held that his father was tangled up with a Georgia bootlegging family during prohibition and that Wesley became the associate of a gangster’s girlfriend and that his death was a retaliation. According to our tour guide Wesley was returned home to the front porch hanged with his testicles in his top pocket.
The soldier in the DeSoto hotel
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12494679/
According to our guide the soldier climbed up the side of the building through the ventilation duct as a dare after heavy drinking at a bar just around the corner.
The tunnels under the park
http://www.savannahbest.com/savhist/tunnel.htm
The cab driver clearly smoked in the cab anytime there weren’t any passengers in it. He was a wheezing, bandana-wearing nutter. Just perfect. So we got to talking about the cemetery and completely unprompted he starts telling me about the ghost living at his house.
Apparently thirty years ago or more the wheezing cab driver was living in a different house somewhere on the outskirts of Savannah and was digging up part of his yard with plans to build a garage. He's digging away when he comes across the human remains of a confederate soldier (complete with rifle, which he kept) and a 12 year old Indian girl. Since then, the Indian girl has haunted the cabbie, even moving with him to his new house.
She sleeps in the middle of his bed and if he tries to sleep there too, she pushes him in the night or takes the blanket right off the bed. So he sleeps on the couch, and has done so for years. “But it’s your house”, I protested, he said he’s tried various things over the years, but she just wants to push him out of his bed.
True or not, it was a entertaining tale for the ride to the Bonaventure Cemetery. We arrived and I entered through the gates to the 100 acres of cemetery on the edge of town that used to be an old cotton plantation that edges down to the river. The boulevards of the cemetery are planted with massive oak trees which were part of the original plantation some 200 years ago, now dripping with Spanish Moss, like most of Savannah. After the ghost stories in the cab, I was a little apprehensive about my Sunday afternoon stroll alone in the cemetery.
More tourists arrived soon and the cemetery lost some of its ghoulish feeling, as I shook off more of the cab driver’s ghost stories, but after two hours I was well and truly done and walked back the front and waited for another cab.
Back at the B and B, I thought I’d continue with the ghoulish theme and since it was my last night in Savannah, I booked in for a walking ghost tour. They’re a dime a dozen, but this was one was reviewed in Tripadvisor as actually scary with knowledgeable guides.
The tour guide was your classic strange theatre-restaurant type employee. About 40,with obviously dyed Grecian 5000 black hair in a bit of an Elvis coiff with sideburns and black goatee. He was of course dressed from head to toe in black and wore Bono style 'not really black' sunglasses. Altogether odd-looking, but I guess it’s OK in his line of work. His name was Nicodemis and unfortunately he was Australian. I say unfortunately, because he’s not the country's finest ambassador – and his appearance, combined with the lame jokes and accent had some of the other tour guests grimacing. When I say ‘other guests’, I really mean me.
What started off lame quickly became more than a little spooky as night fell over Savannah and we criss-crossed the squares and the cemetery listening to stories of tragic suicide and accidents. Things really stepped up a notch when we went to the abandoned hospital which hasn’t been used in forty years. It’s on the edge of Forsyth Park and according to our guide, during the Yellow fever outbreak the hospital dug a series of mortuary tunnels under what is now the park and just buried the victims in it as they didn’t know what to do with them and we’re afraid the number of dead bodies would scare the townspeople. When he showed us the trapdoor beside the hospital that ran across the road, I think we all took a step back and found a new level of respect for the weirdo leading our tour.
The tunnel ends at a local doctor’s house who is a Mason (as most of Savannah’s influential leaders are) and is locally infamous for his ‘natural causes’ death certificates. Apparently he’s the man in town to go to when you have an aids related death in the family you’d like to keep on the 'down-low'.
After the hospital we wound back through the streets of Savannah exploring more sites, but they became so creepy that I couldn’t even walk up the stairs of some of the old abandoned houses and look inside the windows, I was too scared. But I wasn’t the only one.
It was a very quick walk, more like sprint from the end of the tour back to the B and B, and once I was safely inside drinking my milk and eating my cookies, I was glad that I’d left the ghost tour ‘til last. If you’re ever in town, I highly recommend it.
A couple of ghost story links for you…
Wesley Espy 1902 - 1934
The son of a federal judge, Wesley Espy’s untimely death on Calhoun Square was painted as a fall from a tall porch at the Espy home. It is more culturally held that his father was tangled up with a Georgia bootlegging family during prohibition and that Wesley became the associate of a gangster’s girlfriend and that his death was a retaliation. According to our tour guide Wesley was returned home to the front porch hanged with his testicles in his top pocket.
The soldier in the DeSoto hotel
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12494679/
According to our guide the soldier climbed up the side of the building through the ventilation duct as a dare after heavy drinking at a bar just around the corner.
The tunnels under the park
http://www.savannahbest.com/savhist/tunnel.htm
Snippets from Savannah
I’m in an airport lounge, again. It’s a familiar pattern in this trip, but I have the ‘take my shoes off, unpack the laptop, remove hat’ routine down pat now. I don’t even leave my passport at the security counter anymore, like I did that one time at O’Hare, ooops.
So I’m waiting at Savannah airport for my flight to Georgia for a world-record flight change of thirty minutes before my connecting flight to Washington DC leaves. Will my bags change flights too? Do I jinx the situation by even typing this?
Savannah is a great slice of the deep South, and a good slice of Key Lime Pie and Peach Cobbler to boot. MMMM. Take everything you’ve ever heard about Savannah. Then double it. Add whipped cream and a cherry on top and that’s how beautiful Savannah really is. It’s a ‘wow’ city. It really is. Between the beauty of the city and the room in my B and B, I started to get the feeling like I had stowed away on someone’s honeymoon. It was just too cute to be true.
The people are friendly, the city is easy to navigate and so long as you stay away from River Street where all the tourists hang out, the food is great.
I ate my body weight twice over in good, southern food while I was in town, and today I am waddling. Yesterday after touring the Mercer Williams house, the one where Jim Williams from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil fame, shot the kid in the study, I went to stand in line at Mrs Wilkes’. It’s a Savannah institution, originally a boarding house, it’s now famous as the place the locals go and stand in line for at least an hour, to share bowls of food and communal tables for lunch.
So I stood in line, and made some new friends from Georgia and Chicago. And we waited, and waited. Fortunately it was a lot cooler today as I think it would have been tough going if it was in the 90s (Farenheit) that is. Finally it was our turn to walk into the basement of the row house on Jones Street for lunch. Nobody knew exactly what we’d find or how much it was going to cost – but they lined up down the street on reputation alone.
Once inside we were seated at big tables of ten. And then the food started rolling out, bowl by bowl.
Mashed potato, creamed corn, succotash, squash, collard greens, pickles, coleslaw, mashed sweet potato, black eyed peas, lima beans, rice, kidney beans, jumbalya, bbq pork, gravy, stuffing, and then they brought out the fried chicken. Mountains of it. Staff at Mrs Wilkes’ wear t-shirts that say, “If the Colonel’s chicken was this good, he wouldda been a General”. Oooooh that artery-clogging goodness. You couldn’t eat it everyday – but you know what they say at Paula Deen’s, ‘Get some South in your mouth’. On my way out I was tempted to tell the folks that had been waiting in line for more than a hour in the hotter part of the day that the kitchen had just run out of fried chicken – but I’m not that cruel. And they’re all bigger than me, and hungry.
On Sunday morning in Savannah, I rented a bike and within 10 minutes had ridden straight off the quaint pictorial tourist map. I later found out the word is, “don’t go west of Abercorn street”, ah, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right? So I rode my bike straight into the black neighbourhood they don’t put on the Savannah postcards. It was Sunday morning so every now and then I’d ride past a church full of singing Baptists praising the lord on this fine morning. Every now and then, I’d catch the doors opening and a late arrival slipping into church in their finery. This was the Savannah I’d been hoping to see. The deep South unchanged in some ways over the last hundred years.
I rode along streets full of southern style houses that are of a similar style to those in the historical district, just smaller, in shabbier condition and without shiny cars parked on the curb. I got a lot of attention, a really white girl, riding through the ‘bad’ part of town on a Sunday morning in hot pink shorts. I waved to everyone I passed and got lots of “Good mornin’ Misses” and “Fine days” as I rode around the neighbourhood. I didn’t ride off the map intentionally, but in hindsight – I’m glad I did. It was a nice foil to the picture-perfect historic district downtown. At no time did I feel unsafe or uneasy – everyone was perfectly friendly and kind. Back at the B and B later, couples who were visiting were asking whether it was safe to ride a bicycle around Savannah – they were planning on driving their car. Sheesh people, why don’t you see if the Pope-mobile is free this weekend. People from the North seem to get scared in the South, but as Eric, the waiter at Lady and Sons explained, they’re not going to mug tourists – the whole town depends on them for income. They’re more likely to mug him.
A word on Eric. He was the fast-talking Georgia boy working the upstairs bar at Lady and Sons, Paula Deen’s famous restaurant downtown. If you’ve never heard of Paula Deen, don’t feel bad, I hadn’t either until I came to Savannah. She’s huge in the US and has her own cooking show and series of books etc, and shockingly white teeth. Eric was your regular wise-cracking bartender, who I bet does well for tips. Two women probably in their forties were also at the bar eating dinner while I scoffed my fried green tomatoes. They had been sharing banter with Eric during the meal and one joked that since they were both in town for the next few days, maybe they’d come round to Eric’s tomorrow night for dinner, what would he cook them. To which he replied, “Do yer like dawgs?” We all assumed he meant hot dogs and the ladies said, “yeah sure”. He replied, “good cause I’ve got two of them.” There was a pause and then we started laughing realising that he meant he has two pet dogs at home, not that he was going to cook hot dogs if we came around for dinner. Eric looked puzzled and the ladies explained the mix-up. There was some back and forth between Eric and the ladies along the lines of “well we are in the south, anything is possible down here”. To which Eric replied loud enough for the whole bar to hear, ‘I would maybe dayte ma sister but I would never cook a dawg.’ The rest of the bar hadn’t heard the first part of the story and out of context the bar full of tourists turned to stare at Eric. I laughed so hard I thought I might fall off the stool, and even now as I retype it, I’m still laughing.
So I’m waiting at Savannah airport for my flight to Georgia for a world-record flight change of thirty minutes before my connecting flight to Washington DC leaves. Will my bags change flights too? Do I jinx the situation by even typing this?
Savannah is a great slice of the deep South, and a good slice of Key Lime Pie and Peach Cobbler to boot. MMMM. Take everything you’ve ever heard about Savannah. Then double it. Add whipped cream and a cherry on top and that’s how beautiful Savannah really is. It’s a ‘wow’ city. It really is. Between the beauty of the city and the room in my B and B, I started to get the feeling like I had stowed away on someone’s honeymoon. It was just too cute to be true.
The people are friendly, the city is easy to navigate and so long as you stay away from River Street where all the tourists hang out, the food is great.
I ate my body weight twice over in good, southern food while I was in town, and today I am waddling. Yesterday after touring the Mercer Williams house, the one where Jim Williams from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil fame, shot the kid in the study, I went to stand in line at Mrs Wilkes’. It’s a Savannah institution, originally a boarding house, it’s now famous as the place the locals go and stand in line for at least an hour, to share bowls of food and communal tables for lunch.
So I stood in line, and made some new friends from Georgia and Chicago. And we waited, and waited. Fortunately it was a lot cooler today as I think it would have been tough going if it was in the 90s (Farenheit) that is. Finally it was our turn to walk into the basement of the row house on Jones Street for lunch. Nobody knew exactly what we’d find or how much it was going to cost – but they lined up down the street on reputation alone.
Once inside we were seated at big tables of ten. And then the food started rolling out, bowl by bowl.
Mashed potato, creamed corn, succotash, squash, collard greens, pickles, coleslaw, mashed sweet potato, black eyed peas, lima beans, rice, kidney beans, jumbalya, bbq pork, gravy, stuffing, and then they brought out the fried chicken. Mountains of it. Staff at Mrs Wilkes’ wear t-shirts that say, “If the Colonel’s chicken was this good, he wouldda been a General”. Oooooh that artery-clogging goodness. You couldn’t eat it everyday – but you know what they say at Paula Deen’s, ‘Get some South in your mouth’. On my way out I was tempted to tell the folks that had been waiting in line for more than a hour in the hotter part of the day that the kitchen had just run out of fried chicken – but I’m not that cruel. And they’re all bigger than me, and hungry.
On Sunday morning in Savannah, I rented a bike and within 10 minutes had ridden straight off the quaint pictorial tourist map. I later found out the word is, “don’t go west of Abercorn street”, ah, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right? So I rode my bike straight into the black neighbourhood they don’t put on the Savannah postcards. It was Sunday morning so every now and then I’d ride past a church full of singing Baptists praising the lord on this fine morning. Every now and then, I’d catch the doors opening and a late arrival slipping into church in their finery. This was the Savannah I’d been hoping to see. The deep South unchanged in some ways over the last hundred years.
I rode along streets full of southern style houses that are of a similar style to those in the historical district, just smaller, in shabbier condition and without shiny cars parked on the curb. I got a lot of attention, a really white girl, riding through the ‘bad’ part of town on a Sunday morning in hot pink shorts. I waved to everyone I passed and got lots of “Good mornin’ Misses” and “Fine days” as I rode around the neighbourhood. I didn’t ride off the map intentionally, but in hindsight – I’m glad I did. It was a nice foil to the picture-perfect historic district downtown. At no time did I feel unsafe or uneasy – everyone was perfectly friendly and kind. Back at the B and B later, couples who were visiting were asking whether it was safe to ride a bicycle around Savannah – they were planning on driving their car. Sheesh people, why don’t you see if the Pope-mobile is free this weekend. People from the North seem to get scared in the South, but as Eric, the waiter at Lady and Sons explained, they’re not going to mug tourists – the whole town depends on them for income. They’re more likely to mug him.
A word on Eric. He was the fast-talking Georgia boy working the upstairs bar at Lady and Sons, Paula Deen’s famous restaurant downtown. If you’ve never heard of Paula Deen, don’t feel bad, I hadn’t either until I came to Savannah. She’s huge in the US and has her own cooking show and series of books etc, and shockingly white teeth. Eric was your regular wise-cracking bartender, who I bet does well for tips. Two women probably in their forties were also at the bar eating dinner while I scoffed my fried green tomatoes. They had been sharing banter with Eric during the meal and one joked that since they were both in town for the next few days, maybe they’d come round to Eric’s tomorrow night for dinner, what would he cook them. To which he replied, “Do yer like dawgs?” We all assumed he meant hot dogs and the ladies said, “yeah sure”. He replied, “good cause I’ve got two of them.” There was a pause and then we started laughing realising that he meant he has two pet dogs at home, not that he was going to cook hot dogs if we came around for dinner. Eric looked puzzled and the ladies explained the mix-up. There was some back and forth between Eric and the ladies along the lines of “well we are in the south, anything is possible down here”. To which Eric replied loud enough for the whole bar to hear, ‘I would maybe dayte ma sister but I would never cook a dawg.’ The rest of the bar hadn’t heard the first part of the story and out of context the bar full of tourists turned to stare at Eric. I laughed so hard I thought I might fall off the stool, and even now as I retype it, I’m still laughing.
High-heel cowboy boots
According to Wikipedia – Atlanta airport is the busiest in the world in terms of passenger numbers - some 35 million people pass through each year.
I’m sitting in Atlanta airport waiting for my connection to DC. I can hear the familiar sound of a passenger running. To the left he emerges, running, and pushing a stroller rocketing a small toddler. The handles of the stroller are laiden with a big Louis Vuitton handbag and another large carry-on tote bag.
The next thing you know he starts running back past me in the other direction, this time without the stroller. A few moments later the familiar sound starts again. He’s running past me a second time from the original direction with a second stroller. Hmmm, strange. Moments later a woman in high heel cowboy boots starts running a few metres behind him. And the little airport vignette all comes together.
They’re obviously late for the flight – understandable – it’s a huge airport. They each have a stroller to push with a kid in it, and because she’s wearing stupidly high boots she can’t run and push her stroller in time for them to make the flight. Instead of taking off her damn boots and running through the airport barefoot, they leave one of their kids in the stroller unattended at the boarding gate in the busiest airport in the world. Hmmm. God bless America – some of them need all the help they can get.
I’m sitting in Atlanta airport waiting for my connection to DC. I can hear the familiar sound of a passenger running. To the left he emerges, running, and pushing a stroller rocketing a small toddler. The handles of the stroller are laiden with a big Louis Vuitton handbag and another large carry-on tote bag.
The next thing you know he starts running back past me in the other direction, this time without the stroller. A few moments later the familiar sound starts again. He’s running past me a second time from the original direction with a second stroller. Hmmm, strange. Moments later a woman in high heel cowboy boots starts running a few metres behind him. And the little airport vignette all comes together.
They’re obviously late for the flight – understandable – it’s a huge airport. They each have a stroller to push with a kid in it, and because she’s wearing stupidly high boots she can’t run and push her stroller in time for them to make the flight. Instead of taking off her damn boots and running through the airport barefoot, they leave one of their kids in the stroller unattended at the boarding gate in the busiest airport in the world. Hmmm. God bless America – some of them need all the help they can get.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11, 2010
I’d almost forgotten today was September 11th. It had been another late night in Chicago followed by an early start to catch the planes to Savannah. Yep, I was flying from O’Hare airport on September 11.
I say I almost forgot, until I saw the TV screens in the airport waiting lounge with the sound turned way up so you could barely hear the gate boarding announcements. I listed to Laura Bush and Michelle Obama speak in Pennslvyania about the heroes that overthrew flight 93. As the first lady said, this was 40 people from all walks of life who collectively decided to save the lives of thousands of people they would never meet and overthrow the highjackers in doing so, losing their own lives. It was pretty powerful stuff in the airport lounge. The mood was sober.
Then there were the military personnel. In Chicago our flight was boarded by about 12 brand new navy recruits all spic and span and waving goodbye to their parents – they’re kids the average age is 18 and off they trotted onto the plane in their brand new whites.
We changed planes at Atlanta, Georgia to make the connecting flight to Savannah. This time we were sharing our flight with eight army personnel in combat uniform that looked like they were returning home for some R&R.
Then the cheering started. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but I soon cottoned on. First class wasn’t full. So after they’d already settled into their assigned seats in coach, the air hostess went and got the soldiers and one by one they collected their things from the overhead lockers and walked slowly up the plane to the pointy end, amid cheers and continuous applause from all of the passengers to take their seats in first class. Nicely done Delta Airlines!
I say I almost forgot, until I saw the TV screens in the airport waiting lounge with the sound turned way up so you could barely hear the gate boarding announcements. I listed to Laura Bush and Michelle Obama speak in Pennslvyania about the heroes that overthrew flight 93. As the first lady said, this was 40 people from all walks of life who collectively decided to save the lives of thousands of people they would never meet and overthrow the highjackers in doing so, losing their own lives. It was pretty powerful stuff in the airport lounge. The mood was sober.
Then there were the military personnel. In Chicago our flight was boarded by about 12 brand new navy recruits all spic and span and waving goodbye to their parents – they’re kids the average age is 18 and off they trotted onto the plane in their brand new whites.
We changed planes at Atlanta, Georgia to make the connecting flight to Savannah. This time we were sharing our flight with eight army personnel in combat uniform that looked like they were returning home for some R&R.
Then the cheering started. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but I soon cottoned on. First class wasn’t full. So after they’d already settled into their assigned seats in coach, the air hostess went and got the soldiers and one by one they collected their things from the overhead lockers and walked slowly up the plane to the pointy end, amid cheers and continuous applause from all of the passengers to take their seats in first class. Nicely done Delta Airlines!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Bright pink cleavage
It was inevitable that I would have this day. That one day in 42 when you think, sod this, I could almost go home right now. Yep, today was that day.
After a late night of beers and great pub food with T and T at the Local in downtown Toronto, I set my alarm for 5am. After all, I needed to be checking in at 6.30am at the airport. T was generous enough to offer to drive me and was going to set her alarm to 5am aswell, until I pointed out how ridiculous it was for her to get up so early when she really just needed to chug down some coffee and could drive me to the airport in pajamas if it got to that. T agreed and set her alarm to 5.30am.
I had a terrible night sleep. 2.15am – bolt upright, mad scramble for watch to check time, reassuring sigh – stacks of time, back to sleep. 3.25am repeat. 4.15am repeat. And then zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Until T gingerly opened my door at 5.35am to see me still asleep. The alarm hadn’t gone off. Darn. Instead of a leisurely breakfast, shower and final pack – it was again, a madwoman’s scramble.
I arrived at the airport still on time and just made it to the gate in time to board the short leap across the lakes from Toronto to USA. Incidentally, they process you for US immigration and customs in Canada and then you just swan off the plane at O’Hare. I was trying to think of how to exploit the loopholes as I pushed my suitcase along lengths and lengths of moving walkways. Cash stowed away in the body of the plane from a previous flight? Hmmm.
Despite the new luggage arrangements. Little Black Sam now lives with T and T – and that’s all I’m going to say about that – and I don’t want any correspondence on the subject, I caught the CAT into Division where the little Google map I had printed out showed the location of the B&B.
Somewhere between getting off the subway and getting above ground, I lost the map. I couldn’t even go back underground to look for it, because I couldn’t heft the suitcase back down the three flights of stairs to the subway.
I had remembered from the brief glance below ground that it was two blocks off the main arterial. But which one? The subway stop was essentially at a triangular intersection of three arterial roads.
Without a map, I just asked a lady waiting for the bus. She wasn’t really sure but thought it was right of where we were. So I walked about four blocks to the right with the luggage. Couldn’t see it. So I asked the local barber. He had no idea.
I realized I must have walked too far. It must be in the other direction. I called in at a cool record store that was just putting the finishing touches on being tragically hip for the day. They didn’t know either.
Helpful Chicago. Real helpful.
So I walked back to where I had started and two blocks in the other direction to the Bank of America. And I asked there. They consulted with eachother on the subject and said it was about three blocks further along in the same direction I was headed.
I walked about six blocks. Nothing. A service station. I hefted my bags across the road, now starting to suspect that maybe people were just being unhelpful on purpose. Is this was they do to strangers in Chicago? I was starting to getting really annoyed, not to mention hot and exhausted. In the service station I asked to see a map. She told me I needed to go in a different direction. To which I asked to see a map. I was now really sick of all of these local people giving me different directions to a street I knew was within a four block radius of my starting point.
I looked at the map. Greenview appeared to be two blocks North of my starting point and so far I’d just run up East and West. Darnit.
So I walked back to where I’d started from again and soon found the place. The mildly eccentric innkeeper opened the door and explained that my room wasn’t ready yet but took me across the road and five houses down to another house where my room would be. And we climbed a really steep narrow flight of stairs to get there. After pulling and pushing my suitcases around the neighbourhood for the last hour – that’s really just the kind of fun I was looking for.
I pulled out the parcel gear I was posting back to OZ and headed back to the post office (I knew where that was after my morning of orienteering), almost snarling at the locals as I passed my 'friends at the Bank of America' etc, and then headed downtown to go see about an architectural boat tour.
I waited and waited and waited at the sketchy polish triangle bus stop. A small triangular roundabout with a small fountain and a permanent residential population of about seven. Great.
Finally I jumped aboard the bus, stuck my 3-day transport card the wrong way in the reader and it got chewed up. The helpful driver explained that he could give me a form to fill out and they’d send me a new card in about 5 days. Pity that would be two days longer than I was spending in Chicago.
I rode into town and organised tickets for the boat cruise, which was great. Really up my alley and a great way for me to orient myself in the city. Except that it was warm and sunny and I was so tired from barely sleeping last night that I kept almost dozing off in my seat. Darnit.
After the boat ride I thought a little walking and some shopping might cheer me up. So I popped into Nordstroms. After much swanning around in the shoe salon I found a bunch of fabulous frocks and started hefting them into a changeroom.
I pulled off my top and recoiled at the sight of a fluorescent pink cleavage. Huh? What the? In all of my exertions this morning hefting the luggage, the cheap and cheerful pink Indian scarf had stained all of the skin around my neck and décolletage. Perfect. Just wonderful. I could have cried.
I didn’t. Instead I explained to the helpful sales lady why I wouldn’t be trying on the clothes and left. In search of exfoliating scrub.
I trudged back to the sketchy Polish triangle and settled into my little room to have a shower and scrub off all the pink. Despite much scrubbing it hasn’t come off. And so I plan to cut my losses and have an early night and a dinner of peanut m&ms and museli bars. Tomorrow I am determined to resume this trip with a renewed spring in my step. If it wasn’t almost a bit x-rated, I would have taken a photograph of the fluorescent pink cleavage. That’ll teach me for wearing bright colours. Scarf has been unceremoniously dumped in bin.
After a late night of beers and great pub food with T and T at the Local in downtown Toronto, I set my alarm for 5am. After all, I needed to be checking in at 6.30am at the airport. T was generous enough to offer to drive me and was going to set her alarm to 5am aswell, until I pointed out how ridiculous it was for her to get up so early when she really just needed to chug down some coffee and could drive me to the airport in pajamas if it got to that. T agreed and set her alarm to 5.30am.
I had a terrible night sleep. 2.15am – bolt upright, mad scramble for watch to check time, reassuring sigh – stacks of time, back to sleep. 3.25am repeat. 4.15am repeat. And then zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Until T gingerly opened my door at 5.35am to see me still asleep. The alarm hadn’t gone off. Darn. Instead of a leisurely breakfast, shower and final pack – it was again, a madwoman’s scramble.
I arrived at the airport still on time and just made it to the gate in time to board the short leap across the lakes from Toronto to USA. Incidentally, they process you for US immigration and customs in Canada and then you just swan off the plane at O’Hare. I was trying to think of how to exploit the loopholes as I pushed my suitcase along lengths and lengths of moving walkways. Cash stowed away in the body of the plane from a previous flight? Hmmm.
Despite the new luggage arrangements. Little Black Sam now lives with T and T – and that’s all I’m going to say about that – and I don’t want any correspondence on the subject, I caught the CAT into Division where the little Google map I had printed out showed the location of the B&B.
Somewhere between getting off the subway and getting above ground, I lost the map. I couldn’t even go back underground to look for it, because I couldn’t heft the suitcase back down the three flights of stairs to the subway.
I had remembered from the brief glance below ground that it was two blocks off the main arterial. But which one? The subway stop was essentially at a triangular intersection of three arterial roads.
Without a map, I just asked a lady waiting for the bus. She wasn’t really sure but thought it was right of where we were. So I walked about four blocks to the right with the luggage. Couldn’t see it. So I asked the local barber. He had no idea.
I realized I must have walked too far. It must be in the other direction. I called in at a cool record store that was just putting the finishing touches on being tragically hip for the day. They didn’t know either.
Helpful Chicago. Real helpful.
So I walked back to where I had started and two blocks in the other direction to the Bank of America. And I asked there. They consulted with eachother on the subject and said it was about three blocks further along in the same direction I was headed.
I walked about six blocks. Nothing. A service station. I hefted my bags across the road, now starting to suspect that maybe people were just being unhelpful on purpose. Is this was they do to strangers in Chicago? I was starting to getting really annoyed, not to mention hot and exhausted. In the service station I asked to see a map. She told me I needed to go in a different direction. To which I asked to see a map. I was now really sick of all of these local people giving me different directions to a street I knew was within a four block radius of my starting point.
I looked at the map. Greenview appeared to be two blocks North of my starting point and so far I’d just run up East and West. Darnit.
So I walked back to where I’d started from again and soon found the place. The mildly eccentric innkeeper opened the door and explained that my room wasn’t ready yet but took me across the road and five houses down to another house where my room would be. And we climbed a really steep narrow flight of stairs to get there. After pulling and pushing my suitcases around the neighbourhood for the last hour – that’s really just the kind of fun I was looking for.
I pulled out the parcel gear I was posting back to OZ and headed back to the post office (I knew where that was after my morning of orienteering), almost snarling at the locals as I passed my 'friends at the Bank of America' etc, and then headed downtown to go see about an architectural boat tour.
I waited and waited and waited at the sketchy polish triangle bus stop. A small triangular roundabout with a small fountain and a permanent residential population of about seven. Great.
Finally I jumped aboard the bus, stuck my 3-day transport card the wrong way in the reader and it got chewed up. The helpful driver explained that he could give me a form to fill out and they’d send me a new card in about 5 days. Pity that would be two days longer than I was spending in Chicago.
I rode into town and organised tickets for the boat cruise, which was great. Really up my alley and a great way for me to orient myself in the city. Except that it was warm and sunny and I was so tired from barely sleeping last night that I kept almost dozing off in my seat. Darnit.
After the boat ride I thought a little walking and some shopping might cheer me up. So I popped into Nordstroms. After much swanning around in the shoe salon I found a bunch of fabulous frocks and started hefting them into a changeroom.
I pulled off my top and recoiled at the sight of a fluorescent pink cleavage. Huh? What the? In all of my exertions this morning hefting the luggage, the cheap and cheerful pink Indian scarf had stained all of the skin around my neck and décolletage. Perfect. Just wonderful. I could have cried.
I didn’t. Instead I explained to the helpful sales lady why I wouldn’t be trying on the clothes and left. In search of exfoliating scrub.
I trudged back to the sketchy Polish triangle and settled into my little room to have a shower and scrub off all the pink. Despite much scrubbing it hasn’t come off. And so I plan to cut my losses and have an early night and a dinner of peanut m&ms and museli bars. Tomorrow I am determined to resume this trip with a renewed spring in my step. If it wasn’t almost a bit x-rated, I would have taken a photograph of the fluorescent pink cleavage. That’ll teach me for wearing bright colours. Scarf has been unceremoniously dumped in bin.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
From notthecaptain the Torotonto adventures
As promised to get the full classic American adventure, you need to refer to Not the Captain the blog of my old friend and Canadian hostess with the mostess, T. Check it out T, is a Walkeley Award winning journalist people - so hers is a darn good read!
http://thecaptainand.blogspot.com/
That reminds me Kiz, do we still have the video of T accepting her award? She hasn't seen it and neither has her husband. AK, Cobes? Do you guys have it on video?
http://thecaptainand.blogspot.com/
That reminds me Kiz, do we still have the video of T accepting her award? She hasn't seen it and neither has her husband. AK, Cobes? Do you guys have it on video?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Guest Toronto blogger - 'Not the Captain'
For those who don't know, I'm staying in Toronto with T (Not the Captain) and T her husband, so for a guest blogging perspective of the Toronto leg of this classic American (& Candian) adventure, check out http://www.thecaptainand.blogspot.com/
T will be special guest blogger on 'from sea to shining sea' in coming days. Stay posted....
T will be special guest blogger on 'from sea to shining sea' in coming days. Stay posted....
Mill Street Brewery Tasting Notes
T and I ventured to the Distillery District of Toronto today as part of our all day town adventure. The Distillery District is just that, except it's home to a stack or original breweries that make beer and not spirits, but in and amongst all the old red brick breweries are now gallery spaces, chi chi apartments and cafes etc. We took an 'old school' approach to the district with an afternoon of tastings - 7 beers, ales and stouts in total, with a palette cleansing Quesedilla to refresh us between samples. Our notes, for your future reference and enjoyment are dutifully transcribed below:
Fruit Beer
What they said:
Fruit beer is made from a blend of cherries, raspberries and strawberries and a pale beer, allowing the wonderful flavour and colour of the fruit to dominate the taste and aroma, supported by the fine beer flavour.
What we said:
Smells like candied apple. Honeyed amber colour, slightly mahogany. First bite of fruit followed by a beery fruitiness. Sour tartiness. One pint to share with friends. Visit fruit beer town - not a place to live.
Belgian Wit
What they said:
The soft texture and colour of this unfiltered beer comes from the use of wheat. Coriander, orange peel and a special yeast produce the fruity flavours. The refreshing cloudiness gives rise to the term Wit or white beer.
What we said:
Hazy wheat / pee coloured. Smells kind of sweet, like guest soap. Very zingy to start, dwindling to minimal aftertaste. I can taste soap - not good. Ageing woman in a low-cut top: giving too much away, with nothing to follow. Did not finish the tasting glass. Bathe in it maybe, but don't drink.
India Pale Ale
What they said:
IPA's were high in both alcohol and hops to survive the long hot voyage from Britain to India. Traditional English malts and hops give this copper brew a roasted note with a strong hop bitterness and flavour.
What we said:
Golden amber colouring. Tastes like popourri. More body than Stella. I think it's a bit 'myeah?'Beer for beer's sake. Drink for free, but don't pay for it.
Helles Bock
What they said:
A pale, strong German lager brewed with 100% Organic malt and hops. Helles has a frothy white head which gives way to a sweet malty flavour with hints of currants and oranges.
What we said:
Looks and smells like straight up beer, but not nearly as pungent as the Veebs of the world. T says, I like it: It's beer with wheat beer, but it hasn't moved in with wheat beer. It's friends with WB and happily so. Sweet aftertaste. I quite likes it. Not a girlie beer. Tangy aftertaste. An easy drinking-mans beer. Not a Gucci beer. It's a solid beery beer.
Pilsner Lager
What they said:
Our organic, German-style continental lager has a deep golden hue, with a malty nose. The first taste is sweet but leads quickly to a dry hoppy bitter finish.
What we said:
Looks and smells like beer. Beer that is comfortable with being a beer, This is not a beer dressing in florals. An easy-drinking beer. Take to a bbq beer - a real crowd pleaser. The dressy t-shirt of beers. The immigrant of beers* (T needs to explain this)
Extra Special Bitter
What they said:
Mill Street ESB uses only traditional English ingredients: Marris Otter malt, and Fuggles and East Kent Goldings hops. This copper coloured ale has a malty body with hints of chocolcate and black currants.
What we said:
Dark honey coloured beer. T is smelling dark honey, I am smelling a buffet of non-sweet deserts - cinamony, caramely, pastry. Sadly has gone flat while tasting other beers. T agrees there is a toffee aftertaste. A mealy Christmas day beer. The winner of N's tasting plate.
Cobblestone Stout
What they said:
This traditional style Irish Stout has that familiar creamy pour, with a roasted malt flavour with a hint of roasted walnuts and chocolate. Select imported hops are used to dry out the finish of this ale. (Only available in kegs).
What we said:
Looks dark and rich. T thinks it smells caramelly stout with coffee. Nat thinks it has a real chemical smell, a bit like synthetic carpet. Doesn't smell as rustic and country as it looks. Soft to start, followed by an avalanche of texture. A bit watery after food (Quesedilla with salsa), boo. Definitely a destination beer. One doesn't land here accidentally. N is not a big fan, but not a big fan of stouts in general. Could do with a bit more upfront. The pre-tasting of Coffee Porter doomed this beer. Just cannot compare.
These tasting notes were dutifully transcribed during the tasting process and therefore are a true and accurate recording of the experience, rather than a hazy memory of a beery afternoon in the distillery district.
If you've tried any of these beers, what do you think? Do you agree? Disagree? Is the Pilsner Lager the dressy t-shirt of beers? Or are we making a mockery of a sacred brew?
Fruit Beer
What they said:
Fruit beer is made from a blend of cherries, raspberries and strawberries and a pale beer, allowing the wonderful flavour and colour of the fruit to dominate the taste and aroma, supported by the fine beer flavour.
What we said:
Smells like candied apple. Honeyed amber colour, slightly mahogany. First bite of fruit followed by a beery fruitiness. Sour tartiness. One pint to share with friends. Visit fruit beer town - not a place to live.
Belgian Wit
What they said:
The soft texture and colour of this unfiltered beer comes from the use of wheat. Coriander, orange peel and a special yeast produce the fruity flavours. The refreshing cloudiness gives rise to the term Wit or white beer.
What we said:
Hazy wheat / pee coloured. Smells kind of sweet, like guest soap. Very zingy to start, dwindling to minimal aftertaste. I can taste soap - not good. Ageing woman in a low-cut top: giving too much away, with nothing to follow. Did not finish the tasting glass. Bathe in it maybe, but don't drink.
India Pale Ale
What they said:
IPA's were high in both alcohol and hops to survive the long hot voyage from Britain to India. Traditional English malts and hops give this copper brew a roasted note with a strong hop bitterness and flavour.
What we said:
Golden amber colouring. Tastes like popourri. More body than Stella. I think it's a bit 'myeah?'Beer for beer's sake. Drink for free, but don't pay for it.
Helles Bock
What they said:
A pale, strong German lager brewed with 100% Organic malt and hops. Helles has a frothy white head which gives way to a sweet malty flavour with hints of currants and oranges.
What we said:
Looks and smells like straight up beer, but not nearly as pungent as the Veebs of the world. T says, I like it: It's beer with wheat beer, but it hasn't moved in with wheat beer. It's friends with WB and happily so. Sweet aftertaste. I quite likes it. Not a girlie beer. Tangy aftertaste. An easy drinking-mans beer. Not a Gucci beer. It's a solid beery beer.
Pilsner Lager
What they said:
Our organic, German-style continental lager has a deep golden hue, with a malty nose. The first taste is sweet but leads quickly to a dry hoppy bitter finish.
What we said:
Looks and smells like beer. Beer that is comfortable with being a beer, This is not a beer dressing in florals. An easy-drinking beer. Take to a bbq beer - a real crowd pleaser. The dressy t-shirt of beers. The immigrant of beers* (T needs to explain this)
Extra Special Bitter
What they said:
Mill Street ESB uses only traditional English ingredients: Marris Otter malt, and Fuggles and East Kent Goldings hops. This copper coloured ale has a malty body with hints of chocolcate and black currants.
What we said:
Dark honey coloured beer. T is smelling dark honey, I am smelling a buffet of non-sweet deserts - cinamony, caramely, pastry. Sadly has gone flat while tasting other beers. T agrees there is a toffee aftertaste. A mealy Christmas day beer. The winner of N's tasting plate.
Cobblestone Stout
What they said:
This traditional style Irish Stout has that familiar creamy pour, with a roasted malt flavour with a hint of roasted walnuts and chocolate. Select imported hops are used to dry out the finish of this ale. (Only available in kegs).
What we said:
Looks dark and rich. T thinks it smells caramelly stout with coffee. Nat thinks it has a real chemical smell, a bit like synthetic carpet. Doesn't smell as rustic and country as it looks. Soft to start, followed by an avalanche of texture. A bit watery after food (Quesedilla with salsa), boo. Definitely a destination beer. One doesn't land here accidentally. N is not a big fan, but not a big fan of stouts in general. Could do with a bit more upfront. The pre-tasting of Coffee Porter doomed this beer. Just cannot compare.
These tasting notes were dutifully transcribed during the tasting process and therefore are a true and accurate recording of the experience, rather than a hazy memory of a beery afternoon in the distillery district.
If you've tried any of these beers, what do you think? Do you agree? Disagree? Is the Pilsner Lager the dressy t-shirt of beers? Or are we making a mockery of a sacred brew?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The rest of the Hamptons
Wandering around Southampton looking for the Hertz rent-a-car office gave me the first taste of what the rest of the Hamptons are like, the big villages of Southampton and Easthampton. It’s pretty close to what you see on television, a bit like Beverly Hills transported to the beach. Everyone under 40 is very designer shabby, all flip flops and big sunglasses and $200 t-shirts in horribly bland colours. Everyone is trying to dress designer down. It’s amusing but I’m not buying into it. For starters, I look terrible in billowy grey t-shirts. I like to match. I like colour. I like tailoring. I like to look neat and tidy. I’m going to wear whatever the heck I want, and I don’t care about the rest of you.
Shopkeepers are exceptionally rude. S tells me they are generally pretty cranky this close to the end of the season.
Apart from the shops, there are lots of high-end seafood joints and nannies pushing whining kids around in fancy prams. Oh and it’s a great place to see retro roadsters. Lots of old lavender suited gents driving around in vintage Mercedes convertibles and rollers from the 1950s.
Easthampton is the trendiest of them all, but quite frankly, I didn’t think much of it. There are the usual shops, high-priced restaurants and gelato bars. And it would literally kill these people to say thank you if you hold a door open for them or acknowledge that we’re all breathing the same air today in town. Rude, rude, rude.
Compare this to Sag Harbour. In my first three minutes of stepping off the Jitney and pulling out my map and spinning around in a 360, a local-looking guy asked me if he could help me find something and pointed me in the direction of home for the next few days.
Then there were the lovely guys who sat next to me at the bar while I ate dinner at the New Paradise Café. New Yorkers. Both very impressed that I’m traveling by myself. One has a close friend who is Australian, Peter Lowy, and so has met quite a few Australians over the years. He’s always joked with Peter that he’s so successful in business in New York because of the accent. Before leaving for dinner somewhere else, they asked Howie at the bar to take good care of me.
Then there was the lovely Colombian local who chatted to me for hours and bought me drinks at Murphy’s dive bar in a back-street of Sag Harbour. W (S’ boyfriend) had drawn me a detailed map of where to go to dinner and how to get Murph’s afterwards. Murphs is a one room lean-to of a bar in an old shack in a backstreet of Sag Harbour. It’s such a contrast to the main street, which looks like it’s straight out of a movie set. Yet, anyone and everyone drinks at Murphs. There were the kids who all knew eachother because their parents have summer places here and they’ve spent their holidays in Sag Harbour for as long as they can remember. The locals, like the lovely Columbian and apparently according to S a lot of famous people swing past Murph’s to have low-key drink without all the attention. Before he died, JFK Jnr was often a regular at Murph’s when he was in town.
In town on Sunday morning I also read that Steinbeck lived in Sag Harbour for a time in the 1950s as well as Arthur Miller and Jackson Pollack. Steinbeck wrote the Winter of our Discontent one cold summer in Sag Harbour. He probably had a few drinks at Murph’s with Arthur Miller.
So I spent my days driving around in the Cobalt, walking along the beaches, driving past the most gorgeous homes I’ve ever seen, street after street, swinging into little art galleries and boutiques, checking out the local lighthouse etc. In a word, it was really low-key bliss. Oh and because it’s only $8.99 for a six pack, I bought Caronas and corn chips that I’d crack open in the back garden of S’s place while I told her about my day and watched the sun dip down over the back hedge. But I think the experience would have been very different had I not been staying in Sag Harbour and not staying with locals.
On Sunday I had to take the car back, so I couldn’t join in the sailing, which I think Buddy was a bit miffed about. So I watched them set off and swam out to a pontoon, which I soon found out was a private pontoon. Reaffirmed by the lady who also swam out to the pontoon complete with bathing cap, to ask me if I was a friend of the family’s, because this was their private pontoon after all.
...and that was the Hamptons!
Shopkeepers are exceptionally rude. S tells me they are generally pretty cranky this close to the end of the season.
Apart from the shops, there are lots of high-end seafood joints and nannies pushing whining kids around in fancy prams. Oh and it’s a great place to see retro roadsters. Lots of old lavender suited gents driving around in vintage Mercedes convertibles and rollers from the 1950s.
Easthampton is the trendiest of them all, but quite frankly, I didn’t think much of it. There are the usual shops, high-priced restaurants and gelato bars. And it would literally kill these people to say thank you if you hold a door open for them or acknowledge that we’re all breathing the same air today in town. Rude, rude, rude.
Compare this to Sag Harbour. In my first three minutes of stepping off the Jitney and pulling out my map and spinning around in a 360, a local-looking guy asked me if he could help me find something and pointed me in the direction of home for the next few days.
Then there were the lovely guys who sat next to me at the bar while I ate dinner at the New Paradise Café. New Yorkers. Both very impressed that I’m traveling by myself. One has a close friend who is Australian, Peter Lowy, and so has met quite a few Australians over the years. He’s always joked with Peter that he’s so successful in business in New York because of the accent. Before leaving for dinner somewhere else, they asked Howie at the bar to take good care of me.
Then there was the lovely Colombian local who chatted to me for hours and bought me drinks at Murphy’s dive bar in a back-street of Sag Harbour. W (S’ boyfriend) had drawn me a detailed map of where to go to dinner and how to get Murph’s afterwards. Murphs is a one room lean-to of a bar in an old shack in a backstreet of Sag Harbour. It’s such a contrast to the main street, which looks like it’s straight out of a movie set. Yet, anyone and everyone drinks at Murphs. There were the kids who all knew eachother because their parents have summer places here and they’ve spent their holidays in Sag Harbour for as long as they can remember. The locals, like the lovely Columbian and apparently according to S a lot of famous people swing past Murph’s to have low-key drink without all the attention. Before he died, JFK Jnr was often a regular at Murph’s when he was in town.
In town on Sunday morning I also read that Steinbeck lived in Sag Harbour for a time in the 1950s as well as Arthur Miller and Jackson Pollack. Steinbeck wrote the Winter of our Discontent one cold summer in Sag Harbour. He probably had a few drinks at Murph’s with Arthur Miller.
So I spent my days driving around in the Cobalt, walking along the beaches, driving past the most gorgeous homes I’ve ever seen, street after street, swinging into little art galleries and boutiques, checking out the local lighthouse etc. In a word, it was really low-key bliss. Oh and because it’s only $8.99 for a six pack, I bought Caronas and corn chips that I’d crack open in the back garden of S’s place while I told her about my day and watched the sun dip down over the back hedge. But I think the experience would have been very different had I not been staying in Sag Harbour and not staying with locals.
On Sunday I had to take the car back, so I couldn’t join in the sailing, which I think Buddy was a bit miffed about. So I watched them set off and swam out to a pontoon, which I soon found out was a private pontoon. Reaffirmed by the lady who also swam out to the pontoon complete with bathing cap, to ask me if I was a friend of the family’s, because this was their private pontoon after all.
...and that was the Hamptons!
A note on car rentals
We HATE HERTZ. We love Avis. I booked a car online with Hertz to pick up from Southampton on Friday afternoon. I booked GPS, not a luxury in my case but an absolute necessity. Hertz will take your reservation. They just can’t seem to be able to provide you with what you’ve ordered. No GPS on any of the cars they had in their lot. After much, huffing and puffing and ‘Maybe you could take this car tonight and we can see if we can swap it tomorrow at an undefined time for a car with GPS but I can’t guarantee anything”, I said, “Thanks very much, but I’ll just cancel the whole deal and if you can let me know the number of the taxi that would be great.”
Five minutes later I arrived at Avis where they could hook me up with a car for the same price, and GPS. I told them that I’d just come from Hertz where they couldn’t deliver on the order, so I got a special deal on the Chevy Cobalt. It was no pony, but it was a coupe with a rear spoiler, but not being local, I don’t know whether a Chevy Cobalt is a cool car or not, or whether it’s just like getting a hyundai Excel with a spoiler? Shane advice?
Five minutes later I arrived at Avis where they could hook me up with a car for the same price, and GPS. I told them that I’d just come from Hertz where they couldn’t deliver on the order, so I got a special deal on the Chevy Cobalt. It was no pony, but it was a coupe with a rear spoiler, but not being local, I don’t know whether a Chevy Cobalt is a cool car or not, or whether it’s just like getting a hyundai Excel with a spoiler? Shane advice?
I heart the Hamptons
Love it or hate it – you gotta go to the Hamptons, and when you do, stay in Sag Harbour. I stayed there because it was the only place in the Hamptons that I could find an Airb’n’b place but in hindsight – it was the best possible choice. The cranky New Yorkers were right about one thing though – you need a car if you want to see it all, or maybe a yacht?
My first night in the Hamptons, I was quickly whisked away from the house by my host S. to her art gallery on Shelter Island - a tiny piece of the Hamptons jammed between the North and South forks accessible only by boat.
En route we picked up beer for the gallery party and we stopped by Buddy and Cynthia’s place to pick up S’ boyfriend W. Buddy is one cool guy. S, W and Buddy are all mad sailors. Buddy has Sag Harbour’s unofficial yacht club in a huge shed at the back of his summer place where he lets everyone store their boats during the summer. Three times a week through summer Buddy organises fiercely competitive sailing comps in the harbour.
We had to go to Buddy’s to pick up W, who was at Buddy’s after sailing to drop the boat back. Buddy and Cynthia were about to sit down to dinner, and the next thing you know, there I was chowing down on salmon watching the sun set over Shelter Island on the back deck of Buddy and Cynthia’s place right on the water – magical! Pinch me.
Buddy and Cynthia live closer to New York City during the rest of the year but they have two places at Sag Harbour for the summer. The place I went to and another place down the road which is kind of a bunkhouse/party house for their kids, so they can bring their friends home for the college for the Summer. Cool huh? According to their daughter Maggie, she's always getting in trouble for not bringing people home for the weekend to help crew Buddy's boat.
We had to make a hasty exit from Buddy and Cynthia’s to grab the barge over to Shelter Island before S was late for her own opening party. Not before, Cynthia marked me on the wall in the kitchen and wrote my name and the date and Buddy made vague plans to involve me in Sunday’s sailing comp.
The gallery party was a hoot! Sometimes I feel like I’m not really doing the holidaying so much as watching other people on holidays and sniggering and stifling giggles at all that I see and hear. The gallery party was definitely one of those occasions.
The opening was actually hosted by Karen, a glamazon that owns the gallery next to S’ and hosts entertainment at her gallery every Friday night of 'the season'. Tonight’s special entertainment was a very modern mix of images projected on a wall inside the gallery, with interpretive dancers and a DJ spinning random sounds to accompany it. In a word, it was terrible. I’m sorry, but modern interpretive dance is the biggest wank on earth. I like art, I like modern art. But I draw the line at interpretive dance. This was interpretive dance to random groaning sounds and scratching and bird noises and other crap. It was hideous. But that’s not even the best bit.
Have you ever walked past Ralph Lauren and seen a summer collection of sorbet coloured menswear? Models wearing lemon coloured jeans with mauve sweaters teamed with peppermint shirts. I often wondered who bought that stuff? I’m sure they sell a stack of gelato coloured polo shirts but I always wondered who bought the rest of the gear that always seemed to end up at the Harbour Town outlet store – surely this kind of stuff was really one item at a time wear? No? Now I know. It’s all sold to wealthy 65 year-olds in the Hamptons that actually wear it as complete ensembles. So picture this for live entertainment - I’m watching this complete garbage of a performance surrounded by wealthy old men in lavender sweaters teamed with peppermint jeans and white trousers with lemons sweaters. As I said earlier, between the performance and the outfits, and don’t get me started on what the women were wearing, there were a few times when I had to suddenly look away as a derisive smirk formed from the corners of my mouth. It was fantastic.
After the garbage performance – which I of course lied through my teeth and said I enjoyed, even hamming it up to talk about the energy of the dance and the flow between structured movement and free-flowing forms (while vomiting on the inside), we milled around outside and drank S’ beer. I chatted mostly to her friends - not a lavender jumper among them. There was the artist who is showing in her gallery at the moment and her husband who were really fun, S’ intern for the summer, Chip – a local real estate agent and Frank, a local interior decorator who specializes in mid-century pieces – hmm an interior decorator in the Hamptons oh how I want Frank’s job. Frank and I had a brief chat about the price of mid-century furniture in the US compared with Australia (which piqued Frank’s interest, again, I’m thinking about shipping containers!).
At about 11, we decided to pile into Chip’s Landrover and head for the uber cool bar Sunset at Sunset Beach. Now there’s a few cool ideas I could steal to rival the coolest bars I’ve ever been to on the Gold Coast, Noosa or Sydney. Friday is the quiet night so we just chilled out on the lounges by the fire pit – very cool indeed. And that was pretty much, the first 10 hours in the Hamptons taken care of.
My first night in the Hamptons, I was quickly whisked away from the house by my host S. to her art gallery on Shelter Island - a tiny piece of the Hamptons jammed between the North and South forks accessible only by boat.
En route we picked up beer for the gallery party and we stopped by Buddy and Cynthia’s place to pick up S’ boyfriend W. Buddy is one cool guy. S, W and Buddy are all mad sailors. Buddy has Sag Harbour’s unofficial yacht club in a huge shed at the back of his summer place where he lets everyone store their boats during the summer. Three times a week through summer Buddy organises fiercely competitive sailing comps in the harbour.
We had to go to Buddy’s to pick up W, who was at Buddy’s after sailing to drop the boat back. Buddy and Cynthia were about to sit down to dinner, and the next thing you know, there I was chowing down on salmon watching the sun set over Shelter Island on the back deck of Buddy and Cynthia’s place right on the water – magical! Pinch me.
Buddy and Cynthia live closer to New York City during the rest of the year but they have two places at Sag Harbour for the summer. The place I went to and another place down the road which is kind of a bunkhouse/party house for their kids, so they can bring their friends home for the college for the Summer. Cool huh? According to their daughter Maggie, she's always getting in trouble for not bringing people home for the weekend to help crew Buddy's boat.
We had to make a hasty exit from Buddy and Cynthia’s to grab the barge over to Shelter Island before S was late for her own opening party. Not before, Cynthia marked me on the wall in the kitchen and wrote my name and the date and Buddy made vague plans to involve me in Sunday’s sailing comp.
The gallery party was a hoot! Sometimes I feel like I’m not really doing the holidaying so much as watching other people on holidays and sniggering and stifling giggles at all that I see and hear. The gallery party was definitely one of those occasions.
The opening was actually hosted by Karen, a glamazon that owns the gallery next to S’ and hosts entertainment at her gallery every Friday night of 'the season'. Tonight’s special entertainment was a very modern mix of images projected on a wall inside the gallery, with interpretive dancers and a DJ spinning random sounds to accompany it. In a word, it was terrible. I’m sorry, but modern interpretive dance is the biggest wank on earth. I like art, I like modern art. But I draw the line at interpretive dance. This was interpretive dance to random groaning sounds and scratching and bird noises and other crap. It was hideous. But that’s not even the best bit.
Have you ever walked past Ralph Lauren and seen a summer collection of sorbet coloured menswear? Models wearing lemon coloured jeans with mauve sweaters teamed with peppermint shirts. I often wondered who bought that stuff? I’m sure they sell a stack of gelato coloured polo shirts but I always wondered who bought the rest of the gear that always seemed to end up at the Harbour Town outlet store – surely this kind of stuff was really one item at a time wear? No? Now I know. It’s all sold to wealthy 65 year-olds in the Hamptons that actually wear it as complete ensembles. So picture this for live entertainment - I’m watching this complete garbage of a performance surrounded by wealthy old men in lavender sweaters teamed with peppermint jeans and white trousers with lemons sweaters. As I said earlier, between the performance and the outfits, and don’t get me started on what the women were wearing, there were a few times when I had to suddenly look away as a derisive smirk formed from the corners of my mouth. It was fantastic.
After the garbage performance – which I of course lied through my teeth and said I enjoyed, even hamming it up to talk about the energy of the dance and the flow between structured movement and free-flowing forms (while vomiting on the inside), we milled around outside and drank S’ beer. I chatted mostly to her friends - not a lavender jumper among them. There was the artist who is showing in her gallery at the moment and her husband who were really fun, S’ intern for the summer, Chip – a local real estate agent and Frank, a local interior decorator who specializes in mid-century pieces – hmm an interior decorator in the Hamptons oh how I want Frank’s job. Frank and I had a brief chat about the price of mid-century furniture in the US compared with Australia (which piqued Frank’s interest, again, I’m thinking about shipping containers!).
At about 11, we decided to pile into Chip’s Landrover and head for the uber cool bar Sunset at Sunset Beach. Now there’s a few cool ideas I could steal to rival the coolest bars I’ve ever been to on the Gold Coast, Noosa or Sydney. Friday is the quiet night so we just chilled out on the lounges by the fire pit – very cool indeed. And that was pretty much, the first 10 hours in the Hamptons taken care of.
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