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.
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