Travel Rewind: How We Do It in New York (2005): (In keeping with the NYC theme, here is the second of two Manhattan trip reports from a few years back.)
I stepped out of Penn Station, lugging my overstuffed bags in that sweaty, roasting city heat that radiates as much from the pavement as the sun, and lodged myself in a depressingly long line at the cab stand. The line was populated by idiots who had managed to snake themselves around in such a way that they ere strung across one of the busiest sidewalks in Manhattan. The equally idiotic cab attendant did nothing to correct this. In time, a couple of women with extraordinarily loud voices began shouting at the idiots, informing them that they were in fact idiots and instructing them in how they should line up out along the side of the street out of the way of pedestrians, noting that "this is how we do it in New York!"
The idiots just ignored the obnoxious women which, apparently, is also how we do it in New York.
Serendipitously, the New York equivalent of a rickshaw appeared -- by that I mean one of industrial strength tricycles -- with the driver soliciting passengers. He was working hard on an older couple in the cab line who were clearly afraid of a scam and were averting there eyes as if he was some sort of panhandler. I attracted his attention with a sharp "Yo!" (which is how we do it in New York), and climbed aboard with my frighteningly heavy bags.
For a ride of just a few blocks, this probably cost me double what a cabbie would charge. But having had the experience, let me just say you could ride no roller coaster more bloodcurdling than barrel-assing through midtown traffic in the back of an industrial strength tricycle. You remember that video game, Frogger -- the one that was featured in that episode of Seinfeld? Well, I was living it. Remarkably, we suffered only one minor collision with a parked delivery truck that didn't even cause my driver to slow down, although he did offer a genial wave of apology from afar. I count myself lucky that we didn't leave a path of mangled cars and bloody limbs in our wake. But it sure beat waiting twenty minutes for a cab. It is now my new favorite way to get around for short distances.
The Times Square Hilton (a good spot; actual hotel size rooms instead of the usual storage-locker-with-a-bed) did not have my room ready -- no surprise at 1:30pm, so I dropped my bags and hit the streets. Did I mention that it was hot? It would in fact get even hotter over the next couple of days, so I was actually lucky to be on my feet on the coolest day of my stay, the one day the temp didn't cross into the mid-90s.
As Captain Obvious might say, the Times Square Hilton is located in Times Square -- technically half a block East -- so I had but to click my heels three times and find myself at Broadway and 42nd street, the metaphorical center of the universe.
Here in Ann Arbor, we set aside a few days in the summer months for something called Art Fair. The streets are closed off and throngs of people come from all points to wander around in confusion, pay outrageous prices for crafty stuff that approximates art, and alternately suffer through sweltering heat and torrential thunderstorms. In return for this they get to spend a day in Ann Arbor which, quite frankly, is probably worth it. During this time, the city is packed to the gills; you cannot drive anywhere and walking times are tripled at best. When I first came out here I would attend regularly, now I avoid it like the plague. It is just too frustrating to get stuck behind these people when trying to get anywhere.
I told you all that for background. You see, the crowd on a typical day in Times Square is about the same, yet for some reason, instead of driving me up a wall, I find the Times Square crowds exhilarating. Maybe it's because as a visitor I don't have to take them too seriously. Maybe it's because, as opposed to special event crowds, these folks are purposefully dodging stragglers and teasing traffic as if it were second nature; crowds are just another aspect of existence instead of an avoidable nuisance. It's the same way with cars. These guys are constantly on their horns to absolutely no end. A cabbie pulls out slightly into traffic interrupting the flow, other drivers honk virulently at him. He pays no attention, just continues negotiating with his potential fare. Eventually the fare gets in and he pulls out into traffic unfazed while the cars previously honking just slip back into the flow without any display of anger by the discommoded drivers. Just a very strange and fascinating juxtaposition of hostility and serendipity.
Strolling down 42nd street, I made stops at a couple of tourist landmarks. Grand Central Terminal for one, with its classic architecture. It's easy to see why "under the clock" has the acceptance of locals as the location everyone knows when you need to meet up with someone. In contrast, the Chrysler Building is pure and paradigmatic art deco. Why don't they go to that kind of trouble in buildings construction anymore? Take some pride, why don't cha?
A left on Lexington to 53rd and another left down just past 5th brings you to the still relatively new Museum of Modern Art. The first thing you notice about MoMA is how expensive it is. Yeah, in the great scheme of things, $20 for an adult ticket is not a big deal, but it's a bit of sticker shock for regular museum goers. And another thing, most museums have mediocre cafeterias attached with marginally overpriced fare. While the MoMA has a couple of cafeterias (I can't speak to their quality), it also has a full-service hyper-stylish restaurant called The Modern, which is deadly expensive. The good news is that both the restaurant and museum are easily worth the cost.
As for The Modern, I'll let New York magazine describe it. As for The MoMA, it is a remarkably cool place. Spacious, multi-leveled, and structured such that there seems to be no direct plan for you to walk from points A to B to C in a certain order; the MoMA is a great museum for discoveries. The galleries run the gamut from movie posters (including much anime), to surprisingly original and unconventional sculpture. Most modern art, especially painting, leaves me cold, but MoMA has the best of it including plenty of classics: Van Gogh's Starry Night and Rousseau's The Sleeping Gypsy, assorted Hopper's, etc. (Is it wrong to call modern art classic?) MoMA is a top notch place to spend an afternoon. I could spend a weekend just going back and forth between MoMA and The Metropolitan Museum, which would probably bore the living daylights out of most folks.
The next day was reserved for lower Manhattan. The first step in this journey was to be my first ride on the subway. A trivial exercise for the most part. The famous subway tokens are history; you now pay $2 for a little card that has a magnetic strip that you slide through a reader to enter (no more turnstile jumping). It works with less than perfect consistency. The routes are reasonably well presented, but you have to watch out for the express vs. local distinction. I got on an express by accident and ended up two stops further than I wanted to be.
Riding an urban train is pretty much the same everywhere -- whether it is the subway, or the "El" in Chicago, or the DC metro. You may get a seat, or you may have to stand next to an odd smelling person; your train will likely be on time, but there are occasional delays; you can't understand a word the conductor says over the PA system so you have to be aware of what the next stop is.
The NY subway is not as dirty or graffiti laden as I expected, but the cars are all run-down and beat to hell. It serves its purpose as a relatively inexpensive and reliable foot saver, but it is not the same quality league as the DC Metro, never mind the Toronto underground. Manhattan is a big island, though, and for the explorer it's probably the best and, depending on traffic, quickest way to cover large distances. This is how we do it in New York.
The subway dropped me off in Greenwich Village, West Village specifically, a few blocks from NYU. The Village consists of streets full of little shops, restaurants, art galleries; in many ways it reminded me of downtown Ann Arbor, although much larger of course. It was mid-morning and the various stores were just getting started, it seemed a decent place for a stroll and I'm sure there were a ton of good nice spots to eat, but I had a lot of ground to cover so I paused only for a few minutes in a shady spot in Washington Square Park with a bottle of water (did I mention how hot it was?).
Next up, a dash eastward and then south on Mott street, which took me through Little Italy and then into Chinatown. Little Italy, it turns out, doesn't much exist other than as a romantic memory. There are a handful of standard Italian restaurants, but they are surrounded by Chinatown sprawl. This is not surprising; there's very little left of the great Italian immigration of the early 20th century to assimilate. There's no mass population of Italians that have not become completely Americanized. Little Italy has outlived its purpose.
Chinatown, in contrast just explodes with color and smells. Mott Street was like a great outdoor farmers market; it was a treat for the nose that's for sure. And for the eyes; vibrant primary colors applied in the typical Asian squared-slashing all up and down the street.
Towards the south end of Mott I stopped for lunch at a restaurant called -- and I am not making this up -- Big Wong. Actually, this restaurant is a favorite of Kinky Friedman, renowned mystery writer and lead singer of that great country band, the Texas Jew Boys. I can confirm that it is good cheap eats in that way Chinese restaurants have of plying you with mounds of stuff. Interestingly, at Big Wong, if you wander in on your own and there are no empty tables, they'll just seat with some strangers. Not a typical practice at most places in the U.S. (we like to claim property rights over our tables -- don't tread on me), but nobody bats an eyelash. The folks I was plopped down with never even acknowledged me or broke their Chinese dialog, I returned the favor. Tasty stuff, good barbeque duck, fast service -- ace for a quick lunch. One shortcoming: no t-shirts. I would have paid top dollar for a "Big Wong -- Chinatown, NYC" t-shirt. I think the Big Wong himself, if he exists, is missing out here.
Back on my horse, now heading for points south, into the financial district, which is much livelier than I had expected. Lots little restaurants and bars, some blocked off streets for the sake of shopping; although I understand that after dark things get really quiet. One of the more curious sites is Trinity Church. Smack in the middle of these enormous skyscrapers stands this beautiful gothic church, you can't help being struck by the contrast.
Strangely, Trinity church, and the entire financial district for the most part, was infested with clowns. I don't mean regular people behavior stupidly; I mean people dressed like circus clowns. And, as you might expect, they were handing out pamphlets. But I confess I didn't expect them to be pamphlets for the Billy Graham Crusade. Now, as all right thinking people know, Clowns Are Evil and if I were Billy Graham, I would not want my crusade associated with them. This is not how we do it in New York.
About the only place in the area that was clown free was Ground Zero. Not only is it clown free, but it's also street vendor free, and generally garden variety New York moron free. At the moment, ground zero is a big hole in the ground surrounded by a tall hurricane fence. There is not much to see, which is as you'd expect. There are a couple of memorial plaques and indicators. It was reasonably crowded with folks taking snaps of themselves and their friends against the fence. There is much hubbub about what should eventually stand in that spot. Personally, I'd be grateful if they just put up a plaque and made it a clown/vendor/moron free zone for all time.
Back up in Midtown, I met up with Miss Kate and HRH Miss Anna who had just fought the traffic up from DC. We set to trolling midtown for an appropriate dinner place and settled on St Andrew's. Great spot -- under the radar of any guide or listing I've ever read, but quite yummy.
The following day started with a visit to the trendy world of NOHO. Technically part of the East Village area, NOHO (NOrth of HOuston street) has robbed a good deal of boutique shopping juice from the West Village. Miss Anna is currently mad for vintage clothing stores, so that's where we headed. It is a very strange sensation to see these crappy, previously-worn '70s t-shirts (that I remember from the first time around) and old canvas sneakers suddenly becoming stylish, although I have to admit there is a certain campy appeal to them. There were racks of bell-bottoms and hip-huggers. Remember the brass bendable bracelets engraved with Viet Nam era POWs? I do, from junior high. The modern version is the colored wristbands that started with Livestrong. Are these things on a timer or something? Let's see, that means the 80s are up next -- pink power ties, leg warmers, suspenders, cropped jeans...please, God, spare us the parachute pants. Miss Anna eventually bonded with Yellow Rat Bastard, sort of faux-vintage-skater-style clothing. Confirmed: I am old.
Back on the subway. Here's a perfect NYC moment. We're waiting for the train when a man and his daughter ask if they could see our subway map. Sure. Conversation ensues.
"Are you from here?"
"No," replies Kate, "We're from Washington DC. How about you?"
"No," replies the daughter.
"Oh, where are you from?" queries Kate.
"The Upper West Side."
Apparently in the Village the Upper West Side is as not "here" as Washington DC.
Next stop, a long stroll through Central Park. Despite the heat, there are people everywhere, all doing the pastoral things that you would never expect to do in the middle of the city -- playing volleyball, walking the dogs, having ice cream. We managed to end up on a path that led us to the boathouse section, a spot I had never been before. A very hangable place. A cooler day and I would have been tempted to rent a boat. Instead we continued west, stopping at all the little pond lookouts and eventually exiting the park in...The Upper West Side.
Since our dinner reservations weren't until late, we stopped for a quick bite to eat at another fine restaurant, Isabella's. It is truly amazing how many good restaurants there are in NYC. Like most visitors, I check out the guidebooks for ideas, but I've never been disappointed by just stopping when I got hungry, looking around and picking a spot that looks promising.
Another thing about dining in NYC is that, despite the reputation, it's not really any more expensive than other places. NYC is theoretically one of the most expensive places in the world, but in my experience, that is confined to two things: shelter and parking. Hotel rates and real estate are unspeakably high. Parking is almost certainly prohibitive, but you'd have to be nuts to be a regular driver in this place. Beyond that, stuff is about the same cost as anywhere else as far as I can see. In fact, restaurants may be in over supply considering there was a promotion going on throughout the city for a three course, prix fixe lunch for $20.12 (in honor of the now lost bid for the 2012 Olympics),which included some places with classy and trendy reputations. [update -- more than a few $20 cocktails later, I have revised this evaluation]
Oh, and Broadway shows are monstrously expensive. Yeah, I know there are all sorts of tricks -- waiting in line for last minute cancellations and cast tickets and so forth -- that would be fine if I lived nearby and could check every night. The TKS booth is OK provided you are not after one of the top shows in town. But if you only get a couple of chances to see a show each year and you have to do it on a limited schedule, you don't want obstructed views and you need certainty. To get that, as Doyle Brunson might say, you're going to have to pay the man off. You'll have to buy marked-up after-market tickets. If things go wrong, you can't just whine for a few minutes (and maybe publish a cathartic rant on the web) and get on with your life. You have to get it right. Paying the man off for a bad play can approximate the loss of a small non-essential extremity.
Well, for ace seats to Dirty Rotten Scoundrels we had to pay man off. And I'm glad we did. Not only are my limbs intact, but I can't think of a more entertaining way to spend an evening. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels deserves a separate review, and it will get it, but let me summarize that it is a raucous, guffaw-laden, high-energy affair that contains some truly great songs and brilliant performances. Spamalot won the Tony this year, but it's hard for me to imagine it was more fun than Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. I'd verify that in person if the price for Spamalot tickets would dip below the cost of a small SUV.
One last meal, this time at Bistro Du Vent, the latest restaurant from Mario Batali, who you might recognize if you watch the Food Channel. Pretty solid French-ish fare, no complaints really, other than I expected a bit more from a renown celebrity chef. But like I said, there are great restaurants on every corner in NYC. [update - Bistro Du Vent closed after 15 months. Supposedly it had something to do with employees being very naughty after hours. - dam]
The next day brought an unexpectedly crowded drive back to the DC area (Baltimore specifically) from hence I'd fly back home. I think I'm finally getting a grip on how to stay on top of the Big Apple. Great show. Didn't wear through the soles of my shoes trying to get around. Maybe I got lucky this time. Or maybe I'm starting to figure out how we do it in New York.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Travel Rewind: A New York Minute (2004)
Travel Rewind: A New York Minute (2004): (In keeping with the NYC theme, here is the first of two Manhattan trip reports from a few years back. This was one of my very early trips to The Apple.)
A man is standing on 55th street between 7th and Broadway staring forlornly into a building that is clearly going to be a hotel someday, once they fill the place with furniture and windows and other such niceties. On the sidewalk next to him are two pieces of carry-on luggage. People are passing by without giving him a second glance in that manic way New Yorkers have. He is greatly exorcised and is talking very fervently on his cell phone, loud enough to be heard over the New York rush hour traffic. Suddenly one of the the pedestrians sneaks up behind him and yanks down the man's pants then runs off cackling with glee.
I am that man and that is actually how my NYC trip started, except for being pantsed -- that was metaphorical.
But let me start at the beginning.
We start in DC where I have a short, mid-week business conference. Rather than dash there and back, I decided to extend the trip for an extra long weekend. And rather than hang out in the DC area, where I have spent more time than gerrymandered congressman, I figured it would be a good opportunity to make a run up to The Apple. Rather than drive or fly, this time I rode the rails.
The Acela Express runs numerous times daily from DC to Boston and back, with a few stops along the way including Penn Station in NYC. Having taken this train I can think of no way in which this is not superior to flying for a short trip. Not even time-wise. Flying from DC to NYC you'll want to be at least an hour ahead of time to the airport. Then probably an hour and 15 minutes on the plane once you figure in loading and unloading and sitting on the tarmac. Then another 45 minute cab ride from JFK or LaGuardia to your hotel in New York. Figure three hours if nothing goes wrong.
The Acela Express takes about three hours of travel time. You get to the departure station maybe 10 minutes ahead of time and you have a ten minute cab from Penn Station to your hotel. Do the math.
Then consider the following:
• No security line or baggage check
• Plenty of arm and leg room
• Plenty of carry-on space
• AC outlets for your phone or laptop
• About 90 decibels less noise (you can carry on a normal conversation)
• A cafe car where you can get food and drink at will
• More comfortable seats, bigger tray tables, and foot rests
• No seat belts and no restrictions on leaving your seat
• No restrictions on or the use of portable electronic devices
• Plenty of bathrooms, with enough space to actually turn around
• Big windows with actual landscapes (although some you wouldn't want to look at)
You would have to have some sort of cerebral dysfunction to prefer flying in those circumstances. I don't know how other rail lines would compare, but when it comes to the Acela Express, Amtrak done good.
Above mentioned cab ride from Penn Station gets me back to where I started, on the street.
I made the reservation with Dream hotel, a new designer/boutique hotel, with the full knowledge that they would have just opened for business when I arrived. As a designer/boutique hotel I knew to expect an entertaining combination of quirks and luxury. As a brand new hotel, I expected there to be service breakdowns. I did not, however, expect to find myself on the street.
To their credit the folks at the Dream hotel were effusively apologetic and unerringly helpful to the point where, despite the snafu, I wouldn't hesitate to give them another try once they are actually open. I had booked the reservation through Travelocity and the general manager of Dream took the time to meet me out on the street and assist me in calling Travelocity and trying to get things cleared up, then hail me a cab to get me to where I had been rebooked.
But here's the issue. Travelocity rebooked me into a Howard Johnson's.
Now, here is the description of Dream from Hotels.com:
Float away on a cloud at Dream - and wake up to an entirely new hotel experience...a mind-enhancing lobby and three separate bars inspired by fashion surrealist David LaChapelle...sleek, modern black floors and gaze up into the vaulted, mirrored ceiling reflecting blown glass flames sitting atop decorative columns...an antique bar serve as a welcoming concierge desk and cappuccino bar...1940's style seating and hand-carved lion heads greet guests upon check-in...the tone throughout the public spaces is at once luscious and austere - intertwining fantasy and luxury. Guests are privy to numerous amenities including, for the first time in any hotel, digital cable provided by Time-Warner (2005)...hundreds of channels and On-demand movies are at your fingertips...aglow in an otherworldly blue light and filled with the most modern gadgets available including such exclusive perks as a wall mounted 37-inch Panasonic Plasma TV and an Apple iPod preloaded with ambient sound and connected to BOSE stereo speakers.
Allow that to sink in. I am in NYC and I have been relocated from a place with the above description to friggin' HoJo's. I will now set myself on fire.
OK. I check into HoJo's because I have an open mind and sometimes budget hotels can have really nice properties in certain cities. Also, because I have seen The Out-of-Towners and I don't want to spend the night sleeping under a rock in Central Park. HoJo's on 51st is not an exception. It is essentially a roadside motel that happens to be in mid-town Manhattan; peeling wallpaper, screaming redneck families in the next room, an unidentifiable liquid covering the elevator floor -- you get the picture. It's the same sort of place I would stay at when I used to drive the length of I-75 to Florida in my youth with little more than $20 in my pocket and I had to stop somewhere in the deep south, usually a place where the over/under on a number of teeth in the proprietor was three. This is what I have in exchange for Dream, with no decrease in price because it is Manhattan and, frankly, if you don't like it there's rock in Central Park with your name on it.
Great Bloody Hell. Back on the phone to Travelocity. After a 30 minute wait on hold, in the lobby because I could not get a signal in my room, I get a response. According to Travelocity, they show I approved of the rebooking. I count to ten, ask the woman if she may have recently arrived from a different dimension because there is simply NO WAY IN THIS UNIVERSE THAT I WOULD APPROVE OF BEING RELOCATED TO HOJO'S IN NYC. You may as well claim that I had a reservation at the Super 8 Motel in Las Vegas. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. This is a world gone mad.
I tell them they need to book me somewhere better. After getting passed around to a couple other Travelocity reps with different titles, but no greater ability to solve the problem, they tell me to book myself somewhere better and check out of HoJo's, but make sure they don't charge Travelocity any kind of minimum fee because Travelocity will charge me, in turn. BASTARDS. They mangle everything up and turn around and tell me to make sure to sort it out without it costing them anything. I repeat: BASTARDS. [[update: to this day I have never again used Travelocity. They remain dead to me over this. - dam]] [[update to the update: Wow. Shortly after posting this I got an email from Travelocity customer service apologizing for this bad experience from way back when and offering me a pretty generous coupon for my trouble. More on this next month, but needless to say, Travelocity is back from the dead and gets my next booking. Just wow.]]
I quickly make for an Internet kiosk and book MYSELF in a room at the nearby Hilton. Why Travelocity couldn't do this for me I don't understand. I'm told they have on occassion made some travel arrangements for people in the past. Meanwhile, I have to behave like I'm about to kill and eat the better portion of the housekeeping staff to get the manager of HoJo's not to charge a one night cancellation fee. What an ass. I worked in the hotel business long enough to know what a load of crap that cancellation fee is. Luckily I also know that in a public place that depends on service, threatening to make a scene is often the only way to get justice.
Finally, I check into the Hilton and can start my weekend in New York. I quickly ditch my bags and hit the street to re-orient myself and grab some dinner. Up 6th to 54th where I dash into Le Parker Meridien, a fine hotel that happens to contain the mysterious Hidden Burger Joint. Completely out of character for the hotel d‚cor and hidden behind a curtain with no indication that it exists is a genuine burger joint. It's the kind of place where the menu consists of Cheeseburger, Hamburger, Fries, Soda, and Beer, scrawled on a little board in front of the cash register. Sadly, I did not see Bill Murray sweating over the grill, but I did have an awfully good cheeseburger and fries.
Back out on the street; it's getting dark. I walk over to Broadway and up to Columbus Circle at the edge of Central Park, then back down to Times Square. And now I am OK. Now I am in New York City.
There are people who are awed by the Grand Canyon; people who are mesmerized by the lush greenery of the tropical rainforest; people who thrill to the sight of the snow-capped Himalayas; people who are enthralled by the barren Mojave. To me, Times Square at night along with the Vegas Strip are the most beautiful sights I've seen. This, no doubt, stems from my deep appreciation of civilization and all its Byzantine complexities and motivations. The lights of Las Vegas are similar, but whereas Vegas is certainly civilization's greatest monument, New York City is its home base.
Now fully acclimated, and with the harrowing events of the late afternoon in their proper place, I ambled back to the Hilton, sat in the wonderfully comfortable Bridges Bar with a Marker's Mark and watched the baseball playoff while writing up the events of the day, which became more comic when described in the past tense.
In some ways I don't consider these articles about my travels as traditional travel writing. Pick up any of the leading travel magazines and you will not read anything about the actual travel, you'll read about the destination. You will get desrcriptive discussions of the "feel" of a place and of the sights and sounds; most travel writing is very impressionistic. Rarely will you get in-depth personalized scoop on hotels and restaurants and museums and shops and attractions. You will almost never get stories about the hassles of getting there or back home.
There are two reasons for this. The big one is space limitations. A magazine writer will have a word count limit and often the best you can do in the allotted space is present an accurate overall impression. The other reason is that travel writing, in many ways, is about fantasy. People who read a piece about the Maldives or Tierra Del Fuego are unlikely to actually go there, but they enjoy the thought of being able to go and what a great adventure it would be. Commentary about annoying layovers, surly hotel employees, unexpectedly closed attractions, or lousy meals do not enhance the sense wonder and fascination in the reader that a good fantasy needs to provide.
Obviously my travel scribblings are not for the fantasy seeker. I do have a penchant for paying outrageous prices for pointlessly luxurious hotels, but apart from that I'm not a big spender. I don't generally go to very exotic or distant places; often, my travels are just extensions of business trips. So what does someone get from my travel writing? My "impression" of a place certainly, but also a sense for what it is like to travel there instead of just be there.
Most people don't travel all that much; once or twice a year and often repeat visits to a familiar destination or for a stay with remote family or friends. Much of the activity of travel is a black box to them. So when a decision is made to go somewhere new and unfamiliar, there is a certain amount of anxiety. What happens if my flight gets cancelled due to bad weather? What do I say to the rental car agent when they try to make me pay for gas up front? How much of a certain attraction can I expect to cover in one day? What do I do if I am standing in the middle of midtown Manhattan and I find out the hotel I booked is not open for business?
Some of this is simple consumer advice and recommended practice: "This Mazzotta character seemed to enjoy [insert experience here], so let's give it a try." Some of it is entertainment: "Can you believe this clown got pantsed by Travelocity?" But for the most part I hope it provides a certain amount of comfort that, when your trip requires more effort and fortitude than your standard stroll-around-and-drink-in-the-beauty travel piece would suggest, you'll realize it's just par for the course and you won't be dismayed or take it in poor humor. It's the yin that goes with the yang of seeing and doing new and interesting things and it is probably the most fundamental aspect of travel. Once you take it to heart only a real disaster can make for a bad trip.
Now after saying all that I have to confess that most of what I have to write about New York City is impressionistic. Somehow, coming away from NYC I can't think of the trip as the sort of chronological series of judgable events that I usually provide.
I continue to be overwhelmed by NYC and that is not something I say lightly. I don't mean that the city intimidates me (I actually find it very inviting); I mean it is just so impressive to be there. You can see NYC a million times on TV (and most people probably have) but being in the midst of it is very different. The sense of activity at any time of the day is amazing. I've been in plenty of busy places in my life but there is something very different about the teeming throngs in NYC--they are incessant. In most other settings such crowds can be maddening, but in NYC their inevitability forces you to just accept. Behavior from other drivers that would warrant a savage middle finger in the Midwest simply don't seem to matter so much because it's just the way it is. Life's tough, get a helmet. I have found that New Yorkers are not especially rude despite their rep. Perhaps this is why.
To recap a few events that stand out for me, let's start with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Excellent: especially notable in the architecture of the place and its focus on clever themes for displaying ancient art. From there a walk through the Upper East Side with stops to appreciate the attempts to bring nature to skyscrapers and to check out the genuine magnificent swank of the Carlyle and vow to see Bobby Short next time.
My friends Kate and Anna were able to drive up from DC and we managed to get over to Rockefeller Center and then out for dinner and a show. Despite a valiant struggle, we could not manage to score tickets to Wicked, which happened to be the hottest show at the moment, so we ended up at Dracula, the Musical. The play itself held no attraction for me, but HRH Miss Anna (age 12) is mad for vampires, and there is very little in this world more fun than going to a musical with Miss Anna. She completely loses herself in the story; jumps at the shocking moments, predicts what's going to happen next -- I love that.
My final moments in NY were filled with a stroll through Central Park and through the Upper West Side past stylish restaurants and little outdoor artists booths and back to Lincoln Center and on home.
All that's left for me of New York City is the blur -- the tumbling through the 24/7 light and sound show, the center of mankind flashing by in a New York minute. There is nothing in NYC you haven't seen or read about but being there makes all the difference.
A man is standing on 55th street between 7th and Broadway staring forlornly into a building that is clearly going to be a hotel someday, once they fill the place with furniture and windows and other such niceties. On the sidewalk next to him are two pieces of carry-on luggage. People are passing by without giving him a second glance in that manic way New Yorkers have. He is greatly exorcised and is talking very fervently on his cell phone, loud enough to be heard over the New York rush hour traffic. Suddenly one of the the pedestrians sneaks up behind him and yanks down the man's pants then runs off cackling with glee.
I am that man and that is actually how my NYC trip started, except for being pantsed -- that was metaphorical.
But let me start at the beginning.
We start in DC where I have a short, mid-week business conference. Rather than dash there and back, I decided to extend the trip for an extra long weekend. And rather than hang out in the DC area, where I have spent more time than gerrymandered congressman, I figured it would be a good opportunity to make a run up to The Apple. Rather than drive or fly, this time I rode the rails.
The Acela Express runs numerous times daily from DC to Boston and back, with a few stops along the way including Penn Station in NYC. Having taken this train I can think of no way in which this is not superior to flying for a short trip. Not even time-wise. Flying from DC to NYC you'll want to be at least an hour ahead of time to the airport. Then probably an hour and 15 minutes on the plane once you figure in loading and unloading and sitting on the tarmac. Then another 45 minute cab ride from JFK or LaGuardia to your hotel in New York. Figure three hours if nothing goes wrong.
The Acela Express takes about three hours of travel time. You get to the departure station maybe 10 minutes ahead of time and you have a ten minute cab from Penn Station to your hotel. Do the math.
Then consider the following:
• No security line or baggage check
• Plenty of arm and leg room
• Plenty of carry-on space
• AC outlets for your phone or laptop
• About 90 decibels less noise (you can carry on a normal conversation)
• A cafe car where you can get food and drink at will
• More comfortable seats, bigger tray tables, and foot rests
• No seat belts and no restrictions on leaving your seat
• No restrictions on or the use of portable electronic devices
• Plenty of bathrooms, with enough space to actually turn around
• Big windows with actual landscapes (although some you wouldn't want to look at)
You would have to have some sort of cerebral dysfunction to prefer flying in those circumstances. I don't know how other rail lines would compare, but when it comes to the Acela Express, Amtrak done good.
Above mentioned cab ride from Penn Station gets me back to where I started, on the street.
I made the reservation with Dream hotel, a new designer/boutique hotel, with the full knowledge that they would have just opened for business when I arrived. As a designer/boutique hotel I knew to expect an entertaining combination of quirks and luxury. As a brand new hotel, I expected there to be service breakdowns. I did not, however, expect to find myself on the street.
To their credit the folks at the Dream hotel were effusively apologetic and unerringly helpful to the point where, despite the snafu, I wouldn't hesitate to give them another try once they are actually open. I had booked the reservation through Travelocity and the general manager of Dream took the time to meet me out on the street and assist me in calling Travelocity and trying to get things cleared up, then hail me a cab to get me to where I had been rebooked.
But here's the issue. Travelocity rebooked me into a Howard Johnson's.
Now, here is the description of Dream from Hotels.com:
Float away on a cloud at Dream - and wake up to an entirely new hotel experience...a mind-enhancing lobby and three separate bars inspired by fashion surrealist David LaChapelle...sleek, modern black floors and gaze up into the vaulted, mirrored ceiling reflecting blown glass flames sitting atop decorative columns...an antique bar serve as a welcoming concierge desk and cappuccino bar...1940's style seating and hand-carved lion heads greet guests upon check-in...the tone throughout the public spaces is at once luscious and austere - intertwining fantasy and luxury. Guests are privy to numerous amenities including, for the first time in any hotel, digital cable provided by Time-Warner (2005)...hundreds of channels and On-demand movies are at your fingertips...aglow in an otherworldly blue light and filled with the most modern gadgets available including such exclusive perks as a wall mounted 37-inch Panasonic Plasma TV and an Apple iPod preloaded with ambient sound and connected to BOSE stereo speakers.
Allow that to sink in. I am in NYC and I have been relocated from a place with the above description to friggin' HoJo's. I will now set myself on fire.
OK. I check into HoJo's because I have an open mind and sometimes budget hotels can have really nice properties in certain cities. Also, because I have seen The Out-of-Towners and I don't want to spend the night sleeping under a rock in Central Park. HoJo's on 51st is not an exception. It is essentially a roadside motel that happens to be in mid-town Manhattan; peeling wallpaper, screaming redneck families in the next room, an unidentifiable liquid covering the elevator floor -- you get the picture. It's the same sort of place I would stay at when I used to drive the length of I-75 to Florida in my youth with little more than $20 in my pocket and I had to stop somewhere in the deep south, usually a place where the over/under on a number of teeth in the proprietor was three. This is what I have in exchange for Dream, with no decrease in price because it is Manhattan and, frankly, if you don't like it there's rock in Central Park with your name on it.
Great Bloody Hell. Back on the phone to Travelocity. After a 30 minute wait on hold, in the lobby because I could not get a signal in my room, I get a response. According to Travelocity, they show I approved of the rebooking. I count to ten, ask the woman if she may have recently arrived from a different dimension because there is simply NO WAY IN THIS UNIVERSE THAT I WOULD APPROVE OF BEING RELOCATED TO HOJO'S IN NYC. You may as well claim that I had a reservation at the Super 8 Motel in Las Vegas. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. This is a world gone mad.
I tell them they need to book me somewhere better. After getting passed around to a couple other Travelocity reps with different titles, but no greater ability to solve the problem, they tell me to book myself somewhere better and check out of HoJo's, but make sure they don't charge Travelocity any kind of minimum fee because Travelocity will charge me, in turn. BASTARDS. They mangle everything up and turn around and tell me to make sure to sort it out without it costing them anything. I repeat: BASTARDS. [[update: to this day I have never again used Travelocity. They remain dead to me over this. - dam]] [[update to the update: Wow. Shortly after posting this I got an email from Travelocity customer service apologizing for this bad experience from way back when and offering me a pretty generous coupon for my trouble. More on this next month, but needless to say, Travelocity is back from the dead and gets my next booking. Just wow.]]
I quickly make for an Internet kiosk and book MYSELF in a room at the nearby Hilton. Why Travelocity couldn't do this for me I don't understand. I'm told they have on occassion made some travel arrangements for people in the past. Meanwhile, I have to behave like I'm about to kill and eat the better portion of the housekeeping staff to get the manager of HoJo's not to charge a one night cancellation fee. What an ass. I worked in the hotel business long enough to know what a load of crap that cancellation fee is. Luckily I also know that in a public place that depends on service, threatening to make a scene is often the only way to get justice.
Finally, I check into the Hilton and can start my weekend in New York. I quickly ditch my bags and hit the street to re-orient myself and grab some dinner. Up 6th to 54th where I dash into Le Parker Meridien, a fine hotel that happens to contain the mysterious Hidden Burger Joint. Completely out of character for the hotel d‚cor and hidden behind a curtain with no indication that it exists is a genuine burger joint. It's the kind of place where the menu consists of Cheeseburger, Hamburger, Fries, Soda, and Beer, scrawled on a little board in front of the cash register. Sadly, I did not see Bill Murray sweating over the grill, but I did have an awfully good cheeseburger and fries.
Back out on the street; it's getting dark. I walk over to Broadway and up to Columbus Circle at the edge of Central Park, then back down to Times Square. And now I am OK. Now I am in New York City.
There are people who are awed by the Grand Canyon; people who are mesmerized by the lush greenery of the tropical rainforest; people who thrill to the sight of the snow-capped Himalayas; people who are enthralled by the barren Mojave. To me, Times Square at night along with the Vegas Strip are the most beautiful sights I've seen. This, no doubt, stems from my deep appreciation of civilization and all its Byzantine complexities and motivations. The lights of Las Vegas are similar, but whereas Vegas is certainly civilization's greatest monument, New York City is its home base.
Now fully acclimated, and with the harrowing events of the late afternoon in their proper place, I ambled back to the Hilton, sat in the wonderfully comfortable Bridges Bar with a Marker's Mark and watched the baseball playoff while writing up the events of the day, which became more comic when described in the past tense.
In some ways I don't consider these articles about my travels as traditional travel writing. Pick up any of the leading travel magazines and you will not read anything about the actual travel, you'll read about the destination. You will get desrcriptive discussions of the "feel" of a place and of the sights and sounds; most travel writing is very impressionistic. Rarely will you get in-depth personalized scoop on hotels and restaurants and museums and shops and attractions. You will almost never get stories about the hassles of getting there or back home.
There are two reasons for this. The big one is space limitations. A magazine writer will have a word count limit and often the best you can do in the allotted space is present an accurate overall impression. The other reason is that travel writing, in many ways, is about fantasy. People who read a piece about the Maldives or Tierra Del Fuego are unlikely to actually go there, but they enjoy the thought of being able to go and what a great adventure it would be. Commentary about annoying layovers, surly hotel employees, unexpectedly closed attractions, or lousy meals do not enhance the sense wonder and fascination in the reader that a good fantasy needs to provide.
Obviously my travel scribblings are not for the fantasy seeker. I do have a penchant for paying outrageous prices for pointlessly luxurious hotels, but apart from that I'm not a big spender. I don't generally go to very exotic or distant places; often, my travels are just extensions of business trips. So what does someone get from my travel writing? My "impression" of a place certainly, but also a sense for what it is like to travel there instead of just be there.
Most people don't travel all that much; once or twice a year and often repeat visits to a familiar destination or for a stay with remote family or friends. Much of the activity of travel is a black box to them. So when a decision is made to go somewhere new and unfamiliar, there is a certain amount of anxiety. What happens if my flight gets cancelled due to bad weather? What do I say to the rental car agent when they try to make me pay for gas up front? How much of a certain attraction can I expect to cover in one day? What do I do if I am standing in the middle of midtown Manhattan and I find out the hotel I booked is not open for business?
Some of this is simple consumer advice and recommended practice: "This Mazzotta character seemed to enjoy [insert experience here], so let's give it a try." Some of it is entertainment: "Can you believe this clown got pantsed by Travelocity?" But for the most part I hope it provides a certain amount of comfort that, when your trip requires more effort and fortitude than your standard stroll-around-and-drink-in-the-beauty travel piece would suggest, you'll realize it's just par for the course and you won't be dismayed or take it in poor humor. It's the yin that goes with the yang of seeing and doing new and interesting things and it is probably the most fundamental aspect of travel. Once you take it to heart only a real disaster can make for a bad trip.
Now after saying all that I have to confess that most of what I have to write about New York City is impressionistic. Somehow, coming away from NYC I can't think of the trip as the sort of chronological series of judgable events that I usually provide.
I continue to be overwhelmed by NYC and that is not something I say lightly. I don't mean that the city intimidates me (I actually find it very inviting); I mean it is just so impressive to be there. You can see NYC a million times on TV (and most people probably have) but being in the midst of it is very different. The sense of activity at any time of the day is amazing. I've been in plenty of busy places in my life but there is something very different about the teeming throngs in NYC--they are incessant. In most other settings such crowds can be maddening, but in NYC their inevitability forces you to just accept. Behavior from other drivers that would warrant a savage middle finger in the Midwest simply don't seem to matter so much because it's just the way it is. Life's tough, get a helmet. I have found that New Yorkers are not especially rude despite their rep. Perhaps this is why.
To recap a few events that stand out for me, let's start with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Excellent: especially notable in the architecture of the place and its focus on clever themes for displaying ancient art. From there a walk through the Upper East Side with stops to appreciate the attempts to bring nature to skyscrapers and to check out the genuine magnificent swank of the Carlyle and vow to see Bobby Short next time.
My friends Kate and Anna were able to drive up from DC and we managed to get over to Rockefeller Center and then out for dinner and a show. Despite a valiant struggle, we could not manage to score tickets to Wicked, which happened to be the hottest show at the moment, so we ended up at Dracula, the Musical. The play itself held no attraction for me, but HRH Miss Anna (age 12) is mad for vampires, and there is very little in this world more fun than going to a musical with Miss Anna. She completely loses herself in the story; jumps at the shocking moments, predicts what's going to happen next -- I love that.
My final moments in NY were filled with a stroll through Central Park and through the Upper West Side past stylish restaurants and little outdoor artists booths and back to Lincoln Center and on home.
All that's left for me of New York City is the blur -- the tumbling through the 24/7 light and sound show, the center of mankind flashing by in a New York minute. There is nothing in NYC you haven't seen or read about but being there makes all the difference.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
The Month That Was - February 2009
The Month That Was - February 2009: Heavy on Florida this month. I went down to the keys for few leisurely days because this winter has been atrocious (pics on SmugMug). A full recounting is below, along with two Florida travel rewinds from years back. I have been light on travel of late and that will probably continue for the first half of the year. I hope to make up for it after half-time.
Apart from that, the big accomplishment of the month is getting Apple Pie available for Kindle. It's not a difficult task if you have passable technical skills, it is tedious however. But Business As Usual is coming along more quickly -- if I could get a break from weekend work spill over and doing my father's taxes and other writing I don't want to lose momentum on, I could knock it off fairly quickly.
Both will be priced at $4.84 which Amazon will subsequently discount a few pennies. You pay more than that for a Starbucks. Really, if you have a Kindle, there's no reason not to download. (If you don't have a Kindle, well, the price of the books will be trivial compared to the $359 purchase price so again, no excuse not to purchase.) And, just as I was posting this, I see there is now a free Kindle app for Apple's iPhone and iPod Touch. So you pod people have no excuse either.
As promised, I'm giving you a break from Detroit bashing this month. But oh how I want to let loose. We'll see how long I can hold my horses.
Up the Amazon
Sour on Apple
Book Look: The Man Who Was Thursday
Book Look: Honest Signals
Book Look: Some Buried Caesar
Flick Check: Bringing Out the Dead
Flick Check: Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
Keys to My Heart
Travel Rewind: Babylon on the Make
Travel Rewind: The Gold-Plated Swamp
Apart from that, the big accomplishment of the month is getting Apple Pie available for Kindle. It's not a difficult task if you have passable technical skills, it is tedious however. But Business As Usual is coming along more quickly -- if I could get a break from weekend work spill over and doing my father's taxes and other writing I don't want to lose momentum on, I could knock it off fairly quickly.
Both will be priced at $4.84 which Amazon will subsequently discount a few pennies. You pay more than that for a Starbucks. Really, if you have a Kindle, there's no reason not to download. (If you don't have a Kindle, well, the price of the books will be trivial compared to the $359 purchase price so again, no excuse not to purchase.) And, just as I was posting this, I see there is now a free Kindle app for Apple's iPhone and iPod Touch. So you pod people have no excuse either.
As promised, I'm giving you a break from Detroit bashing this month. But oh how I want to let loose. We'll see how long I can hold my horses.
Up the Amazon
Sour on Apple
Book Look: The Man Who Was Thursday
Book Look: Honest Signals
Book Look: Some Buried Caesar
Flick Check: Bringing Out the Dead
Flick Check: Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
Keys to My Heart
Travel Rewind: Babylon on the Make
Travel Rewind: The Gold-Plated Swamp
Up the Amazon
Up the Amazon: Speaking of Amazon, I am very close to buy some stock in it. I buy virtually everything from them, and not just books. It's my go to service for music downloads. I picked up a new el cheapo Timex Ironman watch because I wanted something with a lap timer and while there were a lot of places I could have bought from, of the cheapest prices Amazon was the only one that didn't strike me as potentially fly-by-night -- that's typical. I have in the past purchased everything from wi-fi routers to fruit baskets to bathing suits to USB hubs to a road bike. My standard purchasing habits now consist of finding something I want in a brick and motor store to make sure it has tactile validity, then ordering it on Amazon. I even track things I'm interested in by keeping a wish list going and watching for price drops. They have done an amazing job of consolidating retailers on their web site -- going forward in the world on online retail, there will be Amazon, and a few niche retailers (Zappos, NewEgg), and that's all. When retail push comes to shove, Amazon will likely be the last one standing.
(Begging: if you read about something here that you would like to buy, please click through the link on the left panel. I get a tiny, tiny little commission if you do.)
(Begging: if you read about something here that you would like to buy, please click through the link on the left panel. I get a tiny, tiny little commission if you do.)
Sour on Apple
Sour on Apple: In contrast, I'm really down on Apple. iTunes has driven me crazy more often than I can count. It constantly shows songs from the same album as being in separate albums of the same name. The interface is atrocious. Last time I tried to buy something from the iTunes music store I couldn't figure out whether it was DRM'd or not so I just bought from Amazon where nothing is DRM'd. My experience with my iBook was less that positive. My little 2 gig iPod has been fine, and in fact, has taken a fair amount of abuse, but it was hell trying to find an armband for it since it's a long lost model, I see no particular advantage to the wheel interface, and there's no FM so I can't listen to the football games at the gym during workouts -- nothing terrible, nothing special either. I have Safari on the PC and use it occasionally to test page rendering, but I can't have it auto-update without being constantly asked whether I want other Apple software which I don't care about. Plus, all that pretty gear they market is ludicrously expensive. I think the second age of Apple -- which was built on the newness of the iPod (under constant pressure now -- I like Zunes, but the new Sony Walkmans are slick as hell) and iTunes (bettered by Amazon) and the luxo-geek appeal of their gear (one word: recession) -- is over.
Book Look: The Man Who Was Thursday
Book Look: The Man Who Was Thursday: Let me start by recommending Librivox.org, where you can download public domain audiobooks. Yes, that's right -- free audiobooks. Virtually all the works available are old, because they need to be out of copyright -- 1930-ish is about as contemporary as they get. But that's OK, it's good for you to realize that the world you live in is nothing all that new. The readings are all done by kindhearted volunteers, but the ones I've heard are all very polished. They are in .mp3 format so you can listen on you Zune music player, awesome eh?
From Librivox I downloaded The Man Who Was Thursday an oddly spiritual classic from 1908 by G.K. Chesterson. It starts out as if it were going to be a standard mystery -- a Scotland Yard operative makes contact with an anarchist (the terrorist sect of the day) and insinuates himself in what appears to be some sort of high level Anarchist organization.
Things then start to get peculiar. A long, and at times quite comic, pursuit of the leader of the anarchists reveals enemies to actually be friends. The final chase of the anarchist leader takes the story into the realm of the surreal, eventually revealing the anarchist leader to also be the leader of his pursuers, with the apparent intent to have him symbolize God. Allegory upon allegory.
Written in vivid Edwardian prose, with a heavy dose of alliteration, The Man Who Was Thursday ends up resembling something like an Arthurian adventure, wherein a group of stalwarts pursue what seems to be a concrete result and end up with a spiritual elevation. A strange, thoughtful, imaginative story and a rewarding read.
Or a rewarding listen in my case.
From Librivox I downloaded The Man Who Was Thursday an oddly spiritual classic from 1908 by G.K. Chesterson. It starts out as if it were going to be a standard mystery -- a Scotland Yard operative makes contact with an anarchist (the terrorist sect of the day) and insinuates himself in what appears to be some sort of high level Anarchist organization.
Things then start to get peculiar. A long, and at times quite comic, pursuit of the leader of the anarchists reveals enemies to actually be friends. The final chase of the anarchist leader takes the story into the realm of the surreal, eventually revealing the anarchist leader to also be the leader of his pursuers, with the apparent intent to have him symbolize God. Allegory upon allegory.
Written in vivid Edwardian prose, with a heavy dose of alliteration, The Man Who Was Thursday ends up resembling something like an Arthurian adventure, wherein a group of stalwarts pursue what seems to be a concrete result and end up with a spiritual elevation. A strange, thoughtful, imaginative story and a rewarding read.
Or a rewarding listen in my case.
Book Look: Honest Signals
Book Look: Honest Signals: I don't read much non-fiction, but this one was fascinating, if a little dry.
This is a scholarly, yet accessible, book about the genesis and continuance of social signaling -- speech inflections, eye contact, body language in general -- and how it can be used to predict all sorts of things from bluffing at the poker table to anticipating success and failure in a business setting. These signals are unconscious, and as such they are referred to as "honest" in that you can't even fool yourself into not betraying the truth. (At least, it is extremely difficult to do so.) Honest Signals is concerned primarily with how much this unconscious behavior affects our social interactions and how much can be predicted from it.
The folks behind Honest Signals developed a device called a sociometer that is worn like a badge and provides telemetric information about signaling behavior. Using this they were able to find strong and predictable correlations between the signals and human behavior in many sorts of social situations. In fact, they track this signaling back through primates and other species of animals to reveal how it can inform some very complex behaviors. If there is a shortcoming to the book, it's that they don't go into detail about what the signals actually are and how to spot them. I'm glad to know there is a way to spot bluffers at the poker table or determine the roles being played in a group setting, but tell me what it is!!
This topic is part of what is turning out to be the game changing scientific story of our lifetime: discovering how much of what we do and think and feel is biologically based, and thus, the result of evolutionary pressures. This is a huge change from when I was younger and we took as gospel the notion that a human being pretty much started as a blank slate and developed traits as a result of cultural influence and Freudian psychology and heroic free will. Just the other day I was having a conversation with some friends who mentioned that their experience raising children had caused them to see behavioral development as vastly more nature than nurture. The times they are a changin'.
If you have an abiding interest in this subject, Honest Signals is a probably worth the read. But don't expect to come out of it with much practical knowledge. If your interest is more casual, you can get what you need from a google search on the topic for an overview
This is a scholarly, yet accessible, book about the genesis and continuance of social signaling -- speech inflections, eye contact, body language in general -- and how it can be used to predict all sorts of things from bluffing at the poker table to anticipating success and failure in a business setting. These signals are unconscious, and as such they are referred to as "honest" in that you can't even fool yourself into not betraying the truth. (At least, it is extremely difficult to do so.) Honest Signals is concerned primarily with how much this unconscious behavior affects our social interactions and how much can be predicted from it.
The folks behind Honest Signals developed a device called a sociometer that is worn like a badge and provides telemetric information about signaling behavior. Using this they were able to find strong and predictable correlations between the signals and human behavior in many sorts of social situations. In fact, they track this signaling back through primates and other species of animals to reveal how it can inform some very complex behaviors. If there is a shortcoming to the book, it's that they don't go into detail about what the signals actually are and how to spot them. I'm glad to know there is a way to spot bluffers at the poker table or determine the roles being played in a group setting, but tell me what it is!!
This topic is part of what is turning out to be the game changing scientific story of our lifetime: discovering how much of what we do and think and feel is biologically based, and thus, the result of evolutionary pressures. This is a huge change from when I was younger and we took as gospel the notion that a human being pretty much started as a blank slate and developed traits as a result of cultural influence and Freudian psychology and heroic free will. Just the other day I was having a conversation with some friends who mentioned that their experience raising children had caused them to see behavioral development as vastly more nature than nurture. The times they are a changin'.
If you have an abiding interest in this subject, Honest Signals is a probably worth the read. But don't expect to come out of it with much practical knowledge. If your interest is more casual, you can get what you need from a google search on the topic for an overview
Book Look: Some Buried Caesar
Book Look: Some Buried Caesar: First, a word about mystery series. I have read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon. I believe I have read all of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe novels. I was working my way through John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee series, but at some point it got too violent. Same for McDonald's and McGee's spiritual successors, Randy Wayne White and Doc Ford. Likewise, I have covered most of the Fleming James Bond books. So I am no stranger to getting attached to well written thriller series (because man does not live by Nabokov alone). Now, perhaps inevitably, the new obsession shall be Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe. I feel a mutli-year project coming on.
Some Buried Caesar is the story of a set of generally feckless and wealthy upstate New Yorkers getting themselves all worked up over cattle to the point of murder. Of course, that is less important than the portrayal of Nero Wolfe and, even moreso, his personal assistant, strong right arm, and wise-cracking narrator, Archie Goodwin.
Nero Wolfe made his first appearance in 1934 and soldiered on through 30-plus novels and nearly 40 shorter works until author Rex Stout's death 1975 (with a couple of posthumous releases a decade later). Wolfe is old school: genius-but-eccentric detective, practical and admiring assistant, and a big dramatic summation in the end. Holmes/Watson, Poirot/Hastings, and Wolfe/Goodwin use the same framework. But Wolfe is not a pie-in-the-sky do-gooder. His work is definitely not its own reward. He will keep his nose out of anything including murder, unless he has a paying client -- and he can be quite clever and manipulative in acquiring one. And Archie Goodwin has more personality than any other detective-foil, often being the true face of the manuscript. This pair is a delight.
I have no intention of reading all the novels. I picked Some Buried Caesar from a website recommendation, and next up will be The Golden Spiders, but I will NOT allow myself to read more than 10 of these. I just don't have enough time left on earth to get obsessed. I don't believe it is necessary to read them in order. I asked Metafilter for which ones to read (results) and I'll likely follow their advice in some form. I'm sure I'll be commenting more on Wolfe, Goodwin, and Stout as time goes on.
Some Buried Caesar is the story of a set of generally feckless and wealthy upstate New Yorkers getting themselves all worked up over cattle to the point of murder. Of course, that is less important than the portrayal of Nero Wolfe and, even moreso, his personal assistant, strong right arm, and wise-cracking narrator, Archie Goodwin.
Nero Wolfe made his first appearance in 1934 and soldiered on through 30-plus novels and nearly 40 shorter works until author Rex Stout's death 1975 (with a couple of posthumous releases a decade later). Wolfe is old school: genius-but-eccentric detective, practical and admiring assistant, and a big dramatic summation in the end. Holmes/Watson, Poirot/Hastings, and Wolfe/Goodwin use the same framework. But Wolfe is not a pie-in-the-sky do-gooder. His work is definitely not its own reward. He will keep his nose out of anything including murder, unless he has a paying client -- and he can be quite clever and manipulative in acquiring one. And Archie Goodwin has more personality than any other detective-foil, often being the true face of the manuscript. This pair is a delight.
I have no intention of reading all the novels. I picked Some Buried Caesar from a website recommendation, and next up will be The Golden Spiders, but I will NOT allow myself to read more than 10 of these. I just don't have enough time left on earth to get obsessed. I don't believe it is necessary to read them in order. I asked Metafilter for which ones to read (results) and I'll likely follow their advice in some form. I'm sure I'll be commenting more on Wolfe, Goodwin, and Stout as time goes on.
Flick Check: Bringing Out the Dead
Flick Check: Bringing Out the Dead: A disappointment. Scorcese directed from a Paul Schrader script so we shoulda had a contender, but it falls flat. This is the story of an EMT in Manhattan who is slowly going crazy from all the chaos and death that surrounds him. It fails on numerous levels and in fact might be the worst movie Scorcese has made. Among the problems are:
• Manhattan is portrayed as if it were still the unmitigated disaster that it was back in the Taxi Driver days. Rings untrue.
• The characters are simply not realistic, they may have been intended to be surreal but that doesn't jibe with the gritty, realistic tone.
• The lead character is haunted by the memory of a homeless girl he could not save and he feels responsible for her death. Lamest clich‚ ever.
• The biggest problem is the lack of dramatization. In Taxi Driver we knew DeNiro was sliding into madness because we saw it. In Bringing Out the Dead we know Nic Cage is going crazy because he tells us.
I first heard of Bringing Out the Dead a year or so ago, even though it came out in 1999. I wondered how a Scorcese film could have gotten out without my notice. It turns out it was no harm done. Marty brought out a dead one this time.
• Manhattan is portrayed as if it were still the unmitigated disaster that it was back in the Taxi Driver days. Rings untrue.
• The characters are simply not realistic, they may have been intended to be surreal but that doesn't jibe with the gritty, realistic tone.
• The lead character is haunted by the memory of a homeless girl he could not save and he feels responsible for her death. Lamest clich‚ ever.
• The biggest problem is the lack of dramatization. In Taxi Driver we knew DeNiro was sliding into madness because we saw it. In Bringing Out the Dead we know Nic Cage is going crazy because he tells us.
I first heard of Bringing Out the Dead a year or so ago, even though it came out in 1999. I wondered how a Scorcese film could have gotten out without my notice. It turns out it was no harm done. Marty brought out a dead one this time.
Flick Check: Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
Flick Check: Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay: Why is it there are some puerile, raunchy gagfests that I can't stand (Something About Mary) and some I think are tremendous (Superbad)? Whatever it is Harold and Kumar Escape... is one of the good ones. It's truly silly to try to do a review of such a film; anybody can guess what it's about. It picks up where the first one left off with H & K on their way to Amsterdam where they intend to smoke more weed than anyone in the history of the known universe. Thanks to Kumar's uncompromising irresponsibility they end up arrested and tossed in Guantanamo, from which they escape and journey through the Deep South to get to Texas where they believe they will find help. Along the way they have various asinine encounters with assorted cliched rubes and authority figures, including George W. Bush.
Aside: I had reached the point where GWB parodies really got under my skin. It was like being forced to watch an endless litany of Michael Bay movies: the same thing over and over, as if it were some sort of obligation. Otherwise respectable artistic works all seemed to have a perfunctory snark angle about GWB. They ceased to be funny or witty or sharp, but people kept doing it because they felt they were doing the world a social service. Well, to paraphrase Woody Allen, if you want to do the world a service, write funnier jokes. Anyway, the one in this movie was kinda cute and fun.
None of that explains why I liked it, though, so let's see: John Cho and Kal Penn (H & K) are fine comic actors; the pacing was just shy of frenetic; H & K were never made to be stupid losers, just swamped by events; parodies and cartoonish villains were not drawn in anger or hostility, just for comic purpose; there was actually a nice human subplot with Kumar reconnecting with a lost love (excellent work by Kal Penn) -- that's about it, nothing extraordinary. Nothing to explain why I would like this and not other raunchfests. Maybe the writing by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg (same team as H & K Go to White Castle) is just exceptionally skilled. Who knows? But I was glad to hear they are churning out a third screenplay. Cool.
Aside: I had reached the point where GWB parodies really got under my skin. It was like being forced to watch an endless litany of Michael Bay movies: the same thing over and over, as if it were some sort of obligation. Otherwise respectable artistic works all seemed to have a perfunctory snark angle about GWB. They ceased to be funny or witty or sharp, but people kept doing it because they felt they were doing the world a social service. Well, to paraphrase Woody Allen, if you want to do the world a service, write funnier jokes. Anyway, the one in this movie was kinda cute and fun.
None of that explains why I liked it, though, so let's see: John Cho and Kal Penn (H & K) are fine comic actors; the pacing was just shy of frenetic; H & K were never made to be stupid losers, just swamped by events; parodies and cartoonish villains were not drawn in anger or hostility, just for comic purpose; there was actually a nice human subplot with Kumar reconnecting with a lost love (excellent work by Kal Penn) -- that's about it, nothing extraordinary. Nothing to explain why I would like this and not other raunchfests. Maybe the writing by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg (same team as H & K Go to White Castle) is just exceptionally skilled. Who knows? But I was glad to hear they are churning out a third screenplay. Cool.
Keys to My Heart
Keys to My Heart: (As usual, pics are up on SmugMug. Lots of alligators and birds in this set.)
One of the single most troublesome qualities I have is the inability to fall asleep when I need to. Before any important event and nearly all unfamiliar situations, I find that I tend to lie awake until about an hour before the alarm goes off. In some instances where the lack of sleep itself is the issue, I can lie awake at night wondering why it is I lie awake at night.
I'm choosing my words carefully because I don't think is it apprehension that causes it. If I am apprehensive, I certainly will lie awake, but it doesn't have to be anything I'm apprehensive about. To wit, I had a 6:30 AM flight down to Ft. Lauderdale. If there is anything I would not be apprehensive about it would be flying. It's not a new experience. I know the drill. I was all packed and ready. I needed only to rise at 4, get dressed, grab my bags, and leave.
Yet here I was looking at the clock at 3AM, knowing that I have essentially pulled an unwanted all-nighter.
So the day's travel -- park and fly at DTW (with an early morning slice of quiche), plane change in Charlotte (with a Jamba Juice), renting the car and driving from Ft. Lauderdale to Key Largo (way to many toll booths), a bite of road food (somewhere), get checked in to the Ramada -- was all done with swollen eyes and blurry vision. The best effort I could muster was to get down to the pool and sit out for a while in the late afternoon then scarf down some conch cerviche and a beer and go to sleep. So much for day 1.
I slept wonderfully that first night, got up late, hopped in the white Dodge Avenger rental and made for the river of grass, where I stopped at the Shark Valley station of Everglades National Park. I almost turned back; there was an enormous wait to get in the park due to their parking lot being full. A strange experience -- I have never encountered a wait like that at a National Park before, and I've been to a few. Scuttlebutt is that with everyone scrimping and saving, the parks are looked at as a good budget destination. They are. Fortunately I was able to park along the highway just outside the park and walk in.
To the casual tourist, the point of the Everglades is alligators, and that's what you get at Shark Valley. Hundreds of them. Roaming free. Lying about without a hint of fear or notice that homo sapiens is walking among them. You get so acclimated to them that you don't think twice about walking within a few feet a 13-footer laying on the paved roadway. The only reaction you will get is a stare from a dead-eye for a few seconds, then you are ignored once again.
The main loop though Shark Valley is a fifteen mile paved road. It is a popular biking route, and you can rent bikes right there (although I didn't notice this until I was leaving). You could walk it too I suppose, but there is a fine tram service the runs the loop and is narrated by some excellent guides. At one point the tram stops and the guide walks out into the swamp, inviting others to come. Of the maybe forty people on the tram, three actually followed. I was one. Thank God for gore-tex day hikers. I would have expected to sink knee deep in muck, but he water itself is crystal clear only about ankle deep. Beneath that is a very thin layer of settled muck. And beneath that is some very precarious limestone -- uneven and slightly slippery, it's all about balance if you want to avoid a youtube moment, but it is very solid footing.
The 'glades are not exceptionally picturesque. There are no gnarled, moss-covered trees casting eerie shadows, like you get in the Georgia and Carolina swamps. In fact, I wouldn't suggest this place for a Hollywood swamp. It is, as the phrase goes, a river of grass with pockets of sediments formed into little islands, just barely high enough to support impenetrably dense shrubbery and bits of fauna. Apart from that it's pretty much all sawgrass and shallow open sections punctuated with gator holes.
And fish -- tons of fish. And big birds and turtles to feed on them. The place is just teeming with life -- so many alligators I have to wonder if they aren't feeding on each other. It's also a birders paradise; half the folks on my tram were binocular-wielding bird spotters. There are enormous cranes of all shapes and sizes and colors. You see the mother gator protecting her little babies, and the birds feeding their young. It the kind of stuff you figure they must spend days to get on film for the wildlife shows. And none of this is Disney. The gators don't show any interest in the people but when you walk within a few feet of a 12-foot gator you should be very aware of what end of the food chain you occupy. I'm pleasantly surprised that such an activity is allowed in our world of airbags and bicycle helmets.
At the midway point on the trail is an observation tower from which you get a 360 degree view for miles around. Shark Valley is a great all-round experience. Here's how I would do it in the future. Rent a bike and ride behind the tram, since it stops wherever they spot something interesting. Bring a picnic lunch and hang out by the observation tower at lunch time. That'd be about perfect. I continue to be amazed at the National Park System and all the opportunities it provides.
Day 3 began with a trip about 2/3rds down the Keys for Bahia Honda State Park. Rumored to have one of the few nice beaches in the Keys (the Keys are very short on good beaches). It actually has a fairly narrow beach that is currently covered with some sort of ugly brown nettles a foot-and-a-half thick washed up on the shore. It's not dangerous or icky, just ugly. The water is clear but the undergrowth comes in about 25 feet off shore. It's fair for splashing around and maybe a bit snorkeling, but that's it.
Which is not to say the park isn't worth a visit. For all its beachy shortcomings it's a very pleasant place. You can rent a kayak and paddle the entire circumference of the key (although high winds prevented that the day of my visit). There are birds wandering the grounds and a tangled brushy area that contains about a half dozen big-ass iguanas trolling around, climbing the trees and such. The whole park is framed by the old Bahia Honda Bridge, which is now a walkway to a scenic outlook from which, if the water is clear, you can supposedly see sharks (I didn't).
But I did lie in the sun and read and swim and be all summery with myself for a couple of hours. Very much needed after weeks in the evil northern winter. Then, since I was 2/3rds of the way there, I decided to make the short drive all the way to Key West.
The thing is, there is no short drive to Key West. No matter how close you think you are, you are at least an hour away. Although it is quite lovely in many places, crawling along Route 1 into Key West is one of most frustrating drives you can take. The speed limit drops to 35 and even if it didn't, it's one lane -- no passing; you will always get stuck behind the slowest common denominator. You read the mile markers as they fall at a snail's pace, and your goal always seems just out of reach.
I finally made it into Key West with enough spare time to snag a burger and a beer on Duval St. before a walk down to Mallory Square for the sunset. Key West remains Key West, good natured revelers left and right, street performers hamming it up for the touristas, all the gaff-rigged schooners loaded down passengers for sunset, their square rigs silhouetted against the blinding sun. About perfect: a just reward for making the deadly tedious drive across the Keys.
On my last day I was once again going to try for a kayak tour but, once again, the wind wound up too high and no one would rent to me. Florida let me walk among gargantuan primordial predators but would let me take a kayak out in the wind. Go figure. So I did something I almost never do on my trips: nothing. I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon in the sun just reading. I didn't give in to the temptations to do a snorkel trip or drive up to Biscayne Bay. I even took a brief nap. I got slightly sunburnt and I certainly made up for any lost sleep. I also healed up a bit -- it's amazing how many minor aches and pains ease up after three days of pretty much complete inactivity.
The only effort I made was to drive off to the legendary Alabama Jack's for a seafood platter. Alabama Jack's is situated just beyond a tool booth on the Card Sound Rd. so in essence you pay a buck to get through the toll booth, stop almost immediately for dinner, then pay another buck to get back. Hmmm. Not only that Alabama Jack's seafood, like just about all the seafood outside the hoity-toity restaurants, is battered or breaded and fried. I'm not a big fan of that, but 'Bama Jack did it about as good as can be expected. The conch fritters were top notch and tasty. 'Bama Jacks is situated right on the water; open air (they close shortly after dark when the 'skeeters get active); filled with fishing ephemera; you sit on plastic white chairs that they probably got for 1.99 each at the local swap meet -- that kind of place, yet the crowd was not rednecky at all; lots of oldsters and locals. Recommended.
And that was that. Back in my hotel room the TV showed record cold and snow waiting for me up north. Can I have one more day? Just one more day please...
One of the single most troublesome qualities I have is the inability to fall asleep when I need to. Before any important event and nearly all unfamiliar situations, I find that I tend to lie awake until about an hour before the alarm goes off. In some instances where the lack of sleep itself is the issue, I can lie awake at night wondering why it is I lie awake at night.
I'm choosing my words carefully because I don't think is it apprehension that causes it. If I am apprehensive, I certainly will lie awake, but it doesn't have to be anything I'm apprehensive about. To wit, I had a 6:30 AM flight down to Ft. Lauderdale. If there is anything I would not be apprehensive about it would be flying. It's not a new experience. I know the drill. I was all packed and ready. I needed only to rise at 4, get dressed, grab my bags, and leave.
Yet here I was looking at the clock at 3AM, knowing that I have essentially pulled an unwanted all-nighter.
So the day's travel -- park and fly at DTW (with an early morning slice of quiche), plane change in Charlotte (with a Jamba Juice), renting the car and driving from Ft. Lauderdale to Key Largo (way to many toll booths), a bite of road food (somewhere), get checked in to the Ramada -- was all done with swollen eyes and blurry vision. The best effort I could muster was to get down to the pool and sit out for a while in the late afternoon then scarf down some conch cerviche and a beer and go to sleep. So much for day 1.
I slept wonderfully that first night, got up late, hopped in the white Dodge Avenger rental and made for the river of grass, where I stopped at the Shark Valley station of Everglades National Park. I almost turned back; there was an enormous wait to get in the park due to their parking lot being full. A strange experience -- I have never encountered a wait like that at a National Park before, and I've been to a few. Scuttlebutt is that with everyone scrimping and saving, the parks are looked at as a good budget destination. They are. Fortunately I was able to park along the highway just outside the park and walk in.
To the casual tourist, the point of the Everglades is alligators, and that's what you get at Shark Valley. Hundreds of them. Roaming free. Lying about without a hint of fear or notice that homo sapiens is walking among them. You get so acclimated to them that you don't think twice about walking within a few feet a 13-footer laying on the paved roadway. The only reaction you will get is a stare from a dead-eye for a few seconds, then you are ignored once again.
The main loop though Shark Valley is a fifteen mile paved road. It is a popular biking route, and you can rent bikes right there (although I didn't notice this until I was leaving). You could walk it too I suppose, but there is a fine tram service the runs the loop and is narrated by some excellent guides. At one point the tram stops and the guide walks out into the swamp, inviting others to come. Of the maybe forty people on the tram, three actually followed. I was one. Thank God for gore-tex day hikers. I would have expected to sink knee deep in muck, but he water itself is crystal clear only about ankle deep. Beneath that is a very thin layer of settled muck. And beneath that is some very precarious limestone -- uneven and slightly slippery, it's all about balance if you want to avoid a youtube moment, but it is very solid footing.
The 'glades are not exceptionally picturesque. There are no gnarled, moss-covered trees casting eerie shadows, like you get in the Georgia and Carolina swamps. In fact, I wouldn't suggest this place for a Hollywood swamp. It is, as the phrase goes, a river of grass with pockets of sediments formed into little islands, just barely high enough to support impenetrably dense shrubbery and bits of fauna. Apart from that it's pretty much all sawgrass and shallow open sections punctuated with gator holes.
And fish -- tons of fish. And big birds and turtles to feed on them. The place is just teeming with life -- so many alligators I have to wonder if they aren't feeding on each other. It's also a birders paradise; half the folks on my tram were binocular-wielding bird spotters. There are enormous cranes of all shapes and sizes and colors. You see the mother gator protecting her little babies, and the birds feeding their young. It the kind of stuff you figure they must spend days to get on film for the wildlife shows. And none of this is Disney. The gators don't show any interest in the people but when you walk within a few feet of a 12-foot gator you should be very aware of what end of the food chain you occupy. I'm pleasantly surprised that such an activity is allowed in our world of airbags and bicycle helmets.
At the midway point on the trail is an observation tower from which you get a 360 degree view for miles around. Shark Valley is a great all-round experience. Here's how I would do it in the future. Rent a bike and ride behind the tram, since it stops wherever they spot something interesting. Bring a picnic lunch and hang out by the observation tower at lunch time. That'd be about perfect. I continue to be amazed at the National Park System and all the opportunities it provides.
Day 3 began with a trip about 2/3rds down the Keys for Bahia Honda State Park. Rumored to have one of the few nice beaches in the Keys (the Keys are very short on good beaches). It actually has a fairly narrow beach that is currently covered with some sort of ugly brown nettles a foot-and-a-half thick washed up on the shore. It's not dangerous or icky, just ugly. The water is clear but the undergrowth comes in about 25 feet off shore. It's fair for splashing around and maybe a bit snorkeling, but that's it.
Which is not to say the park isn't worth a visit. For all its beachy shortcomings it's a very pleasant place. You can rent a kayak and paddle the entire circumference of the key (although high winds prevented that the day of my visit). There are birds wandering the grounds and a tangled brushy area that contains about a half dozen big-ass iguanas trolling around, climbing the trees and such. The whole park is framed by the old Bahia Honda Bridge, which is now a walkway to a scenic outlook from which, if the water is clear, you can supposedly see sharks (I didn't).
But I did lie in the sun and read and swim and be all summery with myself for a couple of hours. Very much needed after weeks in the evil northern winter. Then, since I was 2/3rds of the way there, I decided to make the short drive all the way to Key West.
The thing is, there is no short drive to Key West. No matter how close you think you are, you are at least an hour away. Although it is quite lovely in many places, crawling along Route 1 into Key West is one of most frustrating drives you can take. The speed limit drops to 35 and even if it didn't, it's one lane -- no passing; you will always get stuck behind the slowest common denominator. You read the mile markers as they fall at a snail's pace, and your goal always seems just out of reach.
I finally made it into Key West with enough spare time to snag a burger and a beer on Duval St. before a walk down to Mallory Square for the sunset. Key West remains Key West, good natured revelers left and right, street performers hamming it up for the touristas, all the gaff-rigged schooners loaded down passengers for sunset, their square rigs silhouetted against the blinding sun. About perfect: a just reward for making the deadly tedious drive across the Keys.
On my last day I was once again going to try for a kayak tour but, once again, the wind wound up too high and no one would rent to me. Florida let me walk among gargantuan primordial predators but would let me take a kayak out in the wind. Go figure. So I did something I almost never do on my trips: nothing. I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon in the sun just reading. I didn't give in to the temptations to do a snorkel trip or drive up to Biscayne Bay. I even took a brief nap. I got slightly sunburnt and I certainly made up for any lost sleep. I also healed up a bit -- it's amazing how many minor aches and pains ease up after three days of pretty much complete inactivity.
The only effort I made was to drive off to the legendary Alabama Jack's for a seafood platter. Alabama Jack's is situated just beyond a tool booth on the Card Sound Rd. so in essence you pay a buck to get through the toll booth, stop almost immediately for dinner, then pay another buck to get back. Hmmm. Not only that Alabama Jack's seafood, like just about all the seafood outside the hoity-toity restaurants, is battered or breaded and fried. I'm not a big fan of that, but 'Bama Jack did it about as good as can be expected. The conch fritters were top notch and tasty. 'Bama Jacks is situated right on the water; open air (they close shortly after dark when the 'skeeters get active); filled with fishing ephemera; you sit on plastic white chairs that they probably got for 1.99 each at the local swap meet -- that kind of place, yet the crowd was not rednecky at all; lots of oldsters and locals. Recommended.
And that was that. Back in my hotel room the TV showed record cold and snow waiting for me up north. Can I have one more day? Just one more day please...
Travel Rewind: Babylon on the Make (2003):
Travel Rewind: Babylon on the Make (2003): (The first of two trip reposts from long ago, in honor of my most recent trip to the Sunshine State.)
Sometimes it can seem like everybody in the State of Florida is on the make. Two of the three hotels I stayed at had valet as their only parking option. All of them added a "resort fee" or something similar, on the order of $10-$15 dollars a day, which is supposed to cover all sorts of miscellaneous expenses. But then you find out that there are various little things it doesn't cover -- health club access here, a lounge chair on the beach there, the very generous gratuity added to your bill -- and you begin to wonder if you're being scammed.
You're not, really. Nobody's trying to hide anything from you for the most part. They're all pretty straightforward about what charges cover what services. But the whole business of nickel-and-diming you endlessly just naturally raises your scam shield.
The incessant hand in your pocket at the hotels I can accept. Like I said, they are honest about it and you have a sense of what you are paying for. Since they all do it, it's really no different financially from raising the room rates and including everything. Hotel management probably feels it gives them some flexibility when it comes to dealing with complaints and serves as a way to make people acknowledge all the services that are available to them. My counter argument is that it can give you feeling that you have been bled. But psychology aside -- it's six of one, half-dozen of the other.
Where I can't accept this is from auto rental companies. Auto rental companies nickel-and-dime you just like anyone else in the travel industry, but they push and spin all their add-ons like a telemarketer on a deadline. A typical exchange when picking up your car:
Rental Guy: For only $10/day I can get you an upgrade to a nicer vehicle -- with four doors.
Me: Doesn't the one I reserved have four doors?
RG: Let's see. Oh, yes it does. But they're smaller.
Me: Do you think I look fat?
RG (confused): Um, no.
Me: Nevermind. No thank you.
RG: OK, here we go. I've got you down for added insurance to cover you in case of mishap.
Me: I don't need it. I have that through my Amex card.
RG: Well, it's only $8 and with this we won't even call your company. If there's any damage you can just walk away.
Me: $8 total or $8 per day?
RG: That would be per day.
Me: No, thank you.
RG (shaking his head like I should know better): Then I'll need you to initial that you've refused it. Would you like to pay for your gas now?"
Me: No, thank you.
RG: If you pay for a tank now, the price is only $1.75 per gallon. If we have to fill it when you return the car it's a lot more expensive -- three dollars per gallon more.
Me: Or, I can just fill the tank at the Citgo station across the street before I return it. That's probably the cheapest of all, don't you think?
RG (shaking his head again): Then I'll need you to initial here also.
I really have serious issues with industries that thrive on squeezing people who don't know any better or are caught off-guard when confronted with mealy-mouthed half-truths. This includes the idiots who leave me voice mails about how they happened to be in the neighborhood installing satellite dishes and they are sure sorry that I missed the opportunity to get in on their deal. This claim would hold more water if I didn't get that same voice mail every other day. It also includes timeshare hucksters who provide those scratch-and-win tickets for a special value on some property. Of course, your chance of winning is approximately 100%.
I know of what I speak. Many years ago I worked briefly -- very briefly -- as a car salesman (the champions of mealy-mouthed half-truths). If you find yourself in an industry like this, I strongly advise you to get out of it. It will scar your soul.
But anyway, I was in Florida for a while. Let me tell you about it.
The plan was three nights at the famous South Beach, followed by a drive down the Keys for two nights in Key West, followed by a drive in the reverse direction back up to Palm Beach for two nights before heading home.
Miami Beach is rightly famous for its Art Deco style architecture, and some of it is striking. It's a real blast from the swanky past and very much responsible for the unique South Beach-pastel couture vibe.
Although I didn't stay there, when I am one of the rich and famous, my first hotel choice would be The Delano. I'm not much for favoring a hotel because of its decor or style. The now famous boutique hotels really don't do anything for me. I want service. I want convenience. I want amenities. I want easy access. I have no desire to stand in the lobby and admire the fashionable furniture. And yet I was amazed by The Delano. Huge white flowing curtains and tapestries are everywhere in the lobby -- and when I say huge I'm mean something on the order of three stories high. They are used both as d‚cor and as separators. The use of clean white sheeting is a brilliant touch for a hotel (where clean white sheeting is symbolic of all sorts of positive sensations). The furniture is all cushy, living-room style furniture, again mostly white and very inviting. As you walk through you notice the front desk -- a very simple little table. Move further on and you see a sushi bar tucked away in one corner. Yet further, an off in an alcove is a fine looking bar. Further still begins the restaurant; it is located half indoors and half outdoors. The soft separation between the areas gives you the sense that it's all one big space yet you always know where.
Outside, after you pass through the outdoor tables of the restaurant, there is a garden with the usual trappings and a fairly comfy hammock. Then comes the pool -- they're big on infinity pools down there. Beyond that is the poolside bar surrounded by comfortable lounge chairs and a bunch of what might be called daybeds, but are really oversized ottomans. Between the pool bar area and the beach is a tall wooden fence with a gate that is closed after sunset.
It's beautiful enough to make me just want to be there. And that from Mr. I-only-want-practical-and-functional. It's definitely where I would stay, if I could afford it, but even off-season discounts are out of my reach.
There are three major points of interest for the tourist in South Beach (apart from Art Deco watching). The primary destination is the beach, which is very nice, if well-trodden; the water warm, clear and shallow. It is the Atlantic Ocean as I remember it from age 11.
Next, there is what is known as the Lincoln Road shopping mall, which is really a street that has been closed over for several blocks and is lined with a mishmash of crappy souvenir stores, high-toned boutiques, and restaurants with outdoor seating. About half way through there was a big screen that was running fashion shows -- models cat-walking up and down the runway for your entertainment while you have alfresco dinner. South Beach is about two things and high fashion is one of them (although everybody still dresses in shorts and t-shirts).
The third point of interest is Ocean Drive a few blocks of roadway famed for its restaurants and clubs, most of the open air variety. There is an extended area just across the street, where nets are set up for impromptu beach volleyball. There is what must be the world's largest and most complex sandcastle. Just beyond that is the beach. I'm told that during high season the place is loaded with colorful people -- a guide I read said it was the place to people-watch and it's where E! Wild on South Beach would set up their cameras. But obviously not in September; it was pretty dead. A walk down the street mid-afternoon elicited offers of a drink on the house from the proprietors, just in the hopes I'd stay for more. But I can see where the Ocean Drive might get a little crazy on busy nights. There is an energetic vibe about the place. Surprisingly, I spotted only one bar that was obviously trashy. It was called Mangos, and out front they had a huckster with a couple of friendly parrots on his shoulder, working the passers-by. And some girls in bikinis doing nothing but standing there. Naturally, I went in for a drink, just to cool off a bit.
The next three paragraphs include a critical discussion of women's breasts. If that bothers you, please skip ahead.
The other thing that South Beach is about, besides fashion, is women's breasts (the two are symbiotic in many ways). Sunbathing topless is de rigueur -- which makes the place feel rather Caribbean or French or something. Beyond that, and not to put too fine a point on it, I have never seen so many fake boobs in my life. And it's not subtle work; it's cartoonish, like the fevered dreams of adolescent boys. Tiny, wispy little girls that look like they just inflated their personal floatation devices. Fifty year old women who, considering the sagging and drooping elsewhere, appear to be mechanically suspended by their gravity defying breasts. Even the mannequins in the shop windows are top heavy.
In the aforementioned Mangos, all the waitresses are pretty and wear bikini tops -- the overwhelming majority has had "work done." Mangos is an equal opportunity employer; the waiters are also clearly hired based on how much they look like male models, but thankfully, they are fully clothed. Periodically, they play a bit of salsa and one waiter and one waitress would hop up and the bar and dance to it. (This only served to put me in mind of the old Lone Star Steakhouses back when the wait staff would periodically start line-dancing amongst the tables. Annoying, really, when they should have been bringing your food.) Then, of course, the parrot guy is wandering around, trying, and failing, to be glib and clever while having his parrots climb on to your shoulder for a snapshot that he will happily sell you (another Floridian on the make). In that kind of scene I would have expected the audience to be wild revelers and drunken schoolboys. Nope, the crowd was indistinguishable from your average Bennigan's or Max 'n' Erma's patrons. Imagine, all that money to have "work done" and you still end up surviving on 11% tips from the common, suburban rubes and tourists.
Now let me say quite unselfconsciously that I have no problem with cosmetic surgery. If I could go under the knife and come out looking like Sean Connery circa 1963 I would not hesitate. I'm also fine with breast enhancement, as long as it comes out looking good. Women who have a more, let's say, voluptuous body type can carry it off. Women who have small and subtle touch-ups can come out looking pretty good. But the South Beachers take it too far. They are no longer doing it just to look and feel good about themselves. They are doing it to draw attention to themselves from the world at large. They buy themselves hugely exaggerated breasts for the purpose of being able to say "Made ya look!" But since they all seem to go to the same extreme, it ceases to be attention-worthy. It's a viscous cycle that only ends up benefiting MTV and their newly pubescent audience.
And that all I have to say about women's breasts.
In the end, I have mixed feelings about South Beach. People were friendly everywhere I went. Despite my little breast tirade and the selective camera work on E!, the majority of people are dead normal looking. The beach is sweet. There are good restaurants and bars. And yet, I never actually settled in anywhere -- never got comfortable. It seemed like it could have a real Caribbean coolness to it, but there's really too much of a sense of effort, and perhaps pretentiousness, to make it a laid-back tropical locale. Maybe it would have been more fun in-season. It's a good spot for a couple of days of sun and fun, definitely worth the visit. But after three nights I was ready to leave and did so, not feeling like I missed out on anything.
One thing about driving around in Florida: you will get caught behind someone going a good 20 mph below the speed limit. This may seem like reasonable caution on the part of a senior citizen who understands the need for extra reaction time, but it has nothing to do with that. They are not intentionally driving 20 mph below the speed limit. They are intentionally driving 30 mph, regardless of the speed limit. This only becomes worthy of an aneurism when the speed limit is 50 and your mind tries vainly to fathom the reasoning behind this behavior and draws the erroneous conclusion that they are just being cautious. The fact is they just drive 30 because they don't care about the rest of the world. They pull out into traffic without looking. They cruise through stop signs with nary a glance. They stop dead in the middle of the road when they get confused. Their right to do these things has been vigorously defended in court by the AARP. So they get in the car and depress the accelerator to a point where the engine noise doesn't intrude upon that Perry Como CD they bought for $2.99 at Target; it just happens to be about 30 mph.
When you are driving US 1 to Key West, you will get caught behind one of these people. It doesn't matter how clever you are or how well you plan things out. You can't pass them or dodge them and flipping them off is completely futile. No matter what you do, it will happen. This is, so far, the only practical application I have found for yoga breathing.
US 1 to Key West is generally thought to be one of the most beautiful drives you can take. And it is, for a portion of it. As you cross Seven Mile Bridge, the view is as impressive as it is in all the post cards and magazines. But it's really only in the western part of the keys where you can see the ocean and/or gulf from the road. For the first half of the journey you are ambling down a road that looks no different than any other road in touristland -- lined with various crap shops hawking three t-shirts for $15.95 and greasy looking restaurants that will sell you the "captain's platter" for $6.95 before 4 pm. Not that I'm against crap shops and greasy restaurants, but it's not what you are expecting from a visual of the Keys. This is where you really don't want to get caught behind the guy with his pants hiked up around his armpits and the full-coverage, cataract sunglasses. (Do note that once you are off U.S. 1 things get a bit better.)
I checked into the Wyndham Casa Marina which is a longish, but quite pleasant walk to the far end of Duval Street, the point of action on Key West.
Duval Street starts roughly at the Southernmost Point in the Continental U.S. It's not really the southernmost point in the continental U.S., since there is quite obviously land going a bit further south. Furthermore, it's not even on the continental U.S., it's on an island just off the continental U.S. -- specifically Key West. (You need not fear for the future of pedantry as long as I'm around.) From there, it's a straight shot for what must be nearly a mile of nothing but open air bars, boutiques, crap shops, along with a girlie bar and a "bathhouse" just for good measure. Let's just say Duval Street is not the place to bring impressionable youngsters. Even if you could steer them clear of the dens of ill-repute, so to speak, the crap shops keep inanely obscene t-shirts in the windows, and the bars feature live entertainment of the foul-mouthed variety.
Still, Key West is not without its charm. Away from Duval Street there are some lovely shoreline areas. The residential streets seem fairly quiet and quaint. Even Duval Street ends in a spot called Mallory Square where crowds gather to watch the sunset and be entertained by street performers and local artisans.
I arrived in Key West in the late afternoon and had the entire day following to check things out. I had high hopes, I spent the late afternoon hanging out in the resort by the pool and wandered out for a quick bite of dinner at none other than the genuine Key West version of Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville (not particularly impressive, even the margarita). The next day I had planned to do the full tour of Duval Street, hit the crap shops to buy some crap for the folks back in Michigan, and see if I could get out on the water somehow. Ominously, I noticed a preponderance of Harley-Davidsons but I just figured it was typical of the keys.
The next day, Bike Week was upon me in full force. Bike Week is when bikers, I would guess 99.99% Harley riders, gather to ride up and down the street, show off their bikes, and hang out in the bars. It sounds like a recipe for violence and terror from a '50s exploitation flick, but it's not. The bikers actually seem to be more mild than wild. The majority appear to be solidly into middle age -- presumably because you have to be at least upper middle-class to afford a Harley, never mind have one modified into a wicked looking chopper. Although many are big on leather and scruffy facial hair, a good third of them looked like they had just spent the morning mowing the lawn in their Bermuda shorts. All in all, a pretty decent crowd, with a couple of unfortunate traits.
One thing they all have in common, besides motorcycles, is that they are uniformly fat. I mean f-a-t. I worried that Key West would crumble and sink under their collective bulk. Seriously guys, eat a salad now and then, the shocks on your bike will last longer.
Another thing they all have in common is the odd fetish for making as much noise as possible. I think I can understand the attraction of motorcycling -- flying down road, the open air, the hint of danger and rebellion. But where does the noise come into it? Many of these folks just seem to revel in sitting curbside, revving their engines -- engines that have actually been modified to be noisier than a standard Harley which is ear-splitting enough. Good grief. Guys, get it through your heads, you're not the Hell's Angels. You're middle-class, middle-aged, middle-heavy posers. You look as silly pulling that bad-boy act as I would trying to pick up college girls on spring break in Ft. Lauderdale. Almost, anyway.
Despite the biker intrusion I did finish my circle tour of Duval Street, including crap shop purchases. The most notable stop was Sloppy Joe's, famous for being a Hemingway hangout half a century ago. Actually, it's moved to a new location since then. And the old location is now a new bar, Captain Tony's, whose claim to fame is that it is in the location of Sloppy Joe's back when it was a Hemingway hang out. Such is the vague nature of commercial myth-making. In any event, I can confirm that the sloppy joes at Sloppy Joe's (the original name at the new location, not the new name at the original location) are most excellent -- very effective use of dill.
My excursion out on the water was fine. I had hoped to get on a boat to the Dry Tortugas and get some snorkeling in, but it was too long a trip and too expensive, so I settled for a glass bottom boat tour of the reef. It was a fine way to kill a couple of hours. Nothing too amazing about the reef -- it would have been better through a snorkel mask -- but it was a pleasant trip and a good overview of some of the interesting history of the island while I worked on my tan.
After the boat trip I decided to make my way back to the Wyndham where I could relax by the pool away from Harley-Davidson's high decibel flatulence. While I was gone the Wyndham had been invaded by some convention of personnel recruiters and there was nary a chair to sit in by the pool. I went in for a dip, but it became clear after a while that poolside was a barren land wherein my butt could find no purchase. So I headed back down Duval Street to Mallory Square (I should have rented a scooter as soon as I arrived) to enjoy the sunset, snag a bite to eat from one of the local vendors, check out the locals, chill while looking out over the water, and grab a piece of genuine key lime pie. Nice. I get the sense that this must have been what Key West was like "before it was spoiled by evil commercialism," or at least without the bikers and conventioneers.
I have mixed feelings about Key West. Despite the annoyances, Key West still has a certain charm to it. It still has the feel of a special place in spite of the cheap fa‡ade. No doubt there are nooks and crannies of real interest if you had the time to find them, but as the saying goes, timing is everything. After a day and a half, I left Key West for the mainland, passing even more bikers arriving from the opposite direction. Again, I didn't feel like I was missing anything.
The next, and last, stop was Palm Beach. In stark contrast to the high fashion Babylon of South Beach and the squalorous tourist Babylon of Key West, Palm Beach is old school, old money Florida. If you're of a certain age, you've seen all the old pictures of Florida with the shiny shops along a street lined with evenly spaced palm trees and genteel folks walking around is stylish casualwear. That's Palm Beach. At least the "beach" part is, go a couple of streets inland and it's indistinguishable from any suburb in the country.
I intentionally scheduled Palm Beach for last because I figured after the chaos of the week I would want some peace and quiet. And that's what you get in Palm Beach. To a fault. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, going on. One of the central attractions of Palm Beach is Worth Street, claimed to be the country's original upscale shopping attraction. I really had no interest in shopping at Gucci or Tiffanys, but I thought I'd see what was going on and maybe grab a drink and some dinner only to find the place was empty. On a Saturday night, no less. There were probably a total of three humans in sight and no pub or casual spot to quench my thirst. So I drove around along A1A in the waning light of the evening, admiring the mansions and the views of the sea until the weather turned dicey and I headed back to the hotel.
At this point you are probably expecting to read that I had mixed feelings about Palm Beach. As I look back over this essay in its entirety, it reads a bit too much like a bad trip. It wasn't at all; it was a good trip. I saw and did things that I don't do at home. I broke whatever routines I was stuck in. I got a really wicked tan. But it is true that I hadn't experienced that vacation moment. There should be a point in every vacation of significance that makes you feel as though you are doing or experiencing something special. It can be a new activity or a moment of relaxation or a revelation of some sort, but there should always be something that is meaningful.
Back at the Hilton, with one day left before flying back and I still hadn't had that vacation moment. It had started to rain in earnest and I had overheard the expectation of more rain for the following day, which was to be my last full day in Florida. I resigned myself to spending the next day in search of a place to settle in and watch the football games, maybe get some writing done, and call it a trip.
Sure enough, in that way Florida has of jading you into submission then dazzling you into delight, I dragged myself down for breakfast the next morning to a perfectly sunny day and 5 foot waves curling just off shore -- boogie boarding nirvana. I must have spent three hours riding the waves to shore until I didn't have the strength to pull myself up on the board, only pausing to walk the ten yards to the bar for a quick drink. At one point, the water around me got all dark. Thinking it was a shadow, I looked up expecting to see the sun hidden behind a cloud, but the sky was clear and the sun was high. As I scanned the water I realized I was in the midst of an enormous school of fish (I'm guessing herring, but I wouldn't know). It was as if I could have just reached into the water and grabbed and armful of them. Remarkable.
And that was it. I was on vacation. Of course, I had to leave the next day, but you just need the one moment to make it work.
Back in Michigan it was time to crank up the thermostat and break out the fall jackets. But it's good to know that if you can blaze a trail through everyone on the make, there are still vacations to be had in Florida.
Sometimes it can seem like everybody in the State of Florida is on the make. Two of the three hotels I stayed at had valet as their only parking option. All of them added a "resort fee" or something similar, on the order of $10-$15 dollars a day, which is supposed to cover all sorts of miscellaneous expenses. But then you find out that there are various little things it doesn't cover -- health club access here, a lounge chair on the beach there, the very generous gratuity added to your bill -- and you begin to wonder if you're being scammed.
You're not, really. Nobody's trying to hide anything from you for the most part. They're all pretty straightforward about what charges cover what services. But the whole business of nickel-and-diming you endlessly just naturally raises your scam shield.
The incessant hand in your pocket at the hotels I can accept. Like I said, they are honest about it and you have a sense of what you are paying for. Since they all do it, it's really no different financially from raising the room rates and including everything. Hotel management probably feels it gives them some flexibility when it comes to dealing with complaints and serves as a way to make people acknowledge all the services that are available to them. My counter argument is that it can give you feeling that you have been bled. But psychology aside -- it's six of one, half-dozen of the other.
Where I can't accept this is from auto rental companies. Auto rental companies nickel-and-dime you just like anyone else in the travel industry, but they push and spin all their add-ons like a telemarketer on a deadline. A typical exchange when picking up your car:
Rental Guy: For only $10/day I can get you an upgrade to a nicer vehicle -- with four doors.
Me: Doesn't the one I reserved have four doors?
RG: Let's see. Oh, yes it does. But they're smaller.
Me: Do you think I look fat?
RG (confused): Um, no.
Me: Nevermind. No thank you.
RG: OK, here we go. I've got you down for added insurance to cover you in case of mishap.
Me: I don't need it. I have that through my Amex card.
RG: Well, it's only $8 and with this we won't even call your company. If there's any damage you can just walk away.
Me: $8 total or $8 per day?
RG: That would be per day.
Me: No, thank you.
RG (shaking his head like I should know better): Then I'll need you to initial that you've refused it. Would you like to pay for your gas now?"
Me: No, thank you.
RG: If you pay for a tank now, the price is only $1.75 per gallon. If we have to fill it when you return the car it's a lot more expensive -- three dollars per gallon more.
Me: Or, I can just fill the tank at the Citgo station across the street before I return it. That's probably the cheapest of all, don't you think?
RG (shaking his head again): Then I'll need you to initial here also.
I really have serious issues with industries that thrive on squeezing people who don't know any better or are caught off-guard when confronted with mealy-mouthed half-truths. This includes the idiots who leave me voice mails about how they happened to be in the neighborhood installing satellite dishes and they are sure sorry that I missed the opportunity to get in on their deal. This claim would hold more water if I didn't get that same voice mail every other day. It also includes timeshare hucksters who provide those scratch-and-win tickets for a special value on some property. Of course, your chance of winning is approximately 100%.
I know of what I speak. Many years ago I worked briefly -- very briefly -- as a car salesman (the champions of mealy-mouthed half-truths). If you find yourself in an industry like this, I strongly advise you to get out of it. It will scar your soul.
But anyway, I was in Florida for a while. Let me tell you about it.
The plan was three nights at the famous South Beach, followed by a drive down the Keys for two nights in Key West, followed by a drive in the reverse direction back up to Palm Beach for two nights before heading home.
Miami Beach is rightly famous for its Art Deco style architecture, and some of it is striking. It's a real blast from the swanky past and very much responsible for the unique South Beach-pastel couture vibe.
Although I didn't stay there, when I am one of the rich and famous, my first hotel choice would be The Delano. I'm not much for favoring a hotel because of its decor or style. The now famous boutique hotels really don't do anything for me. I want service. I want convenience. I want amenities. I want easy access. I have no desire to stand in the lobby and admire the fashionable furniture. And yet I was amazed by The Delano. Huge white flowing curtains and tapestries are everywhere in the lobby -- and when I say huge I'm mean something on the order of three stories high. They are used both as d‚cor and as separators. The use of clean white sheeting is a brilliant touch for a hotel (where clean white sheeting is symbolic of all sorts of positive sensations). The furniture is all cushy, living-room style furniture, again mostly white and very inviting. As you walk through you notice the front desk -- a very simple little table. Move further on and you see a sushi bar tucked away in one corner. Yet further, an off in an alcove is a fine looking bar. Further still begins the restaurant; it is located half indoors and half outdoors. The soft separation between the areas gives you the sense that it's all one big space yet you always know where.
Outside, after you pass through the outdoor tables of the restaurant, there is a garden with the usual trappings and a fairly comfy hammock. Then comes the pool -- they're big on infinity pools down there. Beyond that is the poolside bar surrounded by comfortable lounge chairs and a bunch of what might be called daybeds, but are really oversized ottomans. Between the pool bar area and the beach is a tall wooden fence with a gate that is closed after sunset.
It's beautiful enough to make me just want to be there. And that from Mr. I-only-want-practical-and-functional. It's definitely where I would stay, if I could afford it, but even off-season discounts are out of my reach.
There are three major points of interest for the tourist in South Beach (apart from Art Deco watching). The primary destination is the beach, which is very nice, if well-trodden; the water warm, clear and shallow. It is the Atlantic Ocean as I remember it from age 11.
Next, there is what is known as the Lincoln Road shopping mall, which is really a street that has been closed over for several blocks and is lined with a mishmash of crappy souvenir stores, high-toned boutiques, and restaurants with outdoor seating. About half way through there was a big screen that was running fashion shows -- models cat-walking up and down the runway for your entertainment while you have alfresco dinner. South Beach is about two things and high fashion is one of them (although everybody still dresses in shorts and t-shirts).
The third point of interest is Ocean Drive a few blocks of roadway famed for its restaurants and clubs, most of the open air variety. There is an extended area just across the street, where nets are set up for impromptu beach volleyball. There is what must be the world's largest and most complex sandcastle. Just beyond that is the beach. I'm told that during high season the place is loaded with colorful people -- a guide I read said it was the place to people-watch and it's where E! Wild on South Beach would set up their cameras. But obviously not in September; it was pretty dead. A walk down the street mid-afternoon elicited offers of a drink on the house from the proprietors, just in the hopes I'd stay for more. But I can see where the Ocean Drive might get a little crazy on busy nights. There is an energetic vibe about the place. Surprisingly, I spotted only one bar that was obviously trashy. It was called Mangos, and out front they had a huckster with a couple of friendly parrots on his shoulder, working the passers-by. And some girls in bikinis doing nothing but standing there. Naturally, I went in for a drink, just to cool off a bit.
The next three paragraphs include a critical discussion of women's breasts. If that bothers you, please skip ahead.
The other thing that South Beach is about, besides fashion, is women's breasts (the two are symbiotic in many ways). Sunbathing topless is de rigueur -- which makes the place feel rather Caribbean or French or something. Beyond that, and not to put too fine a point on it, I have never seen so many fake boobs in my life. And it's not subtle work; it's cartoonish, like the fevered dreams of adolescent boys. Tiny, wispy little girls that look like they just inflated their personal floatation devices. Fifty year old women who, considering the sagging and drooping elsewhere, appear to be mechanically suspended by their gravity defying breasts. Even the mannequins in the shop windows are top heavy.
In the aforementioned Mangos, all the waitresses are pretty and wear bikini tops -- the overwhelming majority has had "work done." Mangos is an equal opportunity employer; the waiters are also clearly hired based on how much they look like male models, but thankfully, they are fully clothed. Periodically, they play a bit of salsa and one waiter and one waitress would hop up and the bar and dance to it. (This only served to put me in mind of the old Lone Star Steakhouses back when the wait staff would periodically start line-dancing amongst the tables. Annoying, really, when they should have been bringing your food.) Then, of course, the parrot guy is wandering around, trying, and failing, to be glib and clever while having his parrots climb on to your shoulder for a snapshot that he will happily sell you (another Floridian on the make). In that kind of scene I would have expected the audience to be wild revelers and drunken schoolboys. Nope, the crowd was indistinguishable from your average Bennigan's or Max 'n' Erma's patrons. Imagine, all that money to have "work done" and you still end up surviving on 11% tips from the common, suburban rubes and tourists.
Now let me say quite unselfconsciously that I have no problem with cosmetic surgery. If I could go under the knife and come out looking like Sean Connery circa 1963 I would not hesitate. I'm also fine with breast enhancement, as long as it comes out looking good. Women who have a more, let's say, voluptuous body type can carry it off. Women who have small and subtle touch-ups can come out looking pretty good. But the South Beachers take it too far. They are no longer doing it just to look and feel good about themselves. They are doing it to draw attention to themselves from the world at large. They buy themselves hugely exaggerated breasts for the purpose of being able to say "Made ya look!" But since they all seem to go to the same extreme, it ceases to be attention-worthy. It's a viscous cycle that only ends up benefiting MTV and their newly pubescent audience.
And that all I have to say about women's breasts.
In the end, I have mixed feelings about South Beach. People were friendly everywhere I went. Despite my little breast tirade and the selective camera work on E!, the majority of people are dead normal looking. The beach is sweet. There are good restaurants and bars. And yet, I never actually settled in anywhere -- never got comfortable. It seemed like it could have a real Caribbean coolness to it, but there's really too much of a sense of effort, and perhaps pretentiousness, to make it a laid-back tropical locale. Maybe it would have been more fun in-season. It's a good spot for a couple of days of sun and fun, definitely worth the visit. But after three nights I was ready to leave and did so, not feeling like I missed out on anything.
One thing about driving around in Florida: you will get caught behind someone going a good 20 mph below the speed limit. This may seem like reasonable caution on the part of a senior citizen who understands the need for extra reaction time, but it has nothing to do with that. They are not intentionally driving 20 mph below the speed limit. They are intentionally driving 30 mph, regardless of the speed limit. This only becomes worthy of an aneurism when the speed limit is 50 and your mind tries vainly to fathom the reasoning behind this behavior and draws the erroneous conclusion that they are just being cautious. The fact is they just drive 30 because they don't care about the rest of the world. They pull out into traffic without looking. They cruise through stop signs with nary a glance. They stop dead in the middle of the road when they get confused. Their right to do these things has been vigorously defended in court by the AARP. So they get in the car and depress the accelerator to a point where the engine noise doesn't intrude upon that Perry Como CD they bought for $2.99 at Target; it just happens to be about 30 mph.
When you are driving US 1 to Key West, you will get caught behind one of these people. It doesn't matter how clever you are or how well you plan things out. You can't pass them or dodge them and flipping them off is completely futile. No matter what you do, it will happen. This is, so far, the only practical application I have found for yoga breathing.
US 1 to Key West is generally thought to be one of the most beautiful drives you can take. And it is, for a portion of it. As you cross Seven Mile Bridge, the view is as impressive as it is in all the post cards and magazines. But it's really only in the western part of the keys where you can see the ocean and/or gulf from the road. For the first half of the journey you are ambling down a road that looks no different than any other road in touristland -- lined with various crap shops hawking three t-shirts for $15.95 and greasy looking restaurants that will sell you the "captain's platter" for $6.95 before 4 pm. Not that I'm against crap shops and greasy restaurants, but it's not what you are expecting from a visual of the Keys. This is where you really don't want to get caught behind the guy with his pants hiked up around his armpits and the full-coverage, cataract sunglasses. (Do note that once you are off U.S. 1 things get a bit better.)
I checked into the Wyndham Casa Marina which is a longish, but quite pleasant walk to the far end of Duval Street, the point of action on Key West.
Duval Street starts roughly at the Southernmost Point in the Continental U.S. It's not really the southernmost point in the continental U.S., since there is quite obviously land going a bit further south. Furthermore, it's not even on the continental U.S., it's on an island just off the continental U.S. -- specifically Key West. (You need not fear for the future of pedantry as long as I'm around.) From there, it's a straight shot for what must be nearly a mile of nothing but open air bars, boutiques, crap shops, along with a girlie bar and a "bathhouse" just for good measure. Let's just say Duval Street is not the place to bring impressionable youngsters. Even if you could steer them clear of the dens of ill-repute, so to speak, the crap shops keep inanely obscene t-shirts in the windows, and the bars feature live entertainment of the foul-mouthed variety.
Still, Key West is not without its charm. Away from Duval Street there are some lovely shoreline areas. The residential streets seem fairly quiet and quaint. Even Duval Street ends in a spot called Mallory Square where crowds gather to watch the sunset and be entertained by street performers and local artisans.
I arrived in Key West in the late afternoon and had the entire day following to check things out. I had high hopes, I spent the late afternoon hanging out in the resort by the pool and wandered out for a quick bite of dinner at none other than the genuine Key West version of Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville (not particularly impressive, even the margarita). The next day I had planned to do the full tour of Duval Street, hit the crap shops to buy some crap for the folks back in Michigan, and see if I could get out on the water somehow. Ominously, I noticed a preponderance of Harley-Davidsons but I just figured it was typical of the keys.
The next day, Bike Week was upon me in full force. Bike Week is when bikers, I would guess 99.99% Harley riders, gather to ride up and down the street, show off their bikes, and hang out in the bars. It sounds like a recipe for violence and terror from a '50s exploitation flick, but it's not. The bikers actually seem to be more mild than wild. The majority appear to be solidly into middle age -- presumably because you have to be at least upper middle-class to afford a Harley, never mind have one modified into a wicked looking chopper. Although many are big on leather and scruffy facial hair, a good third of them looked like they had just spent the morning mowing the lawn in their Bermuda shorts. All in all, a pretty decent crowd, with a couple of unfortunate traits.
One thing they all have in common, besides motorcycles, is that they are uniformly fat. I mean f-a-t. I worried that Key West would crumble and sink under their collective bulk. Seriously guys, eat a salad now and then, the shocks on your bike will last longer.
Another thing they all have in common is the odd fetish for making as much noise as possible. I think I can understand the attraction of motorcycling -- flying down road, the open air, the hint of danger and rebellion. But where does the noise come into it? Many of these folks just seem to revel in sitting curbside, revving their engines -- engines that have actually been modified to be noisier than a standard Harley which is ear-splitting enough. Good grief. Guys, get it through your heads, you're not the Hell's Angels. You're middle-class, middle-aged, middle-heavy posers. You look as silly pulling that bad-boy act as I would trying to pick up college girls on spring break in Ft. Lauderdale. Almost, anyway.
Despite the biker intrusion I did finish my circle tour of Duval Street, including crap shop purchases. The most notable stop was Sloppy Joe's, famous for being a Hemingway hangout half a century ago. Actually, it's moved to a new location since then. And the old location is now a new bar, Captain Tony's, whose claim to fame is that it is in the location of Sloppy Joe's back when it was a Hemingway hang out. Such is the vague nature of commercial myth-making. In any event, I can confirm that the sloppy joes at Sloppy Joe's (the original name at the new location, not the new name at the original location) are most excellent -- very effective use of dill.
My excursion out on the water was fine. I had hoped to get on a boat to the Dry Tortugas and get some snorkeling in, but it was too long a trip and too expensive, so I settled for a glass bottom boat tour of the reef. It was a fine way to kill a couple of hours. Nothing too amazing about the reef -- it would have been better through a snorkel mask -- but it was a pleasant trip and a good overview of some of the interesting history of the island while I worked on my tan.
After the boat trip I decided to make my way back to the Wyndham where I could relax by the pool away from Harley-Davidson's high decibel flatulence. While I was gone the Wyndham had been invaded by some convention of personnel recruiters and there was nary a chair to sit in by the pool. I went in for a dip, but it became clear after a while that poolside was a barren land wherein my butt could find no purchase. So I headed back down Duval Street to Mallory Square (I should have rented a scooter as soon as I arrived) to enjoy the sunset, snag a bite to eat from one of the local vendors, check out the locals, chill while looking out over the water, and grab a piece of genuine key lime pie. Nice. I get the sense that this must have been what Key West was like "before it was spoiled by evil commercialism," or at least without the bikers and conventioneers.
I have mixed feelings about Key West. Despite the annoyances, Key West still has a certain charm to it. It still has the feel of a special place in spite of the cheap fa‡ade. No doubt there are nooks and crannies of real interest if you had the time to find them, but as the saying goes, timing is everything. After a day and a half, I left Key West for the mainland, passing even more bikers arriving from the opposite direction. Again, I didn't feel like I was missing anything.
The next, and last, stop was Palm Beach. In stark contrast to the high fashion Babylon of South Beach and the squalorous tourist Babylon of Key West, Palm Beach is old school, old money Florida. If you're of a certain age, you've seen all the old pictures of Florida with the shiny shops along a street lined with evenly spaced palm trees and genteel folks walking around is stylish casualwear. That's Palm Beach. At least the "beach" part is, go a couple of streets inland and it's indistinguishable from any suburb in the country.
I intentionally scheduled Palm Beach for last because I figured after the chaos of the week I would want some peace and quiet. And that's what you get in Palm Beach. To a fault. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, going on. One of the central attractions of Palm Beach is Worth Street, claimed to be the country's original upscale shopping attraction. I really had no interest in shopping at Gucci or Tiffanys, but I thought I'd see what was going on and maybe grab a drink and some dinner only to find the place was empty. On a Saturday night, no less. There were probably a total of three humans in sight and no pub or casual spot to quench my thirst. So I drove around along A1A in the waning light of the evening, admiring the mansions and the views of the sea until the weather turned dicey and I headed back to the hotel.
At this point you are probably expecting to read that I had mixed feelings about Palm Beach. As I look back over this essay in its entirety, it reads a bit too much like a bad trip. It wasn't at all; it was a good trip. I saw and did things that I don't do at home. I broke whatever routines I was stuck in. I got a really wicked tan. But it is true that I hadn't experienced that vacation moment. There should be a point in every vacation of significance that makes you feel as though you are doing or experiencing something special. It can be a new activity or a moment of relaxation or a revelation of some sort, but there should always be something that is meaningful.
Back at the Hilton, with one day left before flying back and I still hadn't had that vacation moment. It had started to rain in earnest and I had overheard the expectation of more rain for the following day, which was to be my last full day in Florida. I resigned myself to spending the next day in search of a place to settle in and watch the football games, maybe get some writing done, and call it a trip.
Sure enough, in that way Florida has of jading you into submission then dazzling you into delight, I dragged myself down for breakfast the next morning to a perfectly sunny day and 5 foot waves curling just off shore -- boogie boarding nirvana. I must have spent three hours riding the waves to shore until I didn't have the strength to pull myself up on the board, only pausing to walk the ten yards to the bar for a quick drink. At one point, the water around me got all dark. Thinking it was a shadow, I looked up expecting to see the sun hidden behind a cloud, but the sky was clear and the sun was high. As I scanned the water I realized I was in the midst of an enormous school of fish (I'm guessing herring, but I wouldn't know). It was as if I could have just reached into the water and grabbed and armful of them. Remarkable.
And that was it. I was on vacation. Of course, I had to leave the next day, but you just need the one moment to make it work.
Back in Michigan it was time to crank up the thermostat and break out the fall jackets. But it's good to know that if you can blaze a trail through everyone on the make, there are still vacations to be had in Florida.
Travel Rewind: The Gold-Plated Swamp (2002)
Travel Rewind: The Gold-Plated Swamp (2002): (The second of two trip reposts from long ago, in honor of my most recent trip to the Sunshine State.)
What kind of idiot goes to Florida in the middle of August?
Look, the day I left Michigan it had been in the 90s for most of the past three weeks, so exactly what sort of heat was I avoiding by staying up north? Besides, I had some long neglected family down there, I was about to collide with my company's use-it-or-lose-it vacation policy, and I really needed some distance from my life to get myself back into the groove of fiction writing. Combine this with off-season rates and it all made sense. I wanted to see Sanibel Island and points south, so I arranged to fly into Ft. Myers, drive north to Sarasota for a couple of days for the family visit, then back down to Ft. Myers for a week of gulf-coastal exploration.
After a blessedly uneventful flight on Delta, I picked up my rental car from Alamo with an equally blessed eventlessness. For the heck of it, I rented a Jeep Wrangler.
A Jeep Wrangler is an intentionally crude vehicle. Road and wind noise are deafening. The engine howls in pain at the mere thought of acceleration. The ride will induce you to pass blood in your urine. Parts just fall off -- quality control is vintage 1970s American Motors. The tires whine at the slightest turn of the wheel. And it sucks gas faster than Michael Moore sucks chocolate shakes, primarily because it is somewhat less aerodynamic than a block of cement. All this is part of the genuine military, off-road, old-fashioned, no sissified luxuries, Jeep mystique (except for the CD player, A/C, automatic transmission, cruise control, and so forth).
But: the top peels off, the doors pop off, the windows zip off -- and in that condition there is no better way to tool around southwest Florida.
The first stop was Sarasota, a city I've visited many times over the years and it's become a pleasant surprise. It used to be a bunch of strip malls and fairly nasty restaurants and a lot of old folks driving around at 30 miles an hour no matter the speed limit. Now it's gone fully upscale. There are any number of fine restaurants, high-tone shopping malls that pride themselves serving the nouveau riche, and the place is crawling with latest model German sedans, and I don't mean Volkswagens (all going 30 miles an hour).
I stayed at the Holiday Inn on Lido beach, a lovely stretch of sand on one of the keys just off the mainland. I was only staying for a day or two, so I didn't much care about where I stayed and the description sounded decent, plus I got a good rate. Remembering the Holiday Inns along the highways from family road trips when I was a mere lad, I honestly didn't expect much. I was pleasantly surprised. The Lido Beach Holiday Inn sits directly across a lightly traveled shoreline road from the Gulf of Mexico. About a ten minute walk will get you to St. Armand's Circle, a terrific little shopping/dining location situated around a large circular turnaround in the road. No Holiday Inn is a Hyatt or a Ritz, but this one had a lot going for it -- a lounge in the lobby, a nice restaurant on the top floor where you could sit and watch the sunset, a decent pool, and, like I said, a prime location. Given the great off-season rates I can see it being a great place for a family on a budget to spend a week. I wouldn't hesitate to stay there again.
One of my all time favorite Sarasota activities is the Ringling Museum of Art, founded by John Ringling of Ringling Bros. Circus fame. Lest you think that's the equivalent of the Krusty the Clown Opera House, understand that John Ringling was a great patron of the arts and the Ringling Museum is probably the premier fine arts institution of the South. Yes, there is a Circus museum on the grounds, but it's much deemphasized. The art museum is loaded down with great works. You are hit with a series of towering Rubens upon entrance -- the collection is heavy on Old Masters. In the center is a beautiful courtyard filled with classical statues. It's really quite picturesque.
Another gem is Ca d'Zan, the Ringling family mansion. Probably the best way to describe it is that you could just picture Jay Gatsby wandering around on the terrace amidst scores of revelers. Everything about the house is ornate in the extreme. The guided tour gives you the impression that that partying never stopped and no expense was spared. I had been through the house years before when it was in an advanced state of disrepair, but after a long and expensive restoration, it's a site to behold.
All this is situated among verdant pathways with enormous banyan trees at every turn. It's a wonderful spot for a museum junkie like me to spend a day.
Following a 2-hour freeway ride in the Jeep (not a pleasant experience), I was back in Ft. Myers and checking in to the Sanibel Harbor Resort, which would be my base of operations for explorations south.
I cannot recommend Sanibel Harbor Resort. Have you ever seen Singing in the Rain? The premise is that there is this famously beautiful actress who made her fame in silent pics, but along come the talkies and everyone discovers her voice is cringe-inducing. That's what Sanibel Harbor Resort is like. It is unbelievably beautiful -- the grounds, the views -- and filled with friendly employees, but scratching that pristine surface is like nails on a chalkboard.
Among other things, they provided a wired in-room internet connection but the only Ethernet cord they provided was about two feet long and the jack was beneath around the back of a night stand so effectively I had to sit on the floor and use the bed as my desk. They left the sliding door to the balcony open one day and I came back to a room full of mosquitoes. They left the door to my room wedged open for several hours such that anybody could have walked in and stolen my $3000 laptop. And to finish up, they completely ignored my pleas for redress to management. NEVER STAY AT SANIBEL HARBOUR RESORT. [update: I am bitter about it to this day - dam]
Just across a short toll bridge sits Sanibel Island. About half of Sanibel Island -- the side of the island facing the mainland -- is protected wildlife habitat. On the rest of the island development is strictly controlled and there are obviously extensive regulations controlling commercial ventures. There is effectively one long two lane road that runs the length of the island. It is along here that most for the commercial activity goes on. Shops boutiques, restaurants abound, but are for the most part set back from road, with small, tastefully done signs and cute names like The Hungry Heron and the Lazy Flamingo. My personal favorite was the sushi at the open air Key Lime Caf‚.
The beaches are the same broad, white sand, clear green water beaches you get throughout the southwest gulf coast. They are especially prized for shell collecting (not a big hobby of mine), and one of the largest shell stores in the world, Sanibel Seashell Industries is located on the island. Beach parking can be expensive by the hour, or you can go the route of buying a permit. Either way there is no guarantee of space availability.
One thing about Sanibel: they do not make it all that easy just to drop in for a visit. Traffic is horrendous in-season (they say), and parking is tough and expensive. And it's three bucks and a bit of a wait in line just to get on to the island from the mainland. This is undoubtedly done intentionally to make sure anyone visiting does so out of desire and not whim, making a visit to Sanibel a planned event and something to be done with a certain sincerity. Probably this helps them maintain the island and keep the riff raff away. It works. Despite the development and numerous resorts, some of significant size, it retains a little, hidden away, tropical island feel that accounts for its charm and popularity.
Telling facts about Sanibel Island: 1) There is a $500 fine for littering. 2) There is a $500 fine for feeding an alligator (it's a bit worrisome that such an activity needs to be actively discouraged). 3) There is only an $80 fine for not yielding to a pedestrian at a crosswalk. It's all about priorities.
I can't think of a better place to spend a day bopping from beach to bar to beach in a Jeep Wrangler with the top dropped than Sanibel Island.
Ft. Myers Beach, immediately south of Ft. Myers proper, would have to be considered the area's party focus. A resident described it to me as a "former Spring Break destination" and I could see that. (Like everything else, spring break has gone upscale from gulf beaches to exotic Caribbean and Mexican destinations.) Whereas the rest of southwest gulf coast pushes hard to focus on the upscale Ft. Myers Beach is all about fun. It's definitely a younger crowd. The beaches, though still broad and white sand, are swarming with active folks; Frisbees, beach balls, and various objects are being tossed about; Boston Whaler-esque boats are flitting back and forth; and there appears to be an unbroken line of beach bars about half a mile long -- something I saw nowhere else along the coast. There's even a beachside Hooter's. You won't see that on Sanibel. Ever.
Accommodations at Ft. Meyers Beach are of the mostly of the motel variety -- right on, or across the street, from the beach. There don't appear to be any big resorts (but the motels probably treat you better than Sanibel Harbor Resort anyway -- sorry, bitter moment). As you move further south, there are a number of larger buildings labeled as "beach clubs," with severe-looking parking attendants to prevent beach crashers. "Beach club," as it turns out, is a euphemism for time-share condos. Cute.
I can see where Ft. Myers Beach would be an ideal destination for a family road trip. Check-in to an inexpensive motel. The kids play in the water while Mom gets all nice and tan while reading the latest Grisham, and Dad sneaks away for an afternoon Bud Light or two at the Hooter's beach bar. Work in a day trip to a shell store, a couple rounds of miniature golf, a parasail ride, a fishing expedition, and lots of snapshots with a disposable camera and you got yourself a family vacation to make Chevy Chase green with envy.
The furthest point south I reached was Marco Island. It barely rates a mention. In marked contrast to Sanibel, Marco Island appears to have been leveled of anything resembling nature then re-populated with megalithic condominium high rises. It has one publicly accessible beach, Tigertail Beach, that was mis-located on my map and if it wasn't for my laser surgery flawless vision I never would have seen the microscopic roadside sign to point me in the right direction. The rest of the beaches -- none of which you can see from the road since they are blocked out by the high rises, are for residents only. By the time I got to Tigertail Beach it was late afternoon so I passed on the three dollar entrance fee and decided to drive around the island to see the sights. There are none. Just huge buildings and a bunch of strip malls. Basically, Marco Island is your standard land-locked suburb dropped on to an island off the gulf coast.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
Head back north again from Marco Island and your next stop is the heavenly city of Naples. Where to begin? I liked Naples so much I went twice.
Central to Naples are the 3rd Street South shopping district and the 5th Avenue South shopping district, both filled with boutiques on a par with Rodeo Drive, and many, many fine restaurants with sidewalk cafes or open air bars. Naples is one of the wealthiest cities extant. I grabbed a sidewalk lunch and wandered about a bit to get my bearings, then walked down to the beach.
I know it seems like beach after beach has the same monotonously perfect description: broad white sand, and clear green water. The beach at Naples was like that, only more so. I still can't describe why it was the best one of the trip. I don't know what it was. Maybe the water was just that much clearer. Maybe the sand was just that much whiter. Maybe it was the sight of folks strolling along the long pier, as opposed to the unbroken shoreline everywhere else. I just don't know how I knew, but I knew this was a special spot. I didn't have my bathing suit so I had to be content with a barefoot walk along the edge of the waves and promise to myself to return.
Back in town, I stopped for a quick drink at the excellent Yabba Island Grill. A friendly, open-all-the-French-doors restaurant designed to exude a strong Caribbean vibe, and accordingly, they specialize in rum. Now, lots of places have great wine lists. Lots of places have great beer lists. Lots of places have great lists of Single Malts. There are even plenty of places with excellent lists of Bourbons. But this is the first place I've come across that has a huge Rum list. This is not mix-with-Coke or blend-in-your-daiquiri rum. This is sipping rum -- meant to drink straight. So that's what I did, I tried one called Anniversaro from Venezuela; it has a delicious, complex flavor that made me vow to spend more time with quality rum in the future. Yo-ho-ho.
On my second visit I took a short time-out to visit the Naples Zoo. It's not a big zoo, really, but it was a nice diversion. There is a large central pond filled with alligators and turtles where they hold feedings every few hours. This amounts to someone dangling whole fryers from a rope, demonstrating how high the gators can leap out of the water to get it. It worked a couple of times, but the gators are so fat and happy they get bored. So to fill out the show, questions along the lines of "Does anybody know how long alligators live?" are shouted out to the crowd. Without exception, the children in the audience knew the answers to every question. They may not know who won the war of 1812, but they've got the world according to Animal Planet down pat.
Funny thing about southwest Florida: for all the development and commerciality along the coast, there are reminders everywhere that it is just a civilized face covering a palm and cypress swamp. You are, after all, on the edge of the Everglades. Anyone who has visited Florida can attest to the ubiquitous presence of those ever-so-cute little lizards. I was lazing by the pool one day when I noticed an injured fly on the ground struggling to escape the ants chaotically swarming about, looking to make a meal of it. Suddenly, one of those lizards darts out from under a bush and snags the fly with one bite, leaving the ants looking like they had been mugged. It was sort of like a scene from a National Geographic nature special in miniature.
Alligators loom large everywhere you go, from the signs prohibiting feeding on Sanibel, to the staged gator feeding at the zoo, where you are informed that the gators don't hesitate to take birds
and any other fauna that happens near their pond, to the fact that the highway that cuts across the Everglades to Miami is called Alligator Alley. South of Naples there are long stretches of road, what we would call 'country road' in the Midwest, with the cypressy, swampy, grass crawling almost up to the edge. A broken down Jeep, a man on foot, a snap of a tail, a lot of sharp teeth, and yours truly would have become just another tourist causality statistic. That is, if the gator left enough uneaten to be identified.
Back to Naples beach, this time with the appropriate gear. In the residential area just outside the Naples shopping districts there are a string of east-west streets which dead-end on small parking areas adjacent to the beach. I pulled the jeep into one spaces only to find myself without any change for the meter. No way was I going to waste precious beach time trying to find change for a buck so I just double parked.
I spread my towel, slathered on SPF 30 and lay in the sun. I realized I had been rushing around trying to be a thorough traveler ever since I arrived in Florida. I became aware of a tightness in my jaw and a worried furrow in my brow. I tried to read, but I couldn't keep my concentration. I tried to sleep but only drifted fitfully. I rose and went for a brief walk up the beach.
A largish family were chattering in some vaguely Eastern European dialect while their kids darted in an out of the water (imagine the Florida gulf coast versus, say, Belarus). A woman had her lounge chair placed at the very edge of the surf so she could tan while dipping her toes in the water. Two teenage girls walked by, complaining about boys. An infant boy cried out in terror when the surf got hold of his sand pail, until his father retrieved it. Some people sat serenely under umbrellas. Others, already too tan, lay drenched in oil, angled to maximize exposure. Out in the water, gulls dive bombed for unsuspecting fish -- completely submerging before arising with their prey not ten yards from swimming humans; more Darwinian nature amidst civilized luxury.
I waded out until the dead-calm water was up to my chin. Schools of minnow-like fish stayed in close proximity, hoping my presence would deter the gulls. I floated on my back allowing the buoyant salt-water to support me. The sky was bare and blue. And I found something I had been looking for. For a little while, I stopped.
Stopped wondering if the double-parked Jeep would get a ticket.
Stopped fretting over lousy hotels.
Stopped wringing my hands about what awaited me when I returned to work.
Stopped agonizing over my stalled writing career.
Stopped mentally preparing for the trip home.
Stopped plotting how I would do things differently if I could.
When I finally did pull myself off the beach and drag myself back home, I was able to see all the small events of the previous two weeks as part of the whole of a fine coastal tour, laced with all the enjoyment and frustration that are why we travel.
Even to Florida in the middle of August.
What kind of idiot goes to Florida in the middle of August?
Look, the day I left Michigan it had been in the 90s for most of the past three weeks, so exactly what sort of heat was I avoiding by staying up north? Besides, I had some long neglected family down there, I was about to collide with my company's use-it-or-lose-it vacation policy, and I really needed some distance from my life to get myself back into the groove of fiction writing. Combine this with off-season rates and it all made sense. I wanted to see Sanibel Island and points south, so I arranged to fly into Ft. Myers, drive north to Sarasota for a couple of days for the family visit, then back down to Ft. Myers for a week of gulf-coastal exploration.
After a blessedly uneventful flight on Delta, I picked up my rental car from Alamo with an equally blessed eventlessness. For the heck of it, I rented a Jeep Wrangler.
A Jeep Wrangler is an intentionally crude vehicle. Road and wind noise are deafening. The engine howls in pain at the mere thought of acceleration. The ride will induce you to pass blood in your urine. Parts just fall off -- quality control is vintage 1970s American Motors. The tires whine at the slightest turn of the wheel. And it sucks gas faster than Michael Moore sucks chocolate shakes, primarily because it is somewhat less aerodynamic than a block of cement. All this is part of the genuine military, off-road, old-fashioned, no sissified luxuries, Jeep mystique (except for the CD player, A/C, automatic transmission, cruise control, and so forth).
But: the top peels off, the doors pop off, the windows zip off -- and in that condition there is no better way to tool around southwest Florida.
The first stop was Sarasota, a city I've visited many times over the years and it's become a pleasant surprise. It used to be a bunch of strip malls and fairly nasty restaurants and a lot of old folks driving around at 30 miles an hour no matter the speed limit. Now it's gone fully upscale. There are any number of fine restaurants, high-tone shopping malls that pride themselves serving the nouveau riche, and the place is crawling with latest model German sedans, and I don't mean Volkswagens (all going 30 miles an hour).
I stayed at the Holiday Inn on Lido beach, a lovely stretch of sand on one of the keys just off the mainland. I was only staying for a day or two, so I didn't much care about where I stayed and the description sounded decent, plus I got a good rate. Remembering the Holiday Inns along the highways from family road trips when I was a mere lad, I honestly didn't expect much. I was pleasantly surprised. The Lido Beach Holiday Inn sits directly across a lightly traveled shoreline road from the Gulf of Mexico. About a ten minute walk will get you to St. Armand's Circle, a terrific little shopping/dining location situated around a large circular turnaround in the road. No Holiday Inn is a Hyatt or a Ritz, but this one had a lot going for it -- a lounge in the lobby, a nice restaurant on the top floor where you could sit and watch the sunset, a decent pool, and, like I said, a prime location. Given the great off-season rates I can see it being a great place for a family on a budget to spend a week. I wouldn't hesitate to stay there again.
One of my all time favorite Sarasota activities is the Ringling Museum of Art, founded by John Ringling of Ringling Bros. Circus fame. Lest you think that's the equivalent of the Krusty the Clown Opera House, understand that John Ringling was a great patron of the arts and the Ringling Museum is probably the premier fine arts institution of the South. Yes, there is a Circus museum on the grounds, but it's much deemphasized. The art museum is loaded down with great works. You are hit with a series of towering Rubens upon entrance -- the collection is heavy on Old Masters. In the center is a beautiful courtyard filled with classical statues. It's really quite picturesque.
Another gem is Ca d'Zan, the Ringling family mansion. Probably the best way to describe it is that you could just picture Jay Gatsby wandering around on the terrace amidst scores of revelers. Everything about the house is ornate in the extreme. The guided tour gives you the impression that that partying never stopped and no expense was spared. I had been through the house years before when it was in an advanced state of disrepair, but after a long and expensive restoration, it's a site to behold.
All this is situated among verdant pathways with enormous banyan trees at every turn. It's a wonderful spot for a museum junkie like me to spend a day.
Following a 2-hour freeway ride in the Jeep (not a pleasant experience), I was back in Ft. Myers and checking in to the Sanibel Harbor Resort, which would be my base of operations for explorations south.
I cannot recommend Sanibel Harbor Resort. Have you ever seen Singing in the Rain? The premise is that there is this famously beautiful actress who made her fame in silent pics, but along come the talkies and everyone discovers her voice is cringe-inducing. That's what Sanibel Harbor Resort is like. It is unbelievably beautiful -- the grounds, the views -- and filled with friendly employees, but scratching that pristine surface is like nails on a chalkboard.
Among other things, they provided a wired in-room internet connection but the only Ethernet cord they provided was about two feet long and the jack was beneath around the back of a night stand so effectively I had to sit on the floor and use the bed as my desk. They left the sliding door to the balcony open one day and I came back to a room full of mosquitoes. They left the door to my room wedged open for several hours such that anybody could have walked in and stolen my $3000 laptop. And to finish up, they completely ignored my pleas for redress to management. NEVER STAY AT SANIBEL HARBOUR RESORT. [update: I am bitter about it to this day - dam]
Just across a short toll bridge sits Sanibel Island. About half of Sanibel Island -- the side of the island facing the mainland -- is protected wildlife habitat. On the rest of the island development is strictly controlled and there are obviously extensive regulations controlling commercial ventures. There is effectively one long two lane road that runs the length of the island. It is along here that most for the commercial activity goes on. Shops boutiques, restaurants abound, but are for the most part set back from road, with small, tastefully done signs and cute names like The Hungry Heron and the Lazy Flamingo. My personal favorite was the sushi at the open air Key Lime Caf‚.
The beaches are the same broad, white sand, clear green water beaches you get throughout the southwest gulf coast. They are especially prized for shell collecting (not a big hobby of mine), and one of the largest shell stores in the world, Sanibel Seashell Industries is located on the island. Beach parking can be expensive by the hour, or you can go the route of buying a permit. Either way there is no guarantee of space availability.
One thing about Sanibel: they do not make it all that easy just to drop in for a visit. Traffic is horrendous in-season (they say), and parking is tough and expensive. And it's three bucks and a bit of a wait in line just to get on to the island from the mainland. This is undoubtedly done intentionally to make sure anyone visiting does so out of desire and not whim, making a visit to Sanibel a planned event and something to be done with a certain sincerity. Probably this helps them maintain the island and keep the riff raff away. It works. Despite the development and numerous resorts, some of significant size, it retains a little, hidden away, tropical island feel that accounts for its charm and popularity.
Telling facts about Sanibel Island: 1) There is a $500 fine for littering. 2) There is a $500 fine for feeding an alligator (it's a bit worrisome that such an activity needs to be actively discouraged). 3) There is only an $80 fine for not yielding to a pedestrian at a crosswalk. It's all about priorities.
I can't think of a better place to spend a day bopping from beach to bar to beach in a Jeep Wrangler with the top dropped than Sanibel Island.
Ft. Myers Beach, immediately south of Ft. Myers proper, would have to be considered the area's party focus. A resident described it to me as a "former Spring Break destination" and I could see that. (Like everything else, spring break has gone upscale from gulf beaches to exotic Caribbean and Mexican destinations.) Whereas the rest of southwest gulf coast pushes hard to focus on the upscale Ft. Myers Beach is all about fun. It's definitely a younger crowd. The beaches, though still broad and white sand, are swarming with active folks; Frisbees, beach balls, and various objects are being tossed about; Boston Whaler-esque boats are flitting back and forth; and there appears to be an unbroken line of beach bars about half a mile long -- something I saw nowhere else along the coast. There's even a beachside Hooter's. You won't see that on Sanibel. Ever.
Accommodations at Ft. Meyers Beach are of the mostly of the motel variety -- right on, or across the street, from the beach. There don't appear to be any big resorts (but the motels probably treat you better than Sanibel Harbor Resort anyway -- sorry, bitter moment). As you move further south, there are a number of larger buildings labeled as "beach clubs," with severe-looking parking attendants to prevent beach crashers. "Beach club," as it turns out, is a euphemism for time-share condos. Cute.
I can see where Ft. Myers Beach would be an ideal destination for a family road trip. Check-in to an inexpensive motel. The kids play in the water while Mom gets all nice and tan while reading the latest Grisham, and Dad sneaks away for an afternoon Bud Light or two at the Hooter's beach bar. Work in a day trip to a shell store, a couple rounds of miniature golf, a parasail ride, a fishing expedition, and lots of snapshots with a disposable camera and you got yourself a family vacation to make Chevy Chase green with envy.
The furthest point south I reached was Marco Island. It barely rates a mention. In marked contrast to Sanibel, Marco Island appears to have been leveled of anything resembling nature then re-populated with megalithic condominium high rises. It has one publicly accessible beach, Tigertail Beach, that was mis-located on my map and if it wasn't for my laser surgery flawless vision I never would have seen the microscopic roadside sign to point me in the right direction. The rest of the beaches -- none of which you can see from the road since they are blocked out by the high rises, are for residents only. By the time I got to Tigertail Beach it was late afternoon so I passed on the three dollar entrance fee and decided to drive around the island to see the sights. There are none. Just huge buildings and a bunch of strip malls. Basically, Marco Island is your standard land-locked suburb dropped on to an island off the gulf coast.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
Head back north again from Marco Island and your next stop is the heavenly city of Naples. Where to begin? I liked Naples so much I went twice.
Central to Naples are the 3rd Street South shopping district and the 5th Avenue South shopping district, both filled with boutiques on a par with Rodeo Drive, and many, many fine restaurants with sidewalk cafes or open air bars. Naples is one of the wealthiest cities extant. I grabbed a sidewalk lunch and wandered about a bit to get my bearings, then walked down to the beach.
I know it seems like beach after beach has the same monotonously perfect description: broad white sand, and clear green water. The beach at Naples was like that, only more so. I still can't describe why it was the best one of the trip. I don't know what it was. Maybe the water was just that much clearer. Maybe the sand was just that much whiter. Maybe it was the sight of folks strolling along the long pier, as opposed to the unbroken shoreline everywhere else. I just don't know how I knew, but I knew this was a special spot. I didn't have my bathing suit so I had to be content with a barefoot walk along the edge of the waves and promise to myself to return.
Back in town, I stopped for a quick drink at the excellent Yabba Island Grill. A friendly, open-all-the-French-doors restaurant designed to exude a strong Caribbean vibe, and accordingly, they specialize in rum. Now, lots of places have great wine lists. Lots of places have great beer lists. Lots of places have great lists of Single Malts. There are even plenty of places with excellent lists of Bourbons. But this is the first place I've come across that has a huge Rum list. This is not mix-with-Coke or blend-in-your-daiquiri rum. This is sipping rum -- meant to drink straight. So that's what I did, I tried one called Anniversaro from Venezuela; it has a delicious, complex flavor that made me vow to spend more time with quality rum in the future. Yo-ho-ho.
On my second visit I took a short time-out to visit the Naples Zoo. It's not a big zoo, really, but it was a nice diversion. There is a large central pond filled with alligators and turtles where they hold feedings every few hours. This amounts to someone dangling whole fryers from a rope, demonstrating how high the gators can leap out of the water to get it. It worked a couple of times, but the gators are so fat and happy they get bored. So to fill out the show, questions along the lines of "Does anybody know how long alligators live?" are shouted out to the crowd. Without exception, the children in the audience knew the answers to every question. They may not know who won the war of 1812, but they've got the world according to Animal Planet down pat.
Funny thing about southwest Florida: for all the development and commerciality along the coast, there are reminders everywhere that it is just a civilized face covering a palm and cypress swamp. You are, after all, on the edge of the Everglades. Anyone who has visited Florida can attest to the ubiquitous presence of those ever-so-cute little lizards. I was lazing by the pool one day when I noticed an injured fly on the ground struggling to escape the ants chaotically swarming about, looking to make a meal of it. Suddenly, one of those lizards darts out from under a bush and snags the fly with one bite, leaving the ants looking like they had been mugged. It was sort of like a scene from a National Geographic nature special in miniature.
Alligators loom large everywhere you go, from the signs prohibiting feeding on Sanibel, to the staged gator feeding at the zoo, where you are informed that the gators don't hesitate to take birds
and any other fauna that happens near their pond, to the fact that the highway that cuts across the Everglades to Miami is called Alligator Alley. South of Naples there are long stretches of road, what we would call 'country road' in the Midwest, with the cypressy, swampy, grass crawling almost up to the edge. A broken down Jeep, a man on foot, a snap of a tail, a lot of sharp teeth, and yours truly would have become just another tourist causality statistic. That is, if the gator left enough uneaten to be identified.
Back to Naples beach, this time with the appropriate gear. In the residential area just outside the Naples shopping districts there are a string of east-west streets which dead-end on small parking areas adjacent to the beach. I pulled the jeep into one spaces only to find myself without any change for the meter. No way was I going to waste precious beach time trying to find change for a buck so I just double parked.
I spread my towel, slathered on SPF 30 and lay in the sun. I realized I had been rushing around trying to be a thorough traveler ever since I arrived in Florida. I became aware of a tightness in my jaw and a worried furrow in my brow. I tried to read, but I couldn't keep my concentration. I tried to sleep but only drifted fitfully. I rose and went for a brief walk up the beach.
A largish family were chattering in some vaguely Eastern European dialect while their kids darted in an out of the water (imagine the Florida gulf coast versus, say, Belarus). A woman had her lounge chair placed at the very edge of the surf so she could tan while dipping her toes in the water. Two teenage girls walked by, complaining about boys. An infant boy cried out in terror when the surf got hold of his sand pail, until his father retrieved it. Some people sat serenely under umbrellas. Others, already too tan, lay drenched in oil, angled to maximize exposure. Out in the water, gulls dive bombed for unsuspecting fish -- completely submerging before arising with their prey not ten yards from swimming humans; more Darwinian nature amidst civilized luxury.
I waded out until the dead-calm water was up to my chin. Schools of minnow-like fish stayed in close proximity, hoping my presence would deter the gulls. I floated on my back allowing the buoyant salt-water to support me. The sky was bare and blue. And I found something I had been looking for. For a little while, I stopped.
Stopped wondering if the double-parked Jeep would get a ticket.
Stopped fretting over lousy hotels.
Stopped wringing my hands about what awaited me when I returned to work.
Stopped agonizing over my stalled writing career.
Stopped mentally preparing for the trip home.
Stopped plotting how I would do things differently if I could.
When I finally did pull myself off the beach and drag myself back home, I was able to see all the small events of the previous two weeks as part of the whole of a fine coastal tour, laced with all the enjoyment and frustration that are why we travel.
Even to Florida in the middle of August.
Monday, February 02, 2009
The Month That Was - January 2009
The Month That Was - January 2009: We had a string of days in the middle of the month where I glanced at the thermometer in my car and consistently saw a minus sign for the outside temp. Ugh. Actually, the whole month has been a bloody aggravation. I had tech issues (see below). I took my car into the Toyota dealer for a half-hour oil change and left 4 hours later down $800. I tried to figure out a way to get down to Florida for a break from the cold, but failed miserably. Combined with a couple of other major foul-ups I think I am out around $1200 in unexpected repairs and idiotic purchases. Let's just say this year's tax refund can't come soon enough. And worst of all, after I wrote last month about Chad Pennington being the sort of rock solid QB a team needs to win in the NFL, he proceeds to meltdown in the biggest game of his life. Thanks for getting my back, Chad.
Check out my photos of the local winter over at SmugMug. T.S. Eliot was wrong. January is the cruelest month.
Tech Annoyances
Book Look: Resume with Monsters
Flick Check: I'm Not There
Book Look: Ficciones
Know Your (Planck) Limitations
Broken Record on Detroit
Travel Rewind: Detroit Auto Show '03
Check out my photos of the local winter over at SmugMug. T.S. Eliot was wrong. January is the cruelest month.
Tech Annoyances
Book Look: Resume with Monsters
Flick Check: I'm Not There
Book Look: Ficciones
Know Your (Planck) Limitations
Broken Record on Detroit
Travel Rewind: Detroit Auto Show '03
Tech Annoyances
Tech Annoyances: The new year started out with the Zune bug. I guess it was actually New Year's Eve, but every Zune of a certain model -- a first-generation 30 gig model -- suddenly stopped working at midnight Greenwich Mean Time on 12/31/08. This is, of course, the model I have. What happened was, in the middle of the night when I was fast asleep, the Zune kicked on, got locked on the splash screen with the hard disk whirring along at top speed, and no combination resets or USB connections or four letter words would have any effect. Trolling the web soon revealed this to be a global epidemic triggered when SkyNet became self-aware...no wait, I mean triggered by a chip from a third party vendor that gacked when confronted with the 366th day in the year. Yes, three years ago, some idiot software developer hard-coded a 365-day year into the device.
It took about 5 minutes for the internet to light up with reports of this. Before the guys at Microsoft even got out of bed, somebody had pointed out that since it happened to everybody and it happened shortly after the internal clocks of the devices crossed over into leap day, the likely culprit was some idiot programmer hard-coding 365. By about 6 pm Microsoft finally confirmed what we already knew -- that some idiot programmer had hard-coded 365 -- and said to just let the player run down until the battery drains, then recharge it and let it restart after the New Year and you would be good to go.
In treading the Zune.net boards looking for info I was amazed by how many people still owned and used this player but I shouldn't have been. Despite being a generation or two old, there is no reason not to. Unlike Apple, MS has been good about keeping their legacy players up to date with new software and functionality. And you would be surprised how much music you can store on 30 gig. My entire music collection only takes up about 20.
The other thing I was surprised about was how the user comments on the Zune.net bulletin boards ranged from utterly useless to completely insane. Even after the official response from MS was posted, people by the hundreds felt the need to post saying their Zune wasn't working (we knew this, it was the reason the thread existed). Others felt the need to demand an immediate fix from MS (um, even if MS could get a fix written and tested in less than 24 hours, your Zune was locked up, how are they supposed to get the fix on your player when you player doesn't work - some kind of Jedi mind trick maybe?). Some howled about whether there would be the same problem four years from now. (Well, they have four years to post a fix. If they fail, you will be without your then 8-year-old Zune for twenty-four hours at the end of the year 2012 -- it'll be hell, but I suspect you'll survive.) Unreal.
Despite the short outage, I still love my Zune. I would take it over even the flashiest iPod any day (except leap day).
I had a more serious problem with Sirius (heh heh). Simply put, my original old school Sirius Sportster, that lives in an aftermarket cradle in my car, stopped working. The audio was intermittently failing more and more often until finally, it ceased altogether. This was a bigger problem than it seemed because they no longer make the original Sportster model, which is the only one that will fit in my cradle. A call to Sirius support confirmed that It's Dead Jim.
So now I had a decision. A) I could hunt around for a used one. Relatively inexpensive, but risky. B) I could buy a newer version of the Sportster, but that would require a new cradle purchase and a new installation. And another problem is that the Sportster transmits it's audio to the car radio via FM. Because of an FCC ruling, the newer Sportsters transmit a much weaker signal than the older ones. Would the weaker signal still work? Expensive and somewhat risky. C) In addition to a new Sportster and cradle I could also get a new el cheapo car stereo that has an aux input jack in the front so I no longer have to use the FM transmission. Very expensive. 4) I could get a new car stereo that has built Sirius built in so I don't need an external unit at all. Also very expensive.
I went the cheap route. Won an auction on eBay for a used original Sportster via some egregiously cutthroat last minute bidding -- $47, and it came with a boombox. A quick call to Sirius to transfer my account almost became more expensive that the unit itself. Apparently there is a $75 fee to transfer a lifetime account to a new unit. I pled my case that I was not upgrading by choice, my previous unit died. Fee waived. I must say that Sirius tech support was exemplary in my calls to them. Zero wait; intelligent and knowledgeable reps; seemed anxious to help rather than just get you off the phone.
I do recommend Sirius (although I don't think you can get a lifetime sub anymore). It is about a million times better than terrestrial radio. Often people ask, "Who needs radio? Why not just listen to your iPod in the car?" The answer is that radio can be fresh. If you are only used to terrestrial radio with its typical playlists of about thirteen songs in rotation, you may not realize that with the enormous number of formats Sirius offers, you would have to have a pretty big MP3 collect to match it. You can think of Sirius stations as a set of giant, constantly updated playlists for various music formats, all set on shuffle. As much as I listen to my Zune collection, sometimes it's just better when you don't know what is coming next. Personally, my unit has been set to the Little Steven's Underground Garage for many months straight.
So my two tech annoyances this month had happy endings. Speaking of good experiences, if were to give away annual tech awards, my award for most reliable gadget would go to my SMC wireless router. I went through a NetGear and a Linksys unit, both of which failed immediately after their warranty was up. The SMC has been barreling on through power outages and equipment updates without a hitch. Never. Not one. Since I got my SMC I have never lost my wireless connection. That's saying something given my router history. No doubt I've jinxed myself.
It took about 5 minutes for the internet to light up with reports of this. Before the guys at Microsoft even got out of bed, somebody had pointed out that since it happened to everybody and it happened shortly after the internal clocks of the devices crossed over into leap day, the likely culprit was some idiot programmer hard-coding 365. By about 6 pm Microsoft finally confirmed what we already knew -- that some idiot programmer had hard-coded 365 -- and said to just let the player run down until the battery drains, then recharge it and let it restart after the New Year and you would be good to go.
In treading the Zune.net boards looking for info I was amazed by how many people still owned and used this player but I shouldn't have been. Despite being a generation or two old, there is no reason not to. Unlike Apple, MS has been good about keeping their legacy players up to date with new software and functionality. And you would be surprised how much music you can store on 30 gig. My entire music collection only takes up about 20.
The other thing I was surprised about was how the user comments on the Zune.net bulletin boards ranged from utterly useless to completely insane. Even after the official response from MS was posted, people by the hundreds felt the need to post saying their Zune wasn't working (we knew this, it was the reason the thread existed). Others felt the need to demand an immediate fix from MS (um, even if MS could get a fix written and tested in less than 24 hours, your Zune was locked up, how are they supposed to get the fix on your player when you player doesn't work - some kind of Jedi mind trick maybe?). Some howled about whether there would be the same problem four years from now. (Well, they have four years to post a fix. If they fail, you will be without your then 8-year-old Zune for twenty-four hours at the end of the year 2012 -- it'll be hell, but I suspect you'll survive.) Unreal.
Despite the short outage, I still love my Zune. I would take it over even the flashiest iPod any day (except leap day).
I had a more serious problem with Sirius (heh heh). Simply put, my original old school Sirius Sportster, that lives in an aftermarket cradle in my car, stopped working. The audio was intermittently failing more and more often until finally, it ceased altogether. This was a bigger problem than it seemed because they no longer make the original Sportster model, which is the only one that will fit in my cradle. A call to Sirius support confirmed that It's Dead Jim.
So now I had a decision. A) I could hunt around for a used one. Relatively inexpensive, but risky. B) I could buy a newer version of the Sportster, but that would require a new cradle purchase and a new installation. And another problem is that the Sportster transmits it's audio to the car radio via FM. Because of an FCC ruling, the newer Sportsters transmit a much weaker signal than the older ones. Would the weaker signal still work? Expensive and somewhat risky. C) In addition to a new Sportster and cradle I could also get a new el cheapo car stereo that has an aux input jack in the front so I no longer have to use the FM transmission. Very expensive. 4) I could get a new car stereo that has built Sirius built in so I don't need an external unit at all. Also very expensive.
I went the cheap route. Won an auction on eBay for a used original Sportster via some egregiously cutthroat last minute bidding -- $47, and it came with a boombox. A quick call to Sirius to transfer my account almost became more expensive that the unit itself. Apparently there is a $75 fee to transfer a lifetime account to a new unit. I pled my case that I was not upgrading by choice, my previous unit died. Fee waived. I must say that Sirius tech support was exemplary in my calls to them. Zero wait; intelligent and knowledgeable reps; seemed anxious to help rather than just get you off the phone.
I do recommend Sirius (although I don't think you can get a lifetime sub anymore). It is about a million times better than terrestrial radio. Often people ask, "Who needs radio? Why not just listen to your iPod in the car?" The answer is that radio can be fresh. If you are only used to terrestrial radio with its typical playlists of about thirteen songs in rotation, you may not realize that with the enormous number of formats Sirius offers, you would have to have a pretty big MP3 collect to match it. You can think of Sirius stations as a set of giant, constantly updated playlists for various music formats, all set on shuffle. As much as I listen to my Zune collection, sometimes it's just better when you don't know what is coming next. Personally, my unit has been set to the Little Steven's Underground Garage for many months straight.
So my two tech annoyances this month had happy endings. Speaking of good experiences, if were to give away annual tech awards, my award for most reliable gadget would go to my SMC wireless router. I went through a NetGear and a Linksys unit, both of which failed immediately after their warranty was up. The SMC has been barreling on through power outages and equipment updates without a hitch. Never. Not one. Since I got my SMC I have never lost my wireless connection. That's saying something given my router history. No doubt I've jinxed myself.
Book Look: Resume with Monsters by William Browning Spencer
Book Look: Resume with Monsters by William Browning Spencer: If the name Cthulhu and the mythology behind it are unknown to you, much of this book will be lost on you. However, if you even have a passing familiarity with H.P. Lovecraft's horror classics you'll get a kick out of the exceedingly clever premise behind Resume with Monsters.
Philip Kennan is a loser who has been bounding from one dead end office job to another for decades and is now on the cusp of middle age. He's divorced. His girlfriend has dumped him. Horrible childhood memories of his father's descent into paranoid madness haunt him very deeply. All of this angst, along with whatever energy he can summon, gets hopelessly poured into a rambling, gargantuan novel based on Lovecraft's creations. Philip's problem is that he really believes in Cthulhu and the other unspeakable ancient monsters. They are the things responsible for all the horrors in his life from his Father's insanity to his wayward career. Our problem is that, as he describes the day to day happenings at his office jobs in Lovecraftian terms, we're not sure he's wrong.
The plot is b-movie stuff, and the ending is worse, but the premise and the view of contemporary activities as subtle forms of a prevailing demonic influence in the world keeps things interesting until the plot needs to be resolved. The prose is straightforward with occasional plunges into horror stylings. Nicely done. A good escapist read for the most part. Think of it as Office Space meets Stephen King.
Philip Kennan is a loser who has been bounding from one dead end office job to another for decades and is now on the cusp of middle age. He's divorced. His girlfriend has dumped him. Horrible childhood memories of his father's descent into paranoid madness haunt him very deeply. All of this angst, along with whatever energy he can summon, gets hopelessly poured into a rambling, gargantuan novel based on Lovecraft's creations. Philip's problem is that he really believes in Cthulhu and the other unspeakable ancient monsters. They are the things responsible for all the horrors in his life from his Father's insanity to his wayward career. Our problem is that, as he describes the day to day happenings at his office jobs in Lovecraftian terms, we're not sure he's wrong.
The plot is b-movie stuff, and the ending is worse, but the premise and the view of contemporary activities as subtle forms of a prevailing demonic influence in the world keeps things interesting until the plot needs to be resolved. The prose is straightforward with occasional plunges into horror stylings. Nicely done. A good escapist read for the most part. Think of it as Office Space meets Stephen King.
Flick Check: I'm Not There
Flick Check: I'm Not There: A Bob Dylan bio-pic worthy of Dylan. That is to say rambling, enigmatic, vague, and pretentious, yet oddly compelling with flashes of brilliance. The movie leaps around interpreting Dylan's career, music, and personal life through a series of different actors/characters. Rightfully, the most renown was Cate Blanchett playing the rebellious folkie going electric and the experiencing the excesses of fame. She did quite a good job with the role, especially considering that the slightest misstep would have turned it into parody or novelty. The other threads coincide with flex points in Dylan's career and life (and, presumably, his precedent in the form of Woody Guthrie) but have less impact and reveal nothing that anyone familiar with Dylan doesn't already know. The fact is there are no clear themes to Dylan's life or work. He's really just being a singer and songwriter and going through the changes that life brings. Everybody thinks they see some profound storyline but there isn't one. He's not there. If that's what director Todd Haynes was going for, he succeeded.
If you never liked Dylan or saw the attraction, this movie will not awaken your interest. If you have a passing interest in Dylan or greater, it's an interesting document. I give it major points for getting through almost the entire film without playing "Like a Rolling Stone," which turns any such project into cliche. There is a brief excerpt over the final credits, but it seems tacked on and I'm betting the network suits forced that on Haynes.
If you never liked Dylan or saw the attraction, this movie will not awaken your interest. If you have a passing interest in Dylan or greater, it's an interesting document. I give it major points for getting through almost the entire film without playing "Like a Rolling Stone," which turns any such project into cliche. There is a brief excerpt over the final credits, but it seems tacked on and I'm betting the network suits forced that on Haynes.
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