Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Baby Steps Abroad
My brother is leaving this weekend and I couldn't be happier.
And it's not because I will have the house . . . and the cats . . . to myself.
Seriously. I can not recall any time when he has ever taken a vacation. He had brochures for Alaska a couple of years back, before Mom died, and seemed serious about it once I was there to look after her while he was gone, but he broke up with his then girlfriend and the whole plan, what there was of it, just sort of disappeared.
This weekend is no where near as ambitious. His bowling league is taking a short cruise to the Bahamas. Tomorrow morning, early, they take a chartered bus to Miami. He'll be back Sunday night. I had assumed he would be taking his current girlfriend with him but he didn't start seeing her until after the arrangements had already been made and her schedule won't allow it anyway, this time, so he's sharing a cabin with a fellow team member instead.
He's got his birth certificate and other paperwork together. He's never left the country before, not even when he was in the Air Force, and has never had a passport so, even though the Bahamas aren't exactly exotic*, this is still kind of a big deal for him.
I hope he has a great time. If he does, he might be willing to try another vacation sometime. Who knows? He could develop the habit. And I promise not to get into the liquor cabinet or throw any wild parties while he's gone.
*Apologies to any Bahamians.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
My Diesel Madelaine
Sitting at a red light and a truck pulled up beside me.
Driving with windows down, as per usual, the fumes wafted over and I was instantly transported to Shaftesbury Avenue just off Picadilly Circus approaching the Chinese restaurant that offered glossy red sweet and sour pork from the second floor (or as they called it, the first floor) overlooking Leicester Square some 30 odd years ago. That was the aroma off the great red double-decker Routemaster buses of the '70s when I lived in Queen's Gate SW7.
There were around 40 of us, students and professors together, in a five story stone townhouse, with an English cook who believed devoutly in lard which she applied by the kilo and whose fried eggs never touched the pan but circulated in the oily currents until pronounced done leading us all to confine ourselves to Corn Flakes for breakfast; three maids, two Spanish and one cute Australian nicknamed "Rabbit" who went out with me a couple of times before she was sent away for fraternizing; and Mrs. Yardley, the housekeeper, who enjoyed the occasional sweet vermouth and had previously served for "Mr. Hitchkock" (yes, that Mr. Hitchkock) out in Essex during the war, where she saw one of the first V-1s impact in a field nearby as she rode her bicycle back from market, and whom, upon sufficient application of the aforesaid sweet vermouth, she described as "a very quiet man. Strange. But very quiet."
Our classes, at the Commonwealth Club, formerly the Empire Club, renamed in a fit of political correctness never accepted by its older members enjoying their cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and grumbling aloud just what the hell all these Americans were doing wandering around loose, were limited to three and a half days a week leaving the rest of the time for our own explorations, including excursions through Hyde Park on a bright fall day up to Speakers' Corner with a fellow student in a wheelchair and whose name I have forgotten to be regaled by political lunatics and religious fanatics, and trips to some little lane out near where the Crystal Palace used to be which was the location of three restaurants, all within sight of each other and all named some variation on the theme of "Pot." There were the Hot Pot, the Golden Pot and the Golden Hot Pot, the first being our favorite, not so much for the good, cheap food (although it was both, in an Italian theme) but for the waitress who came to our table of five without pad or pencil, proceeded to take our orders, served another table and returned with our meals, all correct, which she placed, also correctly, without once asking who got what. We were duly impressed.
The light changed and the truck drove off taking its diesel fumes with it. I came home.
It's different now. The last time I was in London the city seemed darker and grimier, although that may have been the effect of twilight and drizzle and early spring instead of bright high autumn. But the streets seemed even narrower, the buildings are taller, the Commonwealth Club is gone and Picadilly Circus isn't even a circus anymore, the formerly encircling streets having receded on the east side leaving Eros stuck out on a pedestrian peninsula. And we couldn't find the old house, although we may have been on the wrong side of the street. And the rent-a-Morgan dealership in the mews was long gone.
Still. I really want to go back again. Diesel hits just aren't enough.
Driving with windows down, as per usual, the fumes wafted over and I was instantly transported to Shaftesbury Avenue just off Picadilly Circus approaching the Chinese restaurant that offered glossy red sweet and sour pork from the second floor (or as they called it, the first floor) overlooking Leicester Square some 30 odd years ago. That was the aroma off the great red double-decker Routemaster buses of the '70s when I lived in Queen's Gate SW7.
There were around 40 of us, students and professors together, in a five story stone townhouse, with an English cook who believed devoutly in lard which she applied by the kilo and whose fried eggs never touched the pan but circulated in the oily currents until pronounced done leading us all to confine ourselves to Corn Flakes for breakfast; three maids, two Spanish and one cute Australian nicknamed "Rabbit" who went out with me a couple of times before she was sent away for fraternizing; and Mrs. Yardley, the housekeeper, who enjoyed the occasional sweet vermouth and had previously served for "Mr. Hitchkock" (yes, that Mr. Hitchkock) out in Essex during the war, where she saw one of the first V-1s impact in a field nearby as she rode her bicycle back from market, and whom, upon sufficient application of the aforesaid sweet vermouth, she described as "a very quiet man. Strange. But very quiet."
Our classes, at the Commonwealth Club, formerly the Empire Club, renamed in a fit of political correctness never accepted by its older members enjoying their cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and grumbling aloud just what the hell all these Americans were doing wandering around loose, were limited to three and a half days a week leaving the rest of the time for our own explorations, including excursions through Hyde Park on a bright fall day up to Speakers' Corner with a fellow student in a wheelchair and whose name I have forgotten to be regaled by political lunatics and religious fanatics, and trips to some little lane out near where the Crystal Palace used to be which was the location of three restaurants, all within sight of each other and all named some variation on the theme of "Pot." There were the Hot Pot, the Golden Pot and the Golden Hot Pot, the first being our favorite, not so much for the good, cheap food (although it was both, in an Italian theme) but for the waitress who came to our table of five without pad or pencil, proceeded to take our orders, served another table and returned with our meals, all correct, which she placed, also correctly, without once asking who got what. We were duly impressed.
The light changed and the truck drove off taking its diesel fumes with it. I came home.
It's different now. The last time I was in London the city seemed darker and grimier, although that may have been the effect of twilight and drizzle and early spring instead of bright high autumn. But the streets seemed even narrower, the buildings are taller, the Commonwealth Club is gone and Picadilly Circus isn't even a circus anymore, the formerly encircling streets having receded on the east side leaving Eros stuck out on a pedestrian peninsula. And we couldn't find the old house, although we may have been on the wrong side of the street. And the rent-a-Morgan dealership in the mews was long gone.
Still. I really want to go back again. Diesel hits just aren't enough.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Mom, A Life: Part Seven
Mom, A Life: Part Six
A Fresh Start
After the bankruptcy, we downsized for a while. The "new" house was a mid-1800s Federalist fixer, a two-story square box, three rooms down and three up. Heat came from a converted coal furnace situated in the center of the cellar with a yard-square grate directly over the furnace vent. The property was on an acre of flat land and the money from the sale of the old house (and the cheap price of the new) allowed a fresh start.
Mom, who had quit her job to raise her kids, went back to work for Dr. Adams. Dad got a job as Art Director for a large printing company in New Haven. They bought a fold down camper trailer and the family took trips throughout northern New England.
Within a few years they built an addition off one corner, making the building ell-shaped, and, although only adding one room down and one up, doubling the size of the house. By this time, I was off at college.
In the summer of my freshman year the entire family took off for a whirlwind cross country tour, camper trailer in tow, to a not-yet-realized planned community south of Tucson, Arizona, stopping at Carlsbad Caverns, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and various lesser sites along the way including camping next to a Gypsy caravan in Ohio one night and the worst steak ever in El Paso. Mom and Dad had bought building lots in both Arizona and Florida and wanted to check out the places before deciding which one to retire to. Shortly after my brothers also left for college or military service (or both).
In their spare time now that the kids were gone, Mom and Dad started a small printing business in the detached garage specializing in business cards and letterheads. Mom learned all aspects of the business, specializing in typesetting, proofreading, billing and running the hydraulic paper cutter while Dad handled sales, paste-up and plate making. They hired a journeyman printer by name of "Pinkey" to run the press.
After college and a few years in D.C., I returned home and worked with them in the printing shop before starting my own business and buying the house from them. They shut down the print shop, sold the land in Arizona and "retired" to Florida. Mom was 55 and Dad was 57.
A Fresh Start
After the bankruptcy, we downsized for a while. The "new" house was a mid-1800s Federalist fixer, a two-story square box, three rooms down and three up. Heat came from a converted coal furnace situated in the center of the cellar with a yard-square grate directly over the furnace vent. The property was on an acre of flat land and the money from the sale of the old house (and the cheap price of the new) allowed a fresh start.
Mom, who had quit her job to raise her kids, went back to work for Dr. Adams. Dad got a job as Art Director for a large printing company in New Haven. They bought a fold down camper trailer and the family took trips throughout northern New England.
Within a few years they built an addition off one corner, making the building ell-shaped, and, although only adding one room down and one up, doubling the size of the house. By this time, I was off at college.
In the summer of my freshman year the entire family took off for a whirlwind cross country tour, camper trailer in tow, to a not-yet-realized planned community south of Tucson, Arizona, stopping at Carlsbad Caverns, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and various lesser sites along the way including camping next to a Gypsy caravan in Ohio one night and the worst steak ever in El Paso. Mom and Dad had bought building lots in both Arizona and Florida and wanted to check out the places before deciding which one to retire to. Shortly after my brothers also left for college or military service (or both).
In their spare time now that the kids were gone, Mom and Dad started a small printing business in the detached garage specializing in business cards and letterheads. Mom learned all aspects of the business, specializing in typesetting, proofreading, billing and running the hydraulic paper cutter while Dad handled sales, paste-up and plate making. They hired a journeyman printer by name of "Pinkey" to run the press.
After college and a few years in D.C., I returned home and worked with them in the printing shop before starting my own business and buying the house from them. They shut down the print shop, sold the land in Arizona and "retired" to Florida. Mom was 55 and Dad was 57.
Monday, April 2, 2012
One Hand and the Other
April, it seems, is Travel Month at the town library.
April is also RMS Titanic, 100th anniversary of the sinking of, month.
The many and various posters put up around the library seem to be working at cross-purposes.
April is also RMS Titanic, 100th anniversary of the sinking of, month.
The many and various posters put up around the library seem to be working at cross-purposes.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
From the Continental Divide...It's Downhill All the Way
O.K.
For the record: I made it. In the same number of pieces I started with.
Got a good start Wednesday morning, officially 7:30 am, in reality more like 8:45 after dropping off my key, topping off the tank and getting the car washed. (Hate starting a trip in a filthy vehicle.)
The windmills outside Spanish Fork were hypnotic to the point of almost ending the trip down an embankment right then and there. I don't think I saw more than half a dozen vehicles going my way from there to Price. Stopped for lunch in Moab and continued down into Navajo country. I was just wondering if I would get the chance to see Shiprock when this perfect nineteenth century sailing vessel appeared as a gray silhouette on the horizon. Stunning. Made it as far as Grants, NM before stopping.
Thursday was pure road from Grants, NM to Shawnee, OK. The two biggest sights were, again, windfarms. Somewhere in NM south of the highway there is a table mount covered with windmills, each as tall above the table as the table is above the valley floor. Felt like I was travelling through the 21st century or something. In Texas, there was another windfarm along the road about two miles long with dozens of towers. They dipped partially behind a rise for awhile so the towers weren't visible and the blades (combined with the motion of the car) looked like they were walking across the plain.
I spent half of Friday in Shawnee when my car suddenly became incontinent and sent coolant all over the gas station apron. Fortunately, it happened first thing in the morning so the engine didn't overheat. The gentleman who came out form town took a look and decided I didn't need a new radiator after all. After following him back to town, he replaced the thermostat and the fluids and I was back on track. I made it only to Forrest City, AR, 30 miles west of Memphis before quitting for the day. I did, however, have a nice lunch at Big Daddy's in (the aptly named) Ozark, AR. The main wall consists of the remnants of an Art Deco curved wood and stainless steel barber shop imported from Germany in the 1930s. They make a good BBQ beef sandwich with onion rings and Big Daddy's logo branded into the top of the bun. They gave me a Big Daddy pen as a souvenir. (They don't see a lot of people there on a dead small town main street in the middle of the afternoon.)
Saturday was a long stretch from Arkansas to Dothan, AL. The most memorable moments were the horrendous traffic through Birmingham (Birmhingham=worst traffic, Oklahoma City=worst roads, Florida=worst drivers) and the red beans and rice at the Smokehouse in I-have-no-idea-where, Alabama. My waitress, Ms Sunny Woods, originally from Nevada by way of UC Davis and then Florida where she met her now-ex husband who took her back here to Alabama to be near his family (business was slow and she talks fast), was honest enough to recommend against the barbecue ("You can get better almost anywhere around. We buy our sauce."). Spent the night in Dothan about 30 miles from the Florida border.
Sunday was almost entirely Florida. I got a late start and lost another hour crossing into the Eastern time zone. Florida drivers drive like the New Yorkers they used to be. In spite of their best efforts I arrived safe and no less sound than when I left about 7:30 Sunday evening. I cut in front of Ida which went into Mississippi and Alabama a day later.
Mom is well.
For the record: I made it. In the same number of pieces I started with.
Got a good start Wednesday morning, officially 7:30 am, in reality more like 8:45 after dropping off my key, topping off the tank and getting the car washed. (Hate starting a trip in a filthy vehicle.)
The windmills outside Spanish Fork were hypnotic to the point of almost ending the trip down an embankment right then and there. I don't think I saw more than half a dozen vehicles going my way from there to Price. Stopped for lunch in Moab and continued down into Navajo country. I was just wondering if I would get the chance to see Shiprock when this perfect nineteenth century sailing vessel appeared as a gray silhouette on the horizon. Stunning. Made it as far as Grants, NM before stopping.
Thursday was pure road from Grants, NM to Shawnee, OK. The two biggest sights were, again, windfarms. Somewhere in NM south of the highway there is a table mount covered with windmills, each as tall above the table as the table is above the valley floor. Felt like I was travelling through the 21st century or something. In Texas, there was another windfarm along the road about two miles long with dozens of towers. They dipped partially behind a rise for awhile so the towers weren't visible and the blades (combined with the motion of the car) looked like they were walking across the plain.
I spent half of Friday in Shawnee when my car suddenly became incontinent and sent coolant all over the gas station apron. Fortunately, it happened first thing in the morning so the engine didn't overheat. The gentleman who came out form town took a look and decided I didn't need a new radiator after all. After following him back to town, he replaced the thermostat and the fluids and I was back on track. I made it only to Forrest City, AR, 30 miles west of Memphis before quitting for the day. I did, however, have a nice lunch at Big Daddy's in (the aptly named) Ozark, AR. The main wall consists of the remnants of an Art Deco curved wood and stainless steel barber shop imported from Germany in the 1930s. They make a good BBQ beef sandwich with onion rings and Big Daddy's logo branded into the top of the bun. They gave me a Big Daddy pen as a souvenir. (They don't see a lot of people there on a dead small town main street in the middle of the afternoon.)
Saturday was a long stretch from Arkansas to Dothan, AL. The most memorable moments were the horrendous traffic through Birmingham (Birmhingham=worst traffic, Oklahoma City=worst roads, Florida=worst drivers) and the red beans and rice at the Smokehouse in I-have-no-idea-where, Alabama. My waitress, Ms Sunny Woods, originally from Nevada by way of UC Davis and then Florida where she met her now-ex husband who took her back here to Alabama to be near his family (business was slow and she talks fast), was honest enough to recommend against the barbecue ("You can get better almost anywhere around. We buy our sauce."). Spent the night in Dothan about 30 miles from the Florida border.
Sunday was almost entirely Florida. I got a late start and lost another hour crossing into the Eastern time zone. Florida drivers drive like the New Yorkers they used to be. In spite of their best efforts I arrived safe and no less sound than when I left about 7:30 Sunday evening. I cut in front of Ida which went into Mississippi and Alabama a day later.
Mom is well.
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