17 posts tagged “travel”

Well, I'm writing it at the end of this weekend, but here's what captured my attention this week:

• Fittingly, since we're in the middle of the Wimbledon fortnight, a NYT article looked at all those strange on-the-court habits of the top tennis players.  Novak Djokovic bounces the ball up to 25 times before the ball toss, and Maria Sharapova tucks hair behind each of her ears.  But my favorite?  The way Rafael Nadal obsessively towels off between each point.  And, then, of course, there's the way he's always digging his clam diggers out of his, er, butt crack.
  
  
• When I was a kid, I resisted—fiercely—the afternoon nap.  I didn't understand why grown-ups wanted to waste any part of the day.  Now, I'm downright grateful for this advice from the Boston Globe on the art of napping.  (Link via SteveP)
  
  
• Before Bloomsday gets too far away from us, this accurate, but oh-so-brief summary of the plot of Ulysses sure made me smile.  (Link via Prettier than Napoleon, who wonders why Joyce captivates some of us so)
  
  
• Speaking of little obsessions, this NYT article on casino chip collecting was sort of fun.  But I don't really need one more excuse to love Las Vegas.  That place has gotten under my skin.
  
  
• Dustin Fenstermacher is a talented photographer.  Be sure to check out his gallery of images from the cat show.  Highly recommended!  (And I'm allergic to cats.)

What caught my attention this week? 

• Shaving is something I just don't do very well.  My dad never taught me how to use a straight (hmm) razor.  And when I've tried on my own, I've left the bathroom bloodied and bandaged.  I surrendered long ago to the electric razor and the imperfect results it provides.  So this Philadelphia Inquirer article on shaving as "the new hot skin-care market" caught my eye.  And having read it, I think I'll be scheduling an appointment soon at Shaving Grace Barbers:
  
  

  "Most guys don't prepare their face at all," said Michael Sgarra, a co-owner and barber at Shaving Grace in Exton, which offers beer on tap, a pool table, and professional shaves and haircuts (way more than two bits.) "Some are dry-shaving in the shower. Some just use soap. It's pretty horrible."

  At Sgarra's shop, the process begins with a series of hot towels to open the pores and soften the hair. Then they put on a pre-shave oil, another series of hot towels, hot foam and shave twice."

  Shaving Grace sounds like the best place on Earth.  Beer, pool, and getting a shave?  I'm in.  And according to Shaving Grace's website, I can even get a massage there.
  
  
• This isn't entirely shocking for me, but a NYT article notes that same-sex relationships are more egalitarian than opposite-sex relationships.  Notably, "[t]he egalitarian nature of same-sex relationships appears to spill over into how those couples resolve conflict....  [According to one study, same-sex couples] tended to fight more fairly than heterosexual couples, making fewer verbal attacks and more of an effort to defuse the confrontation."  Also, belligerence and domineering were less common in same-sex relationships.
  
  Cool!  Now just exactly how do I get myself one of those relationships?!
  
  
• What a great gig!  Peter Meehan, who usually writes the "$25 and Under" reviews for the NYT's Dining Section, traveled to 12 ballparks around the country to sample the food.  And it sounds like a lot of it was pretty darn good.  Meehan really liked the offerings at our very own Citizens Bank Park, especially Chickie & Pete’s crab fries, already my favorite; Tony Luke's roasted pork; and the Schmitter—a sandwich built with cheese, salami, cheese, beef, and more cheese.  I have to remember to get a Schmitter at some point this season....
  
  And if I'm ever in Seattle's Safeco Field, I'm going to have an Ichiroll, a spicy tuna roll named (duh) after the veteran centerfielder.
  
  
• This week, I particularly enjoyed Sushicam's photographs of a commuter train and some big fish.  And Daily Dose of Imagery showed us the smart, apt advertising used on the streets by Toronto's World Wild Short Film Festival.  Ha!
  
  
• And, of course, it makes sense to end with A Cheese Map of Canada.  Enjoy.

• On his 50th birthday, BBC News offers an interactive timeline of the life of Prince. Highlight for me: In 1981, Prince opened for the Rolling Stones, "[b]ut the crowd [did] not appreciate the moustachioed musician's sexually ambiguous look and boo[ed] him off stage." I wonder what those fans say now. In Prince's honor, I think I'll listen to Sign O' the Times today.
  
  
• A law professor who posited that there was a 50-square-mile swath of Yellowstone National Park, the Idaho part of the park, where you could (literally) get away with murder writes about the difficulty he had (free registration) getting any legislators or judges to take him seriously. Happily enough, though, the National Enquirer did.
  
  
• NPR's Day to Day featured Teitur, the Faroese singer I blogged about a few weeks ago. There's a piece to read, you can listen to critic Christian Bordal talk about and interview the singer, or you can just listen to Teitur singing live in the NPR studio. It's a great way to spend a few minutes, I swear.
  
  
• Dan Berry visits Butte County, South Dakota, for his NYT "This Land" column. Butte County contains the geographic center of the United States, but the true center isn't all that well-visited. I love the, er, beautiful emptiness of the northern Great Plains....
  
  
• Yesterday, a NYT piece covered the dispute in Juneau, Alaska, over whether the state's remote capital should—finally—be accessible by road. I guess you know what I think: Beautiful emptiness is apparently what I'm after. Sadly, I've never been to Alaska....

Damn, I've been away awhile.  Where was I, anyway?

Actually, I have a pretty good excuse for my absence.  I spent all of last week in Santa Fe, for a conference as well as a little pre- and post-conference relaxation.  The week before that, I was in, well, a frenzy.  I over-booked myself, and I had to get myself ready to go to New Mexico.  It's a lot of work to get ready for vacation, you know?

Before I left for Santa Fe, I attended Game 3 of the Flyers' doomed playoff series against the Penguins.  The Fly-boys lost, and—really—they deserved to.  After two periods of play, they'd managed only a mere eight shots on goal.  Ugh.  It was a long night, made even longer by the facts that (i) I'd paid $300 for a seat in the Club Section (it was all I could get at the last minute), (ii) the three guys to my right were more interested in making a deal than in hockey, and (iii) the guy to my left arrived in his seat well-lubricated enough to think that his large, pointy elbow deserved a home somewhere in my ribcage.  The highlight of the evening was probably the Flyers' desperation call-up of Kate Smith, who—just as she had in the last regular-season game that I saw—appeared from the afterlife to sing "God Bless America" as a duet with the usual anthemist.  Or maybe the highlight was the gigantic XL orange t-shirt the Flyers gave fans so we'd look like some kind of tangerine-colored menace to the folks watching on Versus.  It's a tough call.

The very next night I caught a performance of Cirque du Soleil's KOOZA.  As you may know, I'm completely smitten with Cirque du Soleil: If I had any nerve talent, I'd quit my job and join the troupe [notice my purposeful use of the French-ish spelling].  Since I last compiled my Cirque du Soleil resume, I've seen both Mystère and KOOZA.  I remember Mystère, which I saw in Las Vegas in December, as one of Cirque's most traditional (i.e., circus-y) shows.  KOOZA, too, is pretty "normal," heavier on acrobatics and clowning than most Cirque offerings.  I absolutely enjoyed the show.  In fact, I'd rank it among the top half of the nine(!) Cirque shows I've seen.  Which one should I see next?

On Saturday, I flew to Albuquerque (grumble: my bag flew the next day).  On Sunday, I caught Game 1 of a doubleheader between the Albuquerque Isotopes and the Omaha Royals.  I'm a big fan of the Kansas City Royals, so I probably should've rooted for their AAA squad.  But how can a Good Guy™ root against the home team at a minor league park?  Good Guy™ can't, of course....  It was an enjoyable, action-packed game, and the Isotopes prevailed, 11-2.  I came away from the game with a snazzy t-shirt, a ballcap, and a little bit of heartburn from the Indian taco and Bananas Foster (really).  Given the team's nickname, I knew there'd be some cool atomic-inspired merch to be had, and I was right.  I'll probably be explaining that weird symbol on the ballcap for years....

The next day, I took a shuttle to Santa Fe, nestled beautifully in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains (the southernmost range of the Rocky Mountains).  My presentations at the conference went well, and then I was free to enjoy the local offerings.  I had plenty of Santa Fe Pale Ale and more than a couple of margaritas.  I had enormous quantities of tortilla soup and enchiladas.  (I'm still not sure about the cactus salad I had one day for lunch.)  I wandered the cute downtown, centered—naturally—on an old-time Plaza.  And I browsed art galleries and higher-end boutiques than I usually visit (Mom, do not ask about my credit card balances).  I came back with two cool shirts and several books, but, sadly, I did not find the turquoise bolo of my dreams.

On my last full day in Santa Fe, which was rainy and almost downright cold, I visited the New Mexico Museum of Art and the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum.  Of the two, I'd have to recommend—pretty highly, too—the former.  The Museum of Art's ongoing exhibition, How the West Is One, really captured my attention—especially as it moved from the fairly predictable early Western pieces to more modern pieces affected by the crazy Hispanic-Pueblo-Anglo influences of Santa Fe.  I was so impressed that I lugged home the 20-pound exhibition catalog.  For lazy me, that's a high compliment.

The O'Keeffe Museum was closed for most of the week, and I made it there on the day it reopened with a new exhibit, Georgia O'Keeffe and Ansel Adams: Natural Affinities.  The O'Keeffe-Adams combination seemed pretty darn forced to me, designed more to attract tourists than display any artistic similarities.  Going in, too, I was a little miffed that so much of the exhibition space would be devoted to non-O'Keeffe works.  But in the end, it was an Adams photograph, Moonrise, Hernandez, one of his most famous, that I'll probably remember best.  It shows a beautiful rising moon in an incredibly spacious sky, all over an idyllic New Mexican rural scene.  I want to inhabit that space.

As for Santa Fe, well, it's definitely beautiful, but I'm not at all sure I'd want to live there.  It didn't seem entirely real to me.  The downtown was, I'm sure, consciously made "Western" some 100 years ago to appeal to tourists.  And I couldn't quite shake the feeling that the intervening century hadn't made the scene any more real.  I felt like I ought to like the town, though.  I enjoyed the countercultural bookstores and the galleries, and I definitely enjoyed the beer and food.  I just felt like the locals had gotten so used to "performing" the West that they'd forgotten who/what they really were.  Does that make any sense?

I'm back home now, unpacked and laundered-up enough for the work week ahead.  That, at least, makes me nostalgic for Santa Fe.  Work, after all, is hard to take after a little vacation.

I spent a couple of days at the end of the week in Atlantic City. I'm not really an Atlantic City kind of guy, I swear. (I'm a Vegas guy. [Yeah, right. I wish.]) I'm not interested in playing slots, saltwater taffy doesn't do that much for me, and I don't have pleasant childhood memories of the Jersey Shore to draw on (I grew up 1,500 miles away, after all). Plus, when you venture about a block away from the boardwalk, you find yourself in what's really a pretty sleazy, depressing town. If I want to get that I'm-about-to-be-mugged feeling, I can do that a lot closer to home.

So what drew me to Atlantic City? Country singer Gary Allan. I've seen him in concert three times now, and I have to say he's pretty darn amazing.

Now, I'm not at all a fan of what passes for music on modern country stations. My tastes run toward "real" country music: Hank Williams (Sr., of course), Ernest Tubb, Kitty Wells, Merle Haggard, Loretta Lynn, and the like. But in my opinion, Allan—who somehow manages to get radio airplay—is the real deal. He's got the voice. He's got a Johnny Cash-quality swagger. And he's damn good in concert, where he really connects with the fans.

I first paid attention to Allan when I heard his cover of Vertical Horizon's "Best I Ever Had (Grey Sky Morning)." Actually—and this is a little bit embarrassing—I didn't realize for quite some time that Allan's "Best I Ever Had" was the cover. He just owns the song. His version makes it one of the saddest, most heartfelt country songs ever:

So you sailed away into a grey sky morning
Now, I'm here to stay, love can be so boring
Was it what you wanted?
Could it be I'm haunted?

But it's not so bad
You're only the best I ever had
You don't want me back
You're just the best I ever had.

I've grown to like Vertical Horizon's dreamy, alternative "Best I Ever Had," but it doesn't make me feel the heartbreak like Gary Allan's does. And, in fact, that entire album of Allan's, 2003's Tough All Over, has some of the best sad songs I know ("Life Ain't Always Beautiful," "Ring," "He Can't Quit Her," "I Just Got Back from Hell"). If you know the back story, that makes sense because Tough All Over was sort of Allan's musical processing of his wife's suicide. I'm a sucker for a sad song, and Tough All Over has good, quality sad songs aplenty. I'd have to say it's one of my two or three favorite albums ever.

Allan is touring with a new album now. Living Hard isn't quite so thoroughly sad, naturally enough. It rocks some ("Like It's a Bad Thing" and the title track, for instance), but it's got some quality sad songs, too. I'm particularly enjoying "She's So California," "Half of My Mistakes," and "Watching Airplanes."

So, yeah, Gary Allan drew me to Atlantic City and the House of Blues. I sat back, armed with a significant quantity of Jack and Coke, and enjoyed. He fired the place up. He made Atlantic City seem like a good place to be. And for me, that's really saying something.

As my last post indicated, I'm back in Philly after spending the week with family. After flying into Oklahoma, I spent much of the week with my parents and sister in a condo in the Missouri Ozarks.

Does that sound bad? Well, it was definitely a little bit bad. I didn't entirely enjoy chaperoning my elderly parents as they (and I!) attended my dad's Navy reunion. For one thing, the reunion's organizers tapped the nearby talent pool in Branson for several courses of uplifting, patriotic music. Now, I'm as patriotic as the next guy, probably more so, but how many Tributes to the States can a guy be expected to endure in a week? I sat through three. (There are only a couple of really good state songs, one of them being "Oklahoma!," of course, and I heard it every time.) That's at least two too many.

My Dad is a WWII veteran, and—as you can imagine—he and his shipmates are showing some age. Traveling each day on a tour bus with all those bad knees and walkers tested my patience at times. That said, most of the guys were pretty cool. I could pretty much imagine them as 18- and 19-year-olds on a ship in the Pacific. (And that was before my dad told a sexually explicit joke to all the guys and their wives and families on the bus.) I adopted a new family, too, a sweet vet from Oregon and his lady-friend, and I just generally played the good son. So it wasn't all bad, and it was certainly nice to be able to spend some time with my parents and sister (who, unfairly, didn't have to attend the reunion events with her brother).

It's so beautiful in the Ozarks. When I was a kid, we used to spend some of our vacation time in the area (frequently at my sister's condo). I loved Silver Dollar City, the area lakes, the country music (but only the good stuff), and the pine trees. In fact, I can imagine renting a cabin there for a vacation now. But, then, all the local entertainers feel like they have to pander to the most conservative, most religious elements in the audience. That's how one guy ends up in three Tributes to the States in a week.... Ugh.

What the Ozarks need—actually, what Branson needs—is a Queer touch. It needs a little more "Harper Valley PTA" and fewer Lee Greenwood wannabes. It needs a little more upscale food and a little less, um, fudge and pecan logs. More galleries, fewer buildings shaped like the Titanic. More bed-and-breakfasts, fewer cheap motels. My people can help, I'm telling you.

And, for that matter, I'm sure there a lots of gay people in Branson already. Several of the entertainers who performed for my dad's reunion, well, set off my gaydar. But Gay Branson is just too subterranean (in the closet?) to be palpable, it seems. If there were some organized gay tourism in Branson, some good things would follow. Unfortunately, until there's a little bit more going for it as a gay vacation spot, the bland magic shows and bad flea markets are going to win.

Maybe I should start my own tour company.... Any investors out there?

I'm celebrating my 41st birthday today. And I'm doing it from Oklahoma. Yup, yesterday, I poured myself into one train, then another, then an airplane, then another, to arrive at Tulsa International Airport to find my parents waiting for me. Unfortunately, there was still an hour's drive to my parent's house—and I was pretty much bushed by then. Traveling is hard work.

But I woke up this morning in my hometown, just a short distance from the hospital where my mom and I spent some fairly eventful time 41 years ago.

As much as I've become attached to Philly, and I have, I love being from Oklahoma. It's a cool place. Really! The drive south from Tulsa yesterday evening was gorgeous. Miraculously, it's still green here—it has apparently been a rainy late summer—and there was lots of baled hay and happy-looking cattle in fields. The accents sounded right, too. I moved to Philly in 1996, but I'm still taken by surprise sometimes by what words sound like. Here, they sound different, of course, and in a way that sounds right to me. When an Oklahoman struck up a conversation on the plane ride from Dallas, she sounded country, and—somehow or other—I relaxed.

And as much as I hate to say it, men might even be handsomer here. To my eye, anyway. I've spent significant chunks of my adult life in Philly, New Orleans, northwest Ohio, and Oklahoma. In each of those places, it seemed to me that the men were just built differently. There were lots of fit, tall, clean-shaven, muscular farm boys (and grown-up farm boys, too) in Ohio. In New Orleans, my 5'7" frame seemed a lot more normal. And in Philly, men frequently have a more obviously, um, ethnic look than anywhere I've lived before. (When I first moved to Philly, I'd be completely puzzled when someone asked me about my background. "No, I'm not Italian," I'd say, once they explained their question. "I'm not Polish. I'm not Irish. I'm from the South. We stopped being ethnic a long time ago.")

In the other places I've lived, it has taken me awhile to adjust my taste in men to the local flavors. (Recently, for instance, I realized that I'm now truly into Philly guys. Of course, that could just be Middle Age talking.) In Oklahoma, though, the guys have always just generally looked good to me. Whether they're country ranchers, or Tulsa businessmen, or the Muscogee man who sat near me at the airport yesterday, I'm interested. I guess that's not all that surprising; Oklahoma's where I developed my Queer Country™ aesthetic.

Gosh, that was quite a digression. Anyway, so I'm in Oklahoma.... I don't expect much fuss to be made over my 41st birthday. That's just not the way my parents roll. I used to wish they'd make a bigger fuss, but I know better than to expect it. I will see my sister today, though, and there's a fair chance I might get some birthday cake from her.

I probably won't do any blogging for two or three days, so don't worry about me. My family and I and going to head off on a little adventure in the Ozarks. (I still can't believe I'm doing it.) I imagine I'll have lots to blog about when I get back.

On our final day together, the Jag took me to Longwood Gardens in southeast Pennsylvania's Brandywine Valley. Longwood is one of the nation's premier botanical gardens, and it recently celebrated its 100th anniversary. Longwood was built by Pierre S. du Pont, who, of course, had loads of money—and was interested in trees, fountains, and pipe organs. (You weren't expecting that last one, huh?) All those interests show in the 1000+ acres of gardens.

I especially enjoy visiting the Conservatory. (Mandatory Clue reference: Professor Plum did it in the Conservatory with the rope.) The Conservatory consists of four acres of greenhouses, showing all manner of flora that wouldn't normally grow in the mid-Atlantic states. I'm particularly fond of the Silver Garden, the Banana Room, and the Palm House.

The Banana Room and the Palm House contain just what you'd expect. The Silver Garden contains plants of all sorts of dusty green and gray hues. They're mostly cacti and other succulents, and the subdued coloring is just one feature that helps them survive in difficult terrain. I'm drawn to these plants—to their spines and prickliness, their otherworldly shapes, their general non-leafiness. Let's face it: I like whatever's different.

I'm also drawn to the waterlily ponds at the Conservatory. Some of the waterlilies, especially those from the Amazon, are several feet in diameter. Once again, I'm drawn to the extremes. (Hmm, this trip to Longwood Gardens seems to have put some of my quirks in focus.) Anyway, at one of the waterlily ponds, I saw a tiny, gorgeous yellow-green frog. His startlingly loud croak got my attention, but he really blended into his surroundings. When he made nose, his throat expanded incredibly.

Longwood is a sort of odd mix of the natural and the man-made. (Who'd build a Banana Room in southeastern Pennsylvania?) I'm drawn to the plants, but put off sometimes by the Versailles-quality grooming. (Is it just me, or are topiary gardens actually obscene?) I had fun today, though. I enjoyed walking around for three or four hours, getting some sun, being the intrepid explorer of a manicured setting.

A couple of friends and I drove down to Baltimore today for the afternoon game against the A's. I've been to Baltimore several times, but this was the first time I'd ever been inside Oriole Park at Camden Yards.... Anyway, we rooted for the home team, and—happily enough—the Orioles prevailed, 8-4. The Park was charming, although I think the sightlines tend to be a little better here in Philly at Citizens Bank Park.

A few random observations:

• At that point in the national anthem when the singer gets to "O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave," Orioles fans yell out "O's" instead of, um, "O." That would seem disrespectful in a lot of places, wouldn't it? I thought it was sort of charming, though.
• During the seventh-inning stretch, the Orioles go, as some teams do, with "God Bless America." But instead of segueing into "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," the Orioles go to "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." Odd. At least it wasn't the John Denver version....
• We had pretty darn good (and shady!) seats out in right field (lower reserve, section nine), and they were cheap ($15 apiece). Even though it was 90+° today, there was a nice breeze. Strangely, during the entire game, only one vendor ventured up into our seats. At a Phillies game, there are two or three vendors in a given section every inning. Somewhere in between those extremes is the right vendor-to-inning ratio, surely.

After the game, we headed over to Fells Point for some seafood and people-watching. The next time I'm in Baltimore, I definitely want to spend more time in the neighborhood. I've overlooked Fells Point in the past.  While the Inner Harbor has become dominated by chain restaurants and shops (Best Buy, Barnes & Noble, ESPN Zone), Fells Point still feels sort of "authentic."

P.S. One the way down to Baltimore, I persuaded my friends to stop at Waffle House. One of my friends, a New Yorker, had never been to a Waffle House. Since I couldn't persuade her to have either a pecan waffle or grits, though, she still hasn't had the Waffle House experience.

Immediately after the beer tasting, I hopped a New Jersey Transit train to, of all places, Atlantic City. I hadn't been to Atlantic City in several years, and I hadn't taken the train to AC in maybe a decade. But, gosh, it was so easy. And cheap. For $7.25, the train took me to Atlantic City, where I was met with a free shuttle to the Boardwalk hotels. Why don't I do that more often?

Well, for one reason, Atlantic City can be kind of seedy. Because I couldn't get a room in the hotel of my choice, I ended up in a not-quite-prime hotel at the end of the Boardwalk. My room reminded me of some Best Western motel that my parents and I might've landed in on summer vacation in, say, 1975. That's not the kind of nostalgia I enjoy, you know?

Anyway, I devoted Friday afternoon to two tasks—exploring the Boardwalk and getting a massage. (I devoted Friday morning to finding a razor, which I'd forgotten to pack.) Strangely enough, it was a beautiful, almost springlike day, and the Boardwalk was a nice place to be. It was windy, though, and the ocean was roiling. Still, I enjoyed the sun. I also enjoyed the massage, of course, though the spa's masseur acted a bit too much like I might be fragile....

I actually visited Atlantic City to see country singer Gary Allan's Friday night concert at the House of Blues. I saw him in December in Las Vegas (incredibly, blogging that trip is still on my to-do list...sigh), and he was energetic, engaging, and in good form. I was pretty much blown away. And he did all that again in Atlantic City. Wow. (If you're not familiar with Allan's work, by the way, you should check out his new greatest hits collection. You won't be sorry. Unless you hate country music. Are you a hater?)

I headed back Saturday, and New Jersey Transit treated me right again. Does NJT have a fan club?

On Saturday night, by the way, I visited the Bike Stop—Philly's most prominent, er, leather bar—to meet someone (i.e., gasp, a man) I'd talked to online. We actually hung out in the Bike Stop's sports bar, which isn't leather-y at all. There were no real sparks between the two of us, but it was fun to be someplace with so many attractive men. (Note to Atlantic City: How'd you become such a magnet for unattractive people?) I even turned a couple of heads. I should head out to the Bike Stop more often....