From Jackson Square to Jackson, Mississippi

As I stood with a musician, waiting to step onto the platform at Jackson, Mississippi, he turned to ask if this was home. Seriously? No accent or Southern belle charm jumps from this sharp tongue.

At this point, the train is my only familiar abode. But it looks like I’ve moved up in the world, for the train to Jackson boasts two levels, meaning better views and more bathrooms. Maybe I feel too comfortable, for my move from an assigned car raised questions amongst the staff. Hey, the other car lacked electrical outlets. The musician, guilt of the same, looked over and shrugged. 

After acknowledging the shrug, I plugged in my dying computer and continued to type.

Hostel vs Hotel

Yes, the ‘s’ makes quite a difference. Hostels differ from motels and hotel in price and arrangement, where a cheap stay for a dormitory situation averages twenty dollars a night and a private room, fifty dollars. Though common and generally well maintained in Europe, American hostels greatly vary in quality and location. Online reviews collect a variety of opinions, which pieced together and edited create a telling description.

The Marquette House in New Orleans’ Garden District maintains two hundred beds in a convenient side street plot, a jump and fifty steps from a St.Charles street car stop. However, with the off season months, only twenty of those beds remain occupied, where the extended stay residents easily stand out. And they’re quite a ragamuffin, vagabond, smoker bunch. Well, except for the Americorp kids constantly catching a wifi signal in the lobby.

With my walking bys and hanging arounds, personalities emerged, decorating the generally stark grounds of the hostel. Nearly every morning I would descend the stairs to a shaggy blond guy uniformed in camouflage pants and a musty, green shirt perched on the picnic table smoking. The same red hooded man would offer to carry my fifty pound Crippled Suitcase up or down the stairs. And Clay, the only one I knew by name, passed by once in awhile fitted with a printed houndstooth zip up and beanie to go for a smoke or a walk in the neighborhood. As a lost boy, he will either end up continually floating or miraculously pull it together with a striking win. His arguments over industry and business left me confused and views on the younger working generation annoyed.

Thoughts of the latter frequently catch my consideration, especially when traveling and presented the opportunity to meet new people. The question arises if building one’s life around the job trumps building the job around one’s life. I have no idea, but only suggestions on figuring it all out. Recognize your needs, be it proximity to family or fiscal requirements. Keep your support close and open up to new people; talk about your aspirations. Work for the present and prepare for future opportunities. Try it out or go there and see. Alternative paths exist; directions can be changed when needed so keep a watchful eye and open ear. Be patience!

Clay’s opinion focused on the view that too many kids our age go blindly into a corporate job. Maybe yes, maybe no, but the deciding moment is if one chooses to stay and with what reasoning.

All said, I decided to leave the hostel to continue on my way. Not before spotting a peculiar red, plastic Christmas tree decorated with random paper things and Mardi gras beads in the corner of the lobby. Dana, one of the managers, leaned on the opposing wall, looking at the quirky display with disgust, “I know it’s horrendous, but I was stuck doing the decorations and it’s all we have.” Oh don’t worry Dana, it will fit right in.

Photo: Hotel Monteleone's Carousel Bar

Photo: Roosevelt Hotel

Commander's Palace

One successful, family owned restaurant deserves applause, but over five reputable restaurants under one family, merits a toast with a little ching ching of our glasses. The Brennan dynasty of New Orleans manages eateries located throughout the city, from City Park to the French Quarter, including Commander’s Palace, Brennan’s Restaurant, Palace Café, and Mr. B’s Bistro to name a few.

Perched on a corner in the Garden District, Commander’s Palace characterized the quiet grandeur and distinction of the decorated homes and its residents. A vibrant blue exterior, lighted sign, and boldly striped porch hangings lured us into an interior softer and more refined in appearance with eggshell and light blue coloring, floral silhouettes, and a set of chandeliers interpreting a classic form with a modern flare. Waiters and staff walked and biked, some even rode the street car or their scooters, to work before the Sunday evening opening at 6:15pm.

Reggie, Pauline, Henrietta and I were right there, second party of the evening to be seated. Paper menus detailed the offerings ranging from braised duck and pecan crusted gulf fish, our waiter’s suggested entree, to gumbo du jour and turtle soup, Reggie’s recommendation. Our selected Riesling and pieces of crispy garlic bread settled our stomach as we eagerly waited for the first round: soups.

Turtles swim in ponds, turtles drift in oceans, but this is the first time turtles appeared in my soup. White and dark meat pieces of these snappers floated in a subtly tart tomato soup squiggled with a line of sherry and surrounded by pieces of celery, onion, oregano, and a mélange of spices. Staff moved as synchronized swimmers, serving each of us simultaneously. Four of them marched over and looked at each other, quietly signaling, before presenting our plates to the table.

Refills of water and wine appeared in our glasses as staff pranced around the tables. The restaurant at 7:00pm approached capacity, and as we received our entrees, many just finished scanning their menus. My entrée, the tartine of local tomatoes, displayed a charming puff pastry filled with eggplant, braised tomatoes, and olive coponata, topped with a sunny side up duck egg, and surrounded by drizzles of aged cherry vinegar and black truffle mascarpone. Layered textures, temperatures, and tastes created a dynamic dish that satisfied the stomach and the tongue. .

Three Creole bread puddings, three coffees, and one piece of cheesecake finished the meal, and I broke the light peach top of the soufflé with high expectations and curiosity. Beneath the thin top layer, a fluffy, egg white filling slowly melted over the warm, dense bread pudding. Pauline and Henrietta, tough critics of this classic dessert, approved the novel interpretation, especially considering the whiskey cream sauce topping the soufflé.

Dinner that evening flowed effortlessly as staff danced, wine materialized, and food sang to the high standards that every restaurant under this dynasty maintains.

Mom, Dad, I love you dearly, but why wasn’t I born into this family?

Photos: House for Sale

A sign indicating the availability of this large Garden District house paired with an unlocked gate basically invited street walkers to explore the property.

Photos: Closed!

Photos: Rosewood Plantation

Photos: Old Capitol in Baton Rouge

Hello, My Name is ___________

Tourist

1.         Pronounces New Orleans, New Or-leans not New Or-lins

2.         Hangs out on Bourbon Street

3.         Wears beads on non-Mardi Gras days

4.         Calls a street car a trolley or cable car

5.         Waits in ridiculous line for entry into Preservation Hall

6.         Shops in French Market
Resident

1.         Complains about Mardi Gras traffic

2.         Jogs on the street car tracks

3.         Argues over the best Po’ Boy in town

4.         Hangs out on Frenchman Street

5.         Knows that the West Bank is not necessarily west

6.         Walks dog while drinking white wine

By Street Car, Saab, and Vespa

The price is right at $1.25 for a street car ride pulling along lengths of the city.  One block over and one block down from my hostel housed a stop, where minutes on my arrival a restored dirty green, Cyclops street car pulled up. Hello! Uncomfortable wooden benches lined the car, where I scooted to the window of one to watch everything effortlessly fly by. Puttering and clunking out of the Garden District, the street car rounded Lee Circle onto Carondelet Street, traveled down to Canal Street, returned back and to pass my stop, ran though the Garden District while passing Loyola and Tulane, worked up to Audubon Park where another $1.25 funded my jump onto the street car back home. An hour and a half ride quickly introduced me to the variety of living and shopping areas of the city.

Jumping on a Vespa the morning after a huge Thanksgiving dinner posed an additional risk to traveling unshielded, but no matter, if anything happened, this Varvatos leather was in for a test run. Fancy jacket, yes, ruggedly chic, one could say, Vespa ready, ha, we’ll see. Magazine Street, famous for its local color and shops, hid only three blocks from my hostel, and served as the first stop on the Vespa tour with Troy Architect. Coffee at Rue de la Course seemed fitting as another set of uncomfortable wooden seats supported my derriere. While sipping a fine café au lait, I read over a discarded Times-Picayune, the main newspaper for New Orleans, on our table, delighted by the cover story featuring the Thanksgiving dinner at the Convention Center. Almost famous!

Travels along Magazine Street saw clumps of shops ranging from antique to bridal to floral, even bars open to dogs and restaurants famous for Po’ Boys with crisply shelled French bread that perfectly sings with each bite. Dismounting the Vespa set us out on foot again, walking into unique shops including Aiden Gill for Men, providing products for the gentleman in your life ranging from shaving kits to fragrances with an additional back area set up and operational for a good clean shave; Spruce, a self-proclaimed eco-studio with distinctive surfaces, house ware, and furnishings; and Bush Antiques, comprised of rooms functionally furnished with choice antiques, especially known for their beds.

On and off again the Vespa buzzed, this time across town to Mid-City for lunch at Parkway, where Black Friday crowds slowed the arrival of a shrimp and oyster Po’ Boy, which was well worth the wait. A wait eased with a cold Abita beer, a local favorite. After lunch, I was off handed off to Talkative Mike, where Waffle, his companionable pug, joined the tour.

The Saab took us down the long entrance of the New Orleans Museum of Art, which houses a lukewarm collection, to continue on our way to see the Tree of Life, Mike’s nomenclature for a huge live oak in City Park. The branches of these stout trees reach outward, which when grounded, sprout their own set of roots. Shotgun houses stood side-by-side along the streets while we continued to the French Quarter, some renovated with standard doors instead of the traditionally tall ones, and other boarded up beyond repair.

Though familiar with French Quarter from a previous days’ wondering, tourist spots and areas were only seen, where Mike drove down Frenchman Street pointing out the Spotted Cat for jazz and Café Brasil to have a great night out. Exited the District near Congo Square to head Downtown and along the levy to pass Cooter Brown’s, where though only 3pm, Mike inquired about oysters. However, no stopping this tour, and we continued back to Mid-City to meet Sweetheart Zoya after work. She shook her head in amusement as Waffle jumped out of the car from my lap. Yes, the dog went with us. And sadly due to time, I was unable to join them at Waffle’s favorite bar on Magazine Street, the Bulldog, where owners were allowed to enjoy an alcoholic beverage with their loyal friend.

Photos: Thanksgiving at the Convention Center

Thank You for Volunteering

Scheduling my Thanksgiving in New Orleans without friends and family challenged any typical plan for the holiday, where considerations took me to the New Orleans Convention Center Thursday morning to volunteer for the sheriff’s annual Thanksgiving dinner, incongruously served during the brunch hours. Whoever planned a serving of tryptophan at 10am is un-American. Considering New Orleans diverse decent, this could be completely possible.

The door to Hall D opened onto flying high ceilings and reflective tiled floors with balloon vines, funneling volunteers, and eager eaters distinguishing the entrance. Checked in and walked through the doors to view patient tables, more balloons, a stage, twin screens, and a flow of orange-apron-wearing volunteers. Everything was up and running and my early arrival at 9:30am seemed too late!

Joining the nearest drink station by an organizer’s initial orders failed as fifteen people worked a five person job and another organizer offered a better answer. Off to the furthest drink station I contently trotted, and though the same situation existed, thirteen of these fifteen people were deputies in training and could care less if a little twenty three year old snuggled in to work the table.

In fifth grade for no recollected reason, volunteered time during recess dumping ice for the lunch ladies earned me a cheap meal of French bread pizza or chicken nuggets. Silver scoops used to gather the ice seemed large at the time but manageable as I filled cups for Americorp kids to carry out to the patient tables. More and more and more volunteers arrived, experiencing the jobs shuffle or christening as a soda fairy to refill eater’s cups with diet coke, sprite, and coke.

Being a little mystical creature seemed more fun than an iceman, so with liters under my arms, I went into the crowd. Working the floor saw much more action than standing behind a table, with eaters and volunteers dancing, hollering, and clapping to the music and marching band.  A woman three times my age danced three times as better as I could behind the stage’s standing crowd as I made my rounds in the surrounding tables. Would any of you like a refill on soda? Many appreciative nos, a handful of yesses, and a scattered questioning if a cornucopia, row of balloons, or apron could go home with them. Hey, if it makes your day better, knock yourself out.

At noon, a large portion of the first wave emptied while a second sat down. As a newly deemed garbage dog, I wandered with others collecting trash during the transition, where conversations with a local architect, Troy Architect, led me to my new dinner plans. His friends, Sweetheart Zoya and Talkative Mike, offered a 5pm seat at their Thanksgiving feast, so I traded in my previous plans of enjoying a fifteen dollar drink at the Roosevelt for a fifteen dollar bottle of wine, leaving the Convention Center content as a new adopted iceman-fairy-garbage dog.  

Audio: Band in New Orleans

Click Here to Hear the Band in New Orleans

Photo: Music Everywhere

Photo: Lunch at Cafe du Monde

Fried Food Identification

Over the last couple of days, I’ve eaten my way through the basic Louisiana catalogue of fried food. Everything from catfish to crawfish tails faced the deep fryer to end up served or sandwiched. 

Catfish:  Petit piano, rectangular, or long with ridges

Crawfish tails: Pinky sized crescents

Alligator: Stout, rectangular chunks

Oysters: Gangly tangled mess

Shrimp: Coated critter

However with such a mysterious process, these foods could take a different form. Hopefully my stomach recovers from this treacherous food soirée.

Photo: Courtyards

Conversations at Vulcan

On the walk up to this large statue and view of the city, a locked gate leads up to the site. This is a frustration for it means a walker must continue the walk down in uncomfortable conditions before climbing up their long driveway. No way was I going to do this on the way back.

While a group of second graders settled down to listen to a corpulent guide blab blab blab, my steps quietly descended down the stairs where the management offices existed with a path out to the gate.

Officeman: Hello ma’am, can I help you?

Whirlway: Well, I walked all the way up from Downtown and, well, the last part was a little compromising and I was going to exit down there.

Officeman: How?

Whirlway: There is a locked gate and I was going to jump over it.

Officeman: Let me go get the key.

Yes Officeman that would be a lot easier; I could break a nail.

‘Bama Rama

Birmingham frustrated this weary traveler. The walk from Amtrak wore out a wheel on my luggage, while the dart, their bus system, toyed with the idea of public transit but held to a quality lower than my rolling bag.

I have no idea how to fix this malfunction, but at least it can be left in my faux wood walled abode while touring a city that gradually revealed three prominent personalities. History reads of beginnings in steel and iron during the Industrial Revolution, working into the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. Remainders of both eras create attractions with guiding roads that clearly display the poor management that still exists. Headlines of the Birmingham News’s local section mentioned the possibility of three governors within one month while a headlining story reviewed Sarah Palin’s welcomed visit. Dissimilarly, the University of Alabama and the world class hospitals dominate southwestern blocks of the city with plans for expansion.

Really?

A short of my day relates. Breakfast beverage at Lucy’s Coffee and Tea sipped while looking at the two doctors and five fellows discuss salary and living. A walk to Vulcan, the largest iron cast statue EVER overlooking the city, lacked a continual route of public transport with parts of the sidewalk nonexistent on a busy road. Wondering through residents to Dreamland BBQ saw a mix of track housing and larger, aging estates. No one at the University of Alabama really knew where I could get a tour of the campus. Those doctors are really smart so I can’t rag because they can probably read minds too.

Well, probably not.

However, my walk of the campus with a UAB logo reminiscent of Star Wars typography interested an art school graduate that saw none of this in a four year college run. With large plots of browning grass criss-crossed by cement walkways in between expansive buildings, the sprawling grounds were bleak. Sunday’s gray sky continued to loom.

Crippled Suitcase greeted me while I walked over to the funky, floral clothed mattress where I kicked off my boots before dinner with family of relation that is too twisted to even try and figure out. But family is family and long talks, a microbrewed Sweet Water IPA, homemade dinner, two inquisitive tots, and Bruster’s Ice Cream sent me home happy from a night with the Coco clan. Advice from Jay, an avid foodie, applied not only to approaching and enjoying local foods, but also to my handicapped companion.

You get what you pay for.

With that in mind, good night moon and good night Crippled Suitcase.

Photo: Ole Iron and Coal

Dreamland BBQ

A job well done by all. According to a regular, Dreamland boasts the best sauce and one of two best ribs, competing with Full Moon. Cayenne peppers and vinegar give a full bite of flavor, a contrast to the area’s usual molasses, sweet sauce. Use your nose to find it because it's tucked in a residential area.

The Home Edition: Part I

Homes I liked from Annapolis, the Outerbanks + Atlanta.

Sunday Stroll

Birmingham, Alabama. Shops closed. Traffic lights hung over empty streets changing for no one. While walking to from the train station down 20^th Street, I took comfort in passing cars or the occasional lighted window, grey skies backdropped the rolling four lane street and Napoleonic skyline. Clearly, Southern blood does not run through my veins and a LA pace dominates my off days.

My strides toward and then north from the train station passed only a handful on the street, mostly African American. I’ve never felt so white or almost guilt of acts decades before my time. Wondering up and down the same roads made my alien status especially clear, and an attempt to view, new to my knowledge, a nonexistent show drove me to the anomaly of it all.

Near the Alabama Theatre The McWane Center did not stop for Sunday. Kids and parents ran around the interactive science museum while I sidestepped to the counter for a little direction. Nothing conclusive from the visit, except the obvious that nothing was open, but with copies of guides and maps in hand, my destination became clear and I began my walk northwestish; oddly the street grid is a little off kilter.

The Civil Rights Institute houses an impressive exhibit on the movement and its Birmingham context. A tour scheduled to start in two minutes did not crowd the hallways, as I was the sole visitor for this time, however the volunteer in the lobby understood with his experience living in Oakland. Those California transplants crop up everywhere.

Beginning the story in 1871, a movie introduced the framework with the advent of the railroad. Hey, that’s what I’m ridin’! Jefferson County smelled of the Industrial Revolution as coal and steel mills dominated the area, run by whites and labored by immigrants and blacks. Strikes in 1894 and 1904 raised concern and though slavery was long gone, colorlines and intimidation kept the population divided.

The screen pulled up to reveal the exhibit with sets of the areas were this separation was most prominent including schools, churches, buses, diners, and the courthouse. Time lines, audio, and newspaper articles provided a dialog with an amount of information making this an exhibit to visit multiple times. Though I’ve recently read the “I Have a Dream Speech” by MLK, the video makes me bite my inner lip to avoid any tears. 

But I found the Kelly Ingram Park outside the window odd. Though displaying sculptures about the issue on a plot of land from a peace demonstration comprised of children forcefully broken up by police, its perfectly manicured bushes and bright lawn stood out from the city. A city still grey with poverty and partitioned by gentrification, where this park only painted a picture to make the realities more digestible. I was not moved.

Starbucks does exist in Birmingham and I found myself in their Five Points area to email for the first time in twenty four hours. With an internet connection and Peppermint Mocha in hand, my initial loneliness in the city dissipated while eavesdropping on a graphic design conversation. Thayer Street all over again.

Fried Green Tomatoes

Paul and Mary know how to make fried green tomatoes. No Peter in this bunch, but to my advantage for I was welcomed to Atlanta with a ride, bed, advice, friendly conversation, and an overall good time. Their generosity even extended to sharing the double secret recipe of this southern treat.

Slice green tomatoes, mix cornmeal and flour on a plate, melt a little butter and olive oil in a pan, salt and pepper the slices, batter both sides of the slices, flip and fry for as long as it take two people to eat a plate of fried green tomatoes, serve with a mixture of horseradish, sour cream, and mayonnaise. Add a little more salt if needed. 

Ransom + Scout

Ridiculous, whimsical, and mischievous, the collection of rich leather accessories featuring characters Ransom, Scout, Apollo, Truman, and company, originally made from clay (I believe), are hand printed with accompanying stories. Discovered at Mooncake in Virginia Highlands, but available online at Ransom + Scout. /Image borrowed from Radish Underground /

Virginia Highlands and Little Five Points: The Stores

Bella Cucina: Italian pestos, oils, vinegars, and pastas formally fill the shelves while the back area showcases recipes for taste; my day’s menu included Sweet Pumpkin and Potatoes Au Gratin accompanies by Walnut Sage Stuffing. What really brought me off the street was the hospitable, white serving dishes and the plush, hanging lighting fixtures.

Rag-O-Rama: Its size and selection define this consignment store in Little Five Points. Perfectly located near vintage and independent fashion shops, Rag-o-Rama looks to be the hipster, artistic community’s closet. Atlanta is one of three locations including Columbus and Indianapolis.

Highland Woodworking: Finding a store completely dedicated to providing a variety of woodworking equipment, tools, and resources rarely sits on a suburban main drag. Many buy from Highland Woodworking and some even come in twenty years after their first mail purchase to finally see the supplier.

Highland Row Antiques: Antique stores crop up everywhere. Some irritatingly crowded and others overpriced. Differentiating is difficult in the business, but this one stood out due to its arrangement; after entering a modest store front, go past the cashier’s desk to the downstairs assembled with former art studios.

If Only I Were Twelve Years Old

Fill in the blank: On Saturday, the Georgia Aquarium was  _________ with people. 

Good job. Even a twelve year old could figure that out, but though this little joke was accessible to many, not everything was for adults at the Aquarium. Do you want to go down the Whale Slide? Nope, need to be forty two inches or shorter. Want to crawl around here? The maze of tubes will collapse under twelve hundred pounds. Alright, I can be an adult, but with an admissions price of twenty seven dollars my jealous sparked learning children under twelve years old dressed like princesses entered for free this particular day. If I were a parent of two, one daughter and one son, I’d tell little Jimmy to chose between Belle and Sleeping Beauty because there is no way I’m forking out more greens.

But I must admit, I did pay an extra fee to see the shark exhibit, which was worth the price for a quieter, more in depth experience. The Aquarium’s center compared to a Forth of July on the Charles River mixed with my childhood Disneyland; like walking out of Atlanta into a fish frenzy. Not so in the dark, winding exhibit on these big fishy fishies.

Every tank I approached, be it the Amazon, California reef, or Mississippi River, I sized up the wildlife against my strength and artifice, as well as considered if butter or a little white wine would bring out the flavor. Café Aquarius sits outside of the center ring and I couldn’t help but wonder how ordering occurs. Yes, I would like the fish from tank number nine. Correct, the one in the Amazon exhibit. Doubtful, but not a regard in my mind while touring the shark exhibit.

Sharks look mean for a reason. 5.2 meters of Great White only earns a number four spot in the world’s largest shark competition, out grown by the Whale, Basking and Tiger shark. Luckily Otodus Obliqua, one of much larger proportions, fell to extinction ages ago after sixty million years as a top predator. Touch screens, frozen Makos, really jaws, piles of teeth, and video assembled the information to frame the next part.  Media attention focuses every decade on sharks, instigated by movies like Jaws, high profile shark attacks, or front covers by Time Magazine. Though my approach includes the appreciate and avoid tactic, many interested divers and scientist continue to descend into shark waters with new devices.

Maybe starting off small will warm me up to this idea. Waiting pools with sea urchins, starfish, cownose rays, bonnethead sharks, and spiky things presented the opportunity to touch. However, the brown shrimps were not cute enough for the wet hand inconvenience.

After about two hours, I bought my postcards and exited onto Baker Street. Back to reality where every danger is not housed in glass and signs are unavailable indicating deadly plants. Well, Hotlanda damn, I had no idea plastic plants were harmful. The things you learn at the Georgia Aquarium.

(answer: swimming)

Photo: What is the Big Deal?

The Centennial Olympic Park seems so small. I set my expectations too high.

Photo: Amanda's Map of Atlanta

Just Passing Through

More good byes and morning anxieties for the start of a 30 day train trip. Nothing new and almost routine while my thought process reads, brush teeth, pack train tickets, worry a little, eat breakfast, drink coffee, over think something, pah and pah. It’s as familiar as the jumping off train station where I’ve purchase newspapers for two dollars, listened to McDonald’s jazz, and ran though distressed while catching a bus to Providence.

Watching towns, bodies of water, and people maneuvering their everyday life pass by my train window feeds a satisfaction of going and doing. The arrival and departure in Stamford, Connecticut harmonized with a truck pulling up and the opening its back for delivery. Police conversed thirty feet away near a construction site and hunger knocked as I considered the menu of the Mexican restaurant across the street. So close, but if I get off now, the wait will be some hours for the next. And I would never think about getting off willy nilly while on the Crescent Line serving between New York and New Orleans. Miss your train, well, get comfortable for another twenty four hours until the next rolls through.

Falling asleep comes and goes, but waking up has the same feeling. Where am I? Luckily my first time, I looked to my left and saw the Philadelphia Museum of Art, I-76, and its beltway, I-676. Hello, city of brotherly love.

By train, you’ll see countryside otherwise a difficult destination by car. Lost forests, lonely fog, and forgotten creeks line the tracks. Probably happy to see anyone come through, if only for a minute. It’s also like being in the Weather Channel because passing through rain, fog, cloudy skies, night, standing bodies of water that will delay arrival to Atlanta, and then sun will properly indicate how the weather will act at your destination today and tomorrow.

With a feet of lengthwise space , the train invites a walk, but don’t expect to get too far unless you develop your train legs. My confidence over the balancing abilities from ballet training were quickly tested and defeated by the train when almost ending up in another passenger’s lap.

Sorry sir.

Basically, Boston to New York and New York to Atlanta took twenty four hours, six of which should be dedicated to sleep. Everyone tried different methods; lie across two seats, use the jacket as a blanket, rest on your neighbor, fold the arms and deal, but none truly suffice. Leg room, foot rests, little pillows, and curtains ease the transition, but nightly and morning routines are less than unpleasant. All my greasy, bedraggled hair wanted involved lots of shampoo and gallons of running water. Yes, gallons!

The Plan

Annoying alarm, Somerville, Boston, coffee, New York (transfer), Atlanta, Birmingham, New Orleans, Thanksgiving, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Jackson, Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City (transfer), Santa Fe, Sedona, Los Angeles, Min's Kitchen or In'n'Out, Holidays

Excitement, Worry + Chocolate

Here I am the night before an early morning jump checking off to do lists while making new ones off to the side, printing itineraries and some internet, as well as collecting whatever else is needed, and of course, while eating semisweet chocolate chips out of the bag. 

IV. BY TRAIN

Sketchbook: Mt. Vernon

Simple Foods, New Tastes

1.    Honey Butter
2.    Celery Salt
3.    Corn Cakes
4.    Splash of Orange
5.    Pecans
6.    Molasses
7.    Mascarpone
8.    Lemon Curd
9.    Apple Vinegar
10.  Cajun Spice

Here's How it Went

Somerville, Massachusetts, I-93 South, I-90 West (Mass Pike), I-84 West, I-91 South, Rt 15 South (Merritt Parkway), I-287 West, Tappan Zee Bridge, Garden State Parkway South, New Jersey Turnpike South, Dell Memorial Bridge, I-95 South, Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, Starbucks, 495 South (Capitol Beltway), Fairfax, Virginia, Old Keene Rd, Springfield Mall, I-395 North, Rt 7 (Leesburg Pike), Bailey’s Crossroad, Peking Gourmet Inn, followed Brendan, Clifton, Virginia, I-395 North, Washington, D.C., I-395 South, Clifton, Virginia, I-95 North, Rt 50 East, Annapolis, Maryland, Rt 50 East, Sandy Point Park, Rt 50 West, I-95 South, I-85 South, Rt 56 South, Rt 50 South, Raleigh, North Carolina, Rt 50 South, Downtown Raleigh, Rt 50 North, Raleigh, North Carolina, Rt 50 South, Arguments, Rain, Coffee, I-440 East, Rt 64 East, Bridges, Rt 158 North, Kill Devil Hills, NC (Outerbanks), Rt 158 South, Rt 12 South, Bodie Light House, Rt 12 North, Rt 158 North, Kill Devil Hills, NC (Outerbanks), Rt 158 North, Rt 168 North, I-264/664 North (Around Norfolk), I-64 North, I-95 North, Rt 202 North, Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, Garmin took us to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Garmin took us to Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, 113/23 East, I-76 South, I-95 North, Rt 73 South, Crossed Delaware River, cheap gas, Jersey Turnpike North, Garden State Parkway, I-287 East, Tappen Zee Bridge, Rt 15 North (Merritt Parkway), Stamford, Connecticut, pizza, Rt 15 North (Merritt Parkway), I-91 North, I-84 East, I-90 West (Mass Pike), I-93 North, wine shop, Somerville, Massachusetts.

Photo: Last Sunset

Majolica, I Only Wish

Food continues to develop as a dedicated interest. One not explored too much in college as prepared, or nearly prepared foods, were eaten purely as nutrition or an excuse to break between studio and more studio work. Coffee and vending machine treats helped with those long nights. However, as one who frequently experiments with cooking, enjoys unique meals, and holds food loving friends and aspiring chefs, I increased my understanding of this craft ten fold over the last year.

At this point, my taste ably identified specific ingredients and combinations within dishes. Throughout the entire trip, I frequently kept note on different restaurants, their food, and service; surprise took hold as I sat through a meal that kept me questioning and wondering about its preparation and unlisted ingredients.

Majolica, located in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, unassumingly presented a New American menu full of seasonally unique dishes. Mushrooms served as a cappuccino soup, yes I gladly accepted the spoonful from the Other Half, to an ice cream with an Earl Grey favor accompanied with lemon curd and shortbread cookies supported the list. The food tasted like the perfect present ripely picked by your best friend, which was just waiting to be handed off in an understated white box. As if saying, this exists solely for your enjoyment.

My Valentine and I were guests of two of the restaurant’s backers, who knew the restaurant well considering their monthly visits. Right away oysters were ordered for the table and the beet salad eyebrowed and head nodded as a favorite appetizer to sample. No resistance on my end as I sipped a Pinot Noir we byob’d.

It was a white, square dish place. One stocked with long rectangular and boatlike plates as well as square large and square mini bowls, the later carrying a melon, cinnamon sorbet topped with crispy prosciutto unexpectedly served between appetizer and entrée. Sarah, our waitress who was working aside the chef’s wife, casually brought this surprise but excitedly reinforced our menu choices and suggested others.

Calf tongue usually does not reach my plate, however the salad on a long rectangular sported this meat thinly sliced over red and yellow beets and small dollops of horseradish cream. Not enough to split, definitely enough to politely hoard, but of course some traded for that spoonful of soup. Now, I’ve never seen cooked skate and assumed the plate presented over my left shoulder was it. Forgetting the sauces mentioned with the fish and its other ingredients, I forked and knifed though a couple bits, finding the fish tough, but enjoying the added calamari. Wait a minute…

A heated family discussion wrapped over the copper table, and my interjection over everyone’s review of the food lightened the mood, but also solved a question of mine. I had another’s entree. We laughed, exchanged over the table and went on our way. The monkfish and calamari with a chorizo broth turned out to be the misplaced dish with a bold broth that lingered as I finished the roasted skate with subtle, buttered capers and baby artichokes. An inch square cut of chicken, pieced off of a thigh that underwent hours of smoking and seasoning, dropped onto the side of my white, rectangular plate. Snatched up thirty seconds later.

We sat down around 6pm on Sunday, with no additional tables occupied. Comfortably, others filled up, and the staff kept a relaxed pace with our party until our 8:20pm departure. Dessert finished the evening and my appetite took pleasure in the outwardly stated desire by every table member for individual desserts. I happily chose an intriguing proposition; a toasted hazelnut cake accompanied by a mascarpone sorbet and caramelized figs. Maybe even a cup of decaf coffee sided the plate.

Of course I wish I could cook with such control, but I really look to design and produce pieces of work that gather such reactions. It was a dinner that took me by surprise while feeding familiar tastes and memories. I simultaneously felt five, twelve, and twenty three years old while sitting at the table that night.

Ode to Garmin

Mr. Garmin off to Philly,

Mr. Garmin back on home,

Coffee please -

Near the hotel -

Parking off street -

Maneuver around traffic is stopped on cobblestone.

Change your voice, Mr. Garmin,

You’re on mute Mr. G,

Make my car blue.

Sleepiness sets in,

This turn will not work -

Recalculate and I promise to follow in suit.

Mr. Garmin may I ask you a question,

if Ms. Garmin does not mind.

I punch in M-A-N with nothing to be found.

Is this jealous, Mr. Garmin, or are none around?

I will write a letter to your company,

To the CEO!

And the CFO!

Maybe the UFO!

That everything hasn’t been figured out,

Not quite sure if you’re worth my money.

Audio: Jazz Band in Reading Market

Click Here to Hear the Jazz Band in Reading Market

Photo: Burst!

List: Radio Repeats

States change, staties drive different cars, but classic rock stations play similar songs. Some of the repeats include:

1.    Money/ Pink Floyd

2.    On the Road Again/ Bob Seger

3.    Under My Thumb/ Rolling Stone

4.    Baba O’Reilly / The Who

5.    Layla/ Clapton

6.    Running Down a Dream/ Tom Petty

7.    Life in the Fast Lane/ The Eagles

8.    Free Bird/ Lanyard Skynard 

9.    Road House Blues/ The Doors

10.  Radar Love/ Golden Earring

...but I still b.s. my way through most of these songs

Photo: Big Puddle, Little Lighthouses

Photo: Leaky Windows

Guide: The Outerbanks with Very Stormy Weather

Summer is a great time to visit North Carolina’s threaded coast of the Outerbanks, however the truly adventurous should come over and explore this beautiful area when a hurricane or Nor’easter travels through. A little wind and rain won’t dampen the great itinerary you could create!

Comfortable, economical, well-kept, and right on the beach, the Ramada Plaza proudly hosts the brave. Wake up and jump into the indoor pool at your bedside before heading to the dining room for a complimentary breakfast, one specially granted by the card handed to you at check in. As an environmentally conscious hotel, the kitchen is not fully electrified during times of leakage, but a simple waffle, fruit, and bacon breakfast should get you off and running.

First stop at the Bodie Lighthouse down south on Route 12. Bring your camera, for the sky occasionally breaks to provide a beautiful backdrop for this mini magnificent. Considering the amount of wind and flooding, difficult looms over the drive to neighboring lighthouses, and the purchase of a three-pictured postcard including the Currituck and Hatteras Lighthouse at the Bodie Lighthouse Gift Shop should cure this tourist urge. If you brought your swim suit, feel free to jump into the Parking Lot Swimming Pool just feet in front of the gift shop.

If the flooding pulls down your spirits, head to higher ground up north at the Wright Brother Memorial, where a 360 degree view of the city, surrounding lands, and their devastation waits. 3:30 pm marks high tide and why not cool off with an afternoon swim.

The hang outs close for nothing, and a light, mint-colored restaurant, Tortugas Lie, continues to serve a solid beach driven menu year after year. Paper menus, mismatched plates, ceiling surfboards, and license plate covered walls complete the indoor flavor. Escape the weather for awhile at the Nag’s Head Bowling Center with a seven dollar pitcher of beer.

Remember to joke with the locals about the weather and they might look past your out of town status. When returning with wet clothes from vacation, you’ll boast great stories and pictures to share with friends and family.

(In all seriousness, the Ramada Plaza handled the situation very, very well. Great thanks to the staff)

Photo: Take Her On

Ida was not Invited

We thought we’d fool them all by coming to the Outerbanks at the end, end of summer, catching temperate weather without the crowds and whiny children. Before leaving over a week ago, the Weather Channel agreed with our plan. Well, true, no crowds and only a couple little ones running around, however Ida unexpectedly trailed up from the south. Two days before arriving, Worried Mom emailed about how luck I was not to be in New Orleans due to this system. I brushed off the current conditions as nothing, nervously laughing while talking to her on the phone after a four day dry spell of communication.

Whirlway: It’s a little windy, but we’re safe for the night and we might alter our schedule a little. Just hanging out research a dinner spot ‘cause we’ll probably head off in a bit.

Worried Mom: Well it’s good to hear from you and let me know, through email, text or anything, that you are still alive.

Whirlway: Love you and good night

Worried Mom: Love you lots!

In actuality, the wind kept me awake at night, the streets were flooded until the restaurant, and the carpet in our waterfront room slowly sponged up the water leaking thought the porch door. No need to make Worried Mom into Really Worried Mom even though she probably knows our realities from news footage.

We knew coming across from Raleigh about Ida, but hoped she would quickly pass through. Nope! My copies of travel books on the Outerbanks told me how to maneuver the area for one day, two days or even three, however there was no section on what to do during hurricane conditions. It’s time for an addendum, which lucky for all you folks in internet land, will preview right here!

Big Spender in Raleigh

Yep, played poker for the first time in years. Years before buy ins and years where it was acceptable if I cried over a hand. Years. A ten dollar buy in for four started off the game, which I had initial hesitations joining. My Valentine’s brother Brain gained a reputation for rough sportsmanship and of course the story from which this was extracted he denied. Here we were in Raleigh with a game ahead of us.

We smoothly drove into downtown Raleigh that morning, found a two hour curb, and began the walk down Fayetteville Street toward a visitor’s center. Maps and guides flooded its side wall. A little old lady sat behind a counter. Exhibitions on the city were down the hall in a large open room. According to the four by twenty foot timeline on its entrance, this state capitol started with a plot of undeveloped nothing to become a city populated by 400,000 people.

Good bye old lady and hello to the State House, which was visible from down the street, fronted by numerous second grade classes. All were about that age to cry over poker hands and hang off of marble statues. Luckily the classes were slow moving and parent controlled. Functional, open, and simple, the State House could be toured with ease and understanding within its circular layout. This allowed ceiling molding, thickly framed couches and chair carvings to grab to my attention and camera clicks.

However, everyone moved out by the 60’s to the State Legislative Building, where we started to walk toward. Another group of second graders lined the outside of the Natural History Museum. Well, if they are there, it must be good. Surprisingly, the free museum earned our time with exhibitions on the different types of North Carolina wildlife, motivating us to consider coming back to North Carolina for further exploration.

City Market carried a name that suggested food, but disappoint settled with a large part requiring renovation and the rest dead with knick knack shops. Although, Artscape, a renovated warehouse with small rooms off of large hallways, welcomed artists to rent multiuse spaces for retail and work. We walked though, enjoyed the displays, drifted upstairs  then down, and outside to go on our way. A talkative off time tour guide pointed us to Clyde Copper’s for a bbq lunch. Can’t beat a 5.50 meal with a vinegar bbq sandwich, accordion fries, pork rinds, and raspberry lemonade in a Styrofoam cup backed by a lively kitchen crew and house staff.

With the predicted rain beginning and our stomachs full, we headed to the car and toured the historical Oakwood, where houses from the late 1800s are maintained for their cultural value and variety. Light lavender, pale yellow, white and sky blue houses complimented the changing leaves and colored cars parked in driveways and on streets.

All talk in this game. My Valentine, frustrated by my winnings, heckled the remaining players after Michelle, Brian’s wife, went off to bed. An hour and another ten dollars added to the pot later, the game ended. No crying on my end with a fifteen dollar net profit for the game.

Let’s recap:

Day’s Spending ($5.50 for lunch) - Day’s Earning ($15.00 for winning) =  Big Spender

Sketchbook: Navy takes on Annapolis

Audio: Merry Go Round, Washington D.C.

Click Here to Hear the Merry Go Round

Audio: National Cathedral, Washington D.C.

Click Here to Hear the Bells of the National Cathedral

Let's Go!

And here we go, the adventure starts by car. Blue-Shelled Jetta will hopefully hold its health, for an earlier operation days before and the supposedly normal quart per thousand mile oil consumption worries me. After a week in Portland and Seattle, I keyed in and turned Blue Shell on, however and unfamiliar engine light steadily shown on the dashboard as I continued up the street. An ignition coil broke, cracking my savings as well, serving its plate of disappointment considering part of that money was put aside for travellin’ boots. A pair that was city friendly but told people I’m serious business. Don’t mess with the fitted half-inch heeled, mid-calf boot with a sandy, waxed soft suede. It’s the suede that sets anyone off.

9:00 am: everything packed with two thousand miles of road to travel. I never know what to bring. Books always try to give concrete advice and techniques for packing the correct amount, but I never quite listen. Seeing that CVS and McDonalds took over the world, food and supplies are always near. However, Garmin and TomTom will not direct us to any of this, so any finds will have to be on our own. An excitement, and of course inevitable frustration, seeing that I’ve always enjoyed studying maps, following the bold black lines, red lines, and empty white lines, but sometimes get so caught in the graphic mess of roads that I miss occasional exits.

Along the way, boarding includes My Valentine’s family and friends mixed with a couple of roadside and cityside hotels. Almost ten days together in a car makes problems and arguments more probable every mile and every wrong turn, and I just hope two returns home from this adventure.

No matter. At least the trip finally begins. A feeling always lingers while planning any extended outing that it won’t actually happen. It’s all a dream and will soon dissipate before the starting day arrives, in its course leaving nothing but everyday realities and responsibilities.

A number of cities will be hit on the round trip, all of which are unfamiliar or new. The list for the extravaganza tour includes Washington D.C., Raleigh, Annapolis, the Outerbanks, Philadelphia and surrounding areas, avoiding driving through New York Cit at all costs. My local library will be the last stop considering my Steinbeck is weeks overdue and the third passenger on the trip.

III. ON THE ROAD

Photo: Good Byes

Muffin Tin

Lived in Massachusetts after college, still drive around with California plates, but feel free to call my Rhode Island number. Somewhere, Connecticut commonly guessed as my hometown, while all along I wished I lived in Italy. Maybe one day I’ll be able to walk into a bank and deposit checks through the atm, instead I avoid the smiling welcomer offering to help me out with this convenient transaction. No really, I’ve tried and it won’t work, one account opened this state, the other opened in another and there is no peanut butter and jelly relationship between the two.

However, I take pride in these odd difficulties, the visible trail, all the questions of why, and the taunting during the winter when people read my plates. “Colder here isn’t it?” Oh my neighbor thinks he’s so clever. No shit it’s colder. Dig out my car and I’ll bring you back some sunshine from my golden state. Well, if I ever get there.

Preparation for this trip started almost a year ago with my mind still moving at a college pace and the continuation of my work coming into question every forty five to ninety days. I made the choice to pursue month-to-month furnished rooms in houses that wished they were museums, sublets off craigslist with lounge chairs in the kitchen and family friend’s empty nests an hour from work instead of a year lease. I would admire Anthropologie or Ikea furniture knowing it would not be. Walk into Williams-Sonoma to evaluate the shine of cooking equipment while happening upon a free cookie and shot of apple cider. Yet, excitement surged when finding a storage bin to replace my cardboard box and discovering the perfectly sized garment bags. Satisfaction stemmed not from where I lived, but how well I could leave. 

It became an identity and shrug of the shoulders when mentioning it to others. Just the way it is. Distanced myself a little, worrying about making friends I could not keep. But a year passed and still here. After nine months I bought my first major baking item, a muffin tin.

Payment

Only so much can come on the train. Fifty pound suitcases and another bag plus a personal item can accompany its owner, a standard across many transports. The blue-shelled Jetta and everything else will need a resting ground and one aware from snow. My Valentine offered spots in a hometown suburban garage and hometown suburban basement, which were invalid until a unique payment completed. Four 1741 original shutters for the hometown suburban house needed scraping, sanding, and priming in order to complete installment before the winter. Fine Tom Sawyer, I’ll whitewash your shutters, but don’t even think about trying to convince me that two days of this will be fun.

Thank you Rhode Island School of Design (RISD); years painting, woodworking and mongering in industrial design shops prepared me for the task. Times in product development even put to the test while sitting under bright lights and over speckled tiles zipping and unzipping hard-backed suitcases, zuurrrrp zur zurrrrrppppp, while confused fitting room attendants looked over with curiosity. Yeah that one will work. To check out, but I’ll keep the receipt just in case problems break on the preceding 10 day road trip.

Leaves fell, breezes swept in, chill settled, but none in the room attached to the garage where my shutters, work bench, and 1970’s radio waited. Actually, working for two days standing with a physical result unexpectedly pleased me, bring back the feeling and appetite of those RISD days. Eric Clapton, Steve Tyler and Fleetwood Mac pitched in with sing and song over that outmoded player. And I sang! Picked up ends of rhyming lines, repeated choruses and mumbled over the rest as I bopped around the table with sharp objects, paint flying. No literally, chippings launched with the slide of a blade, usually onto the floor, selectively in my eye, but never into a neat little pile to make clean up an easier occasion. Spiders from 1741 scurried from their ruin living spots and my fear made me try to stab, for all you arachnid lovers unsuccessfully, at the little bubble butt eight-legged. All this for shutters? All this to house a little innocent car and a little innocent tower of all my possessions? It could be worse, but Tom Sawyer, I know no free lunches with my storage, but what about on theses laboring days? Whatever I can find in the fridge? Peanut butter and j-j-j-jelly will do.

II. PREP WORK

Twenty Three Years Old

Admittedly, I don’t know everything. But at my age, a year and then some after my college career closed, it is not expected. Information continually streamed by my parents and other AARP magazine subscribers. Yes, suspect tells me all answers must all be in that little publication. However, if all knowledge did flood my brain, I would imagine life to be quite uneventful, even annoying, and supposedly I would move to the moon. Well damn, call me king and I would take over that floating hunk of rock.

Click click clack, a big world waited. Thank you email sent, Apple off and my last box in hand as good byes were handed out before leaving two and a half hours early that Friday with no planned return. Rebelling? Not quite, but it would make a better story. My stay at this company as a designer completed, with remorse shadowed by relief. After fourteen months, five contracts, economic collapse and four moves later, control, freedom and joblessness ended back on my hands. All wrapped and tied with the question of what to do next with this unfamiliar package.

However, at least this I knew. No more designing in front of a computer, striking inspiration from the internet and ignoring the everyday because I did the everyday, everyday. My need for expansion trumped all logic and my mom’s questions of why the next job was not already waiting for my arrival. Before jumping back into that world, I wanted to, a common need of us youngins, journey into my surroundings. Maybe even wonder off course for no reason in particular.

So here off I go on a couple little adventures with friends and family, and then on my own by train, starting on the East Coast to arrive home on the West Coast for a sunny family holiday. Well, sounds easy, but planning and scheming definitely needed here. Time in transit will be reserved for exploring, documenting, and reforming expectation.

I’ll probably get lost somewhere on this whirlway, but no reason to stop now.

Photo: Top to Bottom

I. INTRODUCTION