On February 5, I wrote about my father’s silver dollars. He, along with three best friends, received them from one of the fathers for good luck before leaving for Europe in WWII. The father who gave them the coins gave each a second one upon their safe return. My father carried those coins until his death in 1979. I guarded them for a short while until someone broke into my car and stole them. I replaced them with a Liberty half and a Kennedy half. Like my dad’s silver dollars, the Liberty half wore flat, showing virtually no signs of being currency. The Kennedy half never wore at all and still clearly showed the mint date, 1967. I carried those coins with me every day … until Thursday, March 14, when they mysteriously and inexplicably disappeared.
I have no explanation for their disappearance. I put my pants on in the morning, reached into my front pocket, and they were gone. My folding money and car keys were there, only the coins vanished.
The theft of my father’s coins decades ago brought me to can’t-catch-my-breath tears. This disappearance didn’t. Instead, it feels cosmic and karmic, like the completion of some sort of circle. Thursday, March 14, would have been my father’s 108th birthday. I was in New Orleans –– by far my favorite city in the world –– with Rebecca, my brother Joe, and his partner, Marsharee, who has been a good friend for 53 years and who adored my father. Joe and Marsharee left that morning; it was the end of our time together. My father loved New Orleans too: he never stopped grinning when we sat together in gritty NOLA clubs listening to traditional jazz; he downed oysters on the half shell with the best of them; he visited me as an undergraduate every chance he got. At every JazzFest, his spirit visits me when I sit and listen to jazz at the Economy Hall stage and I get in a good, very loving cry.
I took my pants off before going to bed and put them back on in the morning. Somehow, in that span, the coins bolted, headed for some new home in New Orleans. Maybe I should be sad. Instead, I feel liberated. At 75, I have now shed another thing I don’t truly need. Instead of feeling a sense of loss, I feel a sense of completion. I did my job with those coins and my father’s memory. Now, something inexplicable has taken responsibility for them. I’ll think of them every time I put my hand in my pocket for the rest of my life, but I won’t miss them.
A Side Note Domilise’s is a funky, hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop in Uptown New Orleans one block from the river. (At Annunciation and Bellecastle, in case you are visiting and want the best po-boy ever.) For years, one of my favorite sandwiches there was their hot pepper wiener … a spicy sausage of some unidentifiable origin. Upon returning one year, yearning for a hot pepper wiener po-boy, I learned that they, in the vernacular of New Orleans, “ain’t dere no more.” Domilise’s supplier stopped carrying them, and in their quest for quality, they could not find a replacement.
Domilise’s dealt with the loss in true New Orleans fashion: instead of removing the sandwich from the menu, they taped over “pepper weiner” and replaced it with this thought: “Rest in peace Pepper Weiner.” I reckon that sentiment has been on the menu in that form for 40 years or more. (And disregard all spelling discrepancies; it is New Orleans and it really doesn’t matter!)
I feel the same way about my half dollars: Rest in Peace!
As an old Tulane friend said to me the other day, “We are now closer to 80 than 70.” That is a sobering thought, even if I do still have one day to go before it is 100% true. The idea of a BirthDAY is way too fleeting. BirthMONTH has a much nicer feel. The party prep began when we left home.
The party officially began last week. Initially, we were going to spend a month in New Orleans and the fam would join us for the boys’ school vacation week. Allie –– Mommy of Ronan, 7 and Elliott, 6 –– nixed that idea. In her perfect “Why-is-she right-so much-of-the-time?” way, she said, “Dad, you know it’d be a lot more fun to be in Florida with the boys. Keeping them entertained in New Orleans would be work. They’ll stay entertained in Florida.” So we canceled the NOLA AirB&B with plenty of time to spare and booked one in Kissimmee instead, nestled between Universal (Harry Potter), Cape Canaveral (Disneyland for daddies), Gainesville (where Joanna learned to be an acupuncturist), and the amazing limestone springs of north Florida. It was ideal.
Being the wonderful grandparents we are … and Joanna being the wonderful aunt she is … we left Allie and Mike on their own on Tuesday for Universal and Harry Potter. We wanted nothing to do with it!
The boys loved it, starting with having a magic wand select them at Diagon Alley (or, as the week’s feeble family humor had it, was that actually Diagon Allie? Or perhaps just diagonally?) Regardless, they were in heaven despite their exhaustion, as were we, thanks to a complete absence of exhaustion.
Joanna had planned to arrive on Wednesday, but high winds and travel advisories in Boston gave her an excuse to get in a day early. Great for cooking, swimming, and the obligatory round of Florida miniature golf, where Mike and Ronan both aced the infamous Butt Hole. Elliott managed a few aces too, but he wiped out on the Butt Hole.
The now-infamous “Butt Hole.” Hit the crack at a moderate speed: automatic hole-in-one. BRILLIANT!
Miniature golf in a town as vanilla as Kissimmee seems essential.
Canaveral and NASA
Thursday was Daddy heaven: a full day at Cape Canaveral starting with a Space X launch minutes after we arrived, a first for all seven of us. The cloud cover was thick, but NASA offered an assist by virtue of a very large split-screen TV. The viewing crowd of only a few hundred roared the countdown. The blast-off was blindingly bright even if, in our case, it only lasted a few seconds because of the cloud cover. Moments after the blast-off, a cloud of smoke rose from the launch pad. Then the sound enveloped us: a growing roar that has no equivalent I can think of. It just keeps getting louder until it peaks, and then it slowly disappears. Man, that is a lot of energy!
Launch Viewing
A few minutes into the flight, the rocket jettisoned its launch stage, which fell back to earth. On the right screen, we watched the payload of 23 Starlink satellites make its way to space. On the left screen, we watched the launch stage return home, complete with all of the telemetry. (Thanks, NASA!)
The launch stage fell freely for a while, picking up more and more speed. Then its rockets fired and it began to slow. Then its parachutes deployed, and it lost more speed. Then its rockets fired again as it landed perfectly on the target painted on the barge anchored near Puerto Rico. “Now that is some real rocket science,” said Allie. “Aw, no big deal,” said the guy next to me, “it looked like they were off by a meter or so.” I am still in a state of awe!
Thanks again for the split screen and telemetry, NASA!!!!
By then, we had been at Canaveral for maybe 45 minutes. It felt like a glorious lifetime.
From the launch, we went to the new Space Shuttle Atlantis exhibit. I’ve been to the Canaveral Visitor Center twice before. There is no limit to the number of times I could go and not tire of it. The Space Shuttle Simulator is like one of the coolest things ever. The first time I went, decades ago, I fell in love with the simulator. The second time, 7 or 8 years ago, the simulator was everything that I remembered it to be … plus NASA had moved the Shuttle Atlantis … the first shuttle ever to fly … to Canaveral. We saw it standing next to the building that would become the Atlantis Exhibit Hall, but we couldn’t get close to it.
This time, the layout of the whole place had changed thanks to the new hall. The curation of the Shuttle Program is un-freaking-believable. (Sorry, that is as articulate as I can get.) First, there is a short video of the daring birth of the shuttle program: a re-usable rocket that would take humans to space and return them to earth, where it would glide in for a landing. No way!!!!
Then a second room and second video, this one showing the failures and successes that finally led to the successful launch of Atlantis. Then the room goes dark. The projection screen scrim opens, and OMG!!!! Right there!!!! Feet from you!!!! The Space Shuttle Atlantis!!!!
Not a model. The real deal. Inches from your face. What a moment!!!!!
Commander Rebecca flying the shuttle!Future astronaut Elliott learning how to poop in space.The best daughters on earth and in space!Ronan and Elliott. Actual size.
After the shock wears off, there is endless brilliantly created interpretive material … and then the Shuttle Simulator! My third time. I’m ready to go back tomorrow. Shuttle astronauts talk you through the experience. (They say it is a realistic simulation of a shuttle launch.) You strap into a seat in a pod in the Shuttle’s cargo bay. The pod tilts 90˚ so you are on your back. The engines start shortly after the countdown clock passes 10 seconds. At zero, the shuttle lifts off. The roar is deafening; the vibration could loosen fillings; I have no clue how they make it feel like G-forces are stronger, but they do. Then the first stage jettisons. The vibrations and roar diminish. The final stage jettisons. The vibrations and noise turn into total peaceful silence. The shuttle bay doors open to the infinite sky of bright stars broken up only by earth as Florida passes by. I dare anyone to experience that and not cry. It can’t be done!
There are all sorts of other little things to fill the day, like a Lego Mars Rover, the VAB –– Vehicle Assembly Building –– that was, when built, the largest building by volume in the world. (Each star in the flag is 6’ across; each stripe is a highway lane.) And the Apollo/moon landing exhibit, complete with moon rock to touch, and an up-close encounter with a Saturn 5 rocket that just makes you feel very, very small!
The VAB – Vehicle Assembly Building
Moon rock, there for the touching.Saturn 5. In your face!Yup. They take better road trips than we do.
The exhilaration of the day more than made up for the exhaustion.
OMG!!!! What a wonderful day!
Friday, we piddled. Saturday, Mike flew home and the rest of us drove to Gainesville with a long stop at Silver Springs. We’d hoped to see manatees (especially one of their two new babies), but nature didn’t behave. In fact, we couldn’t even take one of their famous glass-bottom boat tours because of a lightning storm. (At least I saved a little dough.)
Too bad we missed the boat tour and the manatees. Silver Springs … and all of the north Florida limestone springs … is gorgeous!
Joanna gave us the cook’s tour of Gainesville, including endless alligators, birds, and turtles at Sweetwater Wetlands Park (my favorite!) and Depot Park. By the time we left, Allie no longer freaked out at the sight of a wild alligator. (For those of you who know her, you know that it is a major accomplishment!)
Alligators and soft shell turtles in Gainesville.
From Gainesville, Rebecca and I headed west toward New Orleans. The kids headed home. School vacation week and Part 1 of the Celebration of 75 had gone off as hoped!
Stay tuned. There’s more to come: Part 2: New Orleans. Part 3: Atlanta. Part 4: The Fireworks (aka total solar eclipse).
Our time with NASA began at Wallop’s Island near Chincoteague, Virginia, home of the famous wild ponies. Yes. That is an original Mercury capsule on the left. It was tested at Wallops. I can’t get enough of that stuff!
Our “lagniappe” (special extra) in Florida was a meal with Katie and Mary Jo. Katie had been Allie’s boss at Ozone House in Ann Arbor. Mary Jo was Joanna’s boss when she worked as a food coordinator for Washtenaw County Michigan. Mary Jo and Katie became mentors, real friends, and family. They just happened to be in the Orlando area when we were. I cooked up a pot of shrimp etouffee (can’t get enough local shrimp!), and we spent a spectacular evening together. It’s hard to get your fill of really good people and really good friends!
Yes. It is an armpit. Yes. It is in the armpit. But don’t be fooled: I love Perry, Florida! It may be a little stinky, but it is always full of surprises.
Perry is one of those places where we just happen to find ourselves every few years. It is at the crossroad of US 98 (east-west through the Florida panhandle) and US 19 (north-south to Atlanta). It is also due east of Apalachicola, one of those magical panhandle bergs that tickles both the environmentalist and the sociologist in me. It is an armpit of a town in the armpit of Florida.
The first time we drove through Perry, 8 or 9 years ago, we arrived after dark, a rarity in our travel world. We checked out a locally owned motel, saw that it was run by a Mister Patel from Gujarat India.
For those of you not in the know, “Patel” is the most common surname in Gujarat. The Patels have spread far and wide in the hospitality business, often running small, locally owned motels in off-the-beaten path destinations. We’ve stayed with Mr. Patel in Perry, Florida; West Point, Virginia; Aurora, Nebraska; Big Stone Gap, Virginia, Arnprior, Ontario; and countless other places. We have come to feel confident that if Mr. Patel owns a motel, it will be clean, relatively comfortable, and safe. If we are not certain about a place and Mr. or Mrs, Patel is behind the desk, we generally say yes.
That was the case the first time we traveled through Perry. The room was inexpensive; the bed was comfortable; the linens were clean and ample. We got just the value we bargained for. Then we woke up in the morning and looked outside. The motel parking lot surrounded a swimming pool. The pool was filled with bricks and construction debris instead of water. We cracked up. What would we have thought if we had arrived in daylight and seen the pool? Maybe we would have stayed there, but it’s doubtful.
A Mr. Patel-owned Best Host in 2015 in Perry … with the construction-debris-filled pool we discovered upon awakening.
On that trip, we ate a seafood meal at Deal’s Oyster House, about 1.5 miles west of town. The sign at the entry says, “In these doors come the finest people in the world.” The place is festooned with Christian and religious signage. The food was OK. In the middle of the meal, Zodie, the proprietor, pulled out her one-man-band pogo stick and started pounding it on the floor while “Cotton-Eyed Joe” blasted on speakers. My Inner Sociologist was wide-eyed at the whole scene. Nothing had changed the next time we went, except that we bunked at the EconoLodge instead of Mr. Patel’s place with the construction-debris-filled pool. Perry!
On this trip, we knew Perry would be a destination because it is truly the middle of nowhere. There is a Best Western about an hour west, but precious little else. Since we did not leave Gainesville until mid-afternoon, we knew just where our overnight stop would be.
It is remarkable how a County Seat at a crossroad in Florida not far from Tallahassee can be so desolate, but Perry has found a way. There are two new motels in Perry, a Hampton Inn and a Holiday Inn Express, but they were both damn near $200. We just hate spending that much for a quick overnight. There was one other possibility: The Royal Inn on Route 27, a privately-owned spot that looked neat and friendly, despite the roof damage from last August’s Hurricane Idalia that damn-near decimated Perry.
Rebecca and I have a few firm and fast rules when we road trip. The one that keeps our marriage intact is this: If one of us wants to stop … for any reason at all … we stop. Period. No questions. No whining. We have found some unbelievably cool places thanks to that one. Another one allows to sleep well at night: We will not accept a motel room until we have examined it, carefully checking the sheets, the mattress, the general cleanliness, the towels, and the condition of the bathroom. Non-negotiable. Period. Just won’t do it.
Until this trip to Perry, that is. We walked into the office of the Royal Inn and encountered an Indian gentleman at the desk. We asked to see a room. “No,” he said flatly and firmly. “What?!?,” we said, incredulously. I kindly explained that we travel a great deal and always inspect the rooms before we rent them. In return, he firmly explained that he owned the motel and maintained it himself. There was no doubt we would be pleased with the room, but we could not inspect it beforehand.
There was something endearing about the guy, but we left anyway. We checked out the EconoLodge and considered spending more than we wanted to for the Hilton or Holiday Inn. Then we looked at the pictures of the Royal Inn on the Internet. The rooms not only looked fine, they had no carpet. No carpet is a major plus for us. Carpets can be filthy and you don’t know it; when an engineered or wood floor is filthy, you know it!
So we drove back to the Royal Inn. As we did, a school bus was letting off a passenger in front of the office. A young special-needs girl disembarked, met her mother, got in their car, and drove off. That scene touched us. We do not know if Mom worked at the motel or if it is just her pick-up location. Regardless, it felt like a little instant of the world being a better place than it might otherwise have been. We decided to take the risk.
I introduced myself to the innkeeper and said we would take him at his word and take a room. He introduced himself: Mr. Vipul Patel. I should have known he was a Mr. Patel. He explained that he decided years ago not to show rooms to random travelers. He needed to know he could trust them. He was firm as a rock.
The room was spacious and comfy, with a good firm mattress, very decent pillows, a sitting table, a sofa, and a clean bathroom with towels that, while not plush, were fine at drying. It was far enough from the highway to be quiet. It had no smell. And it cost less than half of the Hampton Inn or Holiday Inn.
Mr. Patel filled my ear with his thoughts. Imagining that someone might have pulled a gun on him at some point, I asked if he established his room-viewing policy because something bad had happened. “No,” he said. He just knew it was the right thing to do. God only gave us this one life, he explained. It is up to us to do what is right with it. We cannot afford to make stupid mistakes. That is that, and he doesn’t waver. Rebecca and I had a fine stay. Sadly, though, we could not enjoy Deal’s Oyster House or Zodie’s pogo stick. They’re closed on Monday. We did, however, have a very decent Mexican meal at Casa Grande just north of town. All-in-all, a just-as-expected evening in the armpit of the armpit. See you next time, Perry.
The place looked clean enough, so we gave it a shot.
The room was spacious and clean … and every place in Perry showed damage from Hurricane Idalia.
Thank you, Mr. Patel. It’s not every hotel room that provides a Gideon Bible AND a Bhagavad Gita!
Deal’s Oyster House: Zodie playing her pogo stick in 1993 and again 2015. (Check out a Youtube of it. They are hilarious!)
So we’re comfortably toodling along on Route 17, the road closest to the coast through most of South Carolina and Georgia. We’re one town from Florida, about to pass through Woodbine Georgia. I’m not sure I have ever heard of Woodbine Georgia. Then we saw the sign:
Damn, I thought. That is the best sign I have ever seen for an antique store. Could it actually be an antique store? If it was, I wanted to send the picture to my good friend Rene in Grand Isle who owns and runs the “Den of Antiquity,” which I believe is the antique store against which all antique stores should be compared. So I turned around.
Yup. It was an antique store. Closed, but with amazing signs. A “Feuerwehrmuseum,” I have since learned, is a fire museum. I guess that makes sense.
We laughed and kept driving. (At this point, there is no reason to include the diversion about how Rebecca needed to pee so we stopped at a sketchy-seeming gas station/country store that turned out to be clean and fun and fine, so I won’t.) Then we saw a very large group of Harley Riders … the Warthogs … and Stan’s Smokehouse … an utterly nondescript barbecue joint on the side of the road. (We would never have noticed it if Rebecca hadn’t needed to stop to pee.)
Neither of us was very hungry, but we ate nonetheless. The place was just too interesting and too cool. The leather-vested, heavily tattooed Warthogs were super nice and fun; the staff at Stan’s won our hearts: the utterly aloof waitperson had a world-class sleeve of tattoos and the counter lady had a heart-winning smile; the ribs were very decent; the lima beans were some of the best we have had anywhere; and the cole slaw was just fine. The decor was amazing! A fantastic roadside interlude!!!
Monumentally wonderful and totally real folk art at Stan’s.
We split our BBQ’ed rib plate and left Stan’s bound for Fernandina Beach, the northernmost point of Highway A1A that would carry us south through Florida. But we barely drove a mile until we reach a fork in the road. Highway 17 went right. “DooDad’s” Seafood was on the left. I turned around. It just looked too wonderful! I was right!
Larry Geter and his wife Lois have been married for 54 years. He takes the orders; she runs the fryer. He is in-your-face sociable; she is droll and hilarious. Larry’s claim to fame is that he looks exactly like James Brown the King of Soul. So much so that he was asked to serve as an usher at James Brown’s funeral. I asked Larry and Lois about their lawnmowers, both heavily decorated in red and silver. (They like them that way.)
I ate the smallest bit of fried chicken I could order (because I was already stuffed from Stan’s) and we left. As we turned around, we noticed their house. In addition to being one of the best-kept places we saw, it was also bright pink.
We’ve been on the road for just over three weeks and traveled about 1,500 miles. We’ve seen old friends, started learning about the Gullah-Geechee culture of the southern coast, gathered sea shells and shark teeth, eaten a lot of fresh seafood, and laughed a lot! No real MyInnerSociologist moments have appeared lately, but that hasn’t mattered. These Odds and Ends will, I hope, help you experience some of the fun we are having, even if vicariously.
General Hilarity
We were not on the road for 24 hours before we came across a boat in a tree and a combination barber shop and reptilium. So far, they are the only ones we’ve seen. We hope we find more.You just can’t come across enough barber shop/reptilium two-fers.
Dumb Roadside Attractions
Giant shrimp in OcracokeGiant Blackbeard south of the Outer Banks. (Extremely well hung, I might add,)
Maybe there’s nothing really funny about the U.S. Vegetable Laboratory or a fish bait vending machine. I just hadn’t expected them.
True Bathroom Humor
Maybe Men’s room/toilet stuff isn’t very funny to some people. It is to me. In case you can’t read it, the poster reads, “All you need in this life is a tremendous sex drive and a great ego. Brains don’t mean shit.” If we are really lucky, this will not be the last toilet humor I subject you to.
Trump Moments
Unlike 4 years ago, we have (blessedly) not been inundated by visual pollution from endless Trumpsters. Even in South Carolina, where the primary ended on Saturday, 2/24, the roads were remarkably free of political drivel. But that is not to say that we didn’t experience some. The most memorable was the hand-painted sign in southeastern North Carolina that read, “Biden was not elected. He was installed. Like a toilet.” Damn, that’s clever! I didn’t get a picture of it. But I did snap a few others….
Cedar Island NC, (FYI, It is cardboard. Not really Trump.)At the SC State Line, a week before the primary.Because Fox & OAN & Newsmax are paragons of honest coverageNot really Trump, but…This one took me a while. Since Biden is already feeble-minded, brain freeze can’t make a difference. Get it?
One of the most alarming and persistent sights throughout America is the ubiquitous presence of short-term loan purveyors. It hurts to think about the number of hard working, honest people who do not have the capacity to earn enough to go from paycheck to paycheck. I often wonder how the owners of these establishments can live with themselves while exploiting others so shamelessly, and I feel truly badly for the people who must work there, knowingly ripping off their neighbors so they can support their own families. Surely we must be able to do better.
Lighthouses Every lighthouse has unique markings and shapes. They are a reminder of where we are and where we have been. Many of them continue to operate. None have operators. I assume none of them are necessary thanks to GPS technology. Nevertheless, they are really cool.
Sandy Hook NYNags Head NCOcracoke NCSt. Simons Island, GA
Driftwood Beach, Jekyll Island GA
When I was a kid, my family and another family of best friends vacationed on Jekyll Island. We have a wonderful story of filling the bathtub with fresh-caught crabs, only to have them escape the tub and freely populate our tiny cottage. Imagine freaked out parents trying to manage a bunch of pre-teen boys trying to catch rampaging crabs. We’ll be staying with Bill in Atlanta in a few weeks. I’ll bet our respective memories of the great crab escape aren’t terribly different.
I remember Jekyll as a comfy middle-class beach vacation spot surrounded by some very high-brow homes. It has changed to become far more commercial and less middle-class. Driftwood Beach says something meaningful about changes in a beach community. It had been a grove of live oak trees (the same live oaks in the hull of Old Ironsides, the USS Constitution, docked in Boston Harbor) when storms and erosion shifted the beach. Today, those long dead live oak trees stand as breathtaking remnants of the past.
Traveling the Deep South: Boiled Peanuts
Few things represent the true deep south to me more than boiled peanut (pronounced “bawled peanuts” … unless you are from other southern locales, where they are pronounced “biled peanuts.” No place are they pronounced boiled peanuts until you get north of the Mason-Dixon line!
Bawled peanuts and cooker at Davis Produce near Tybee Island GA
Finding a place to eat on Tybee Island
Tybee Island, off the coast of Savanna, is not very crowded in mid-February. In fact, it is pretty empty. Bubba Gumbos at the Tybee Island Marina provided all we needed, and we ate pretty well (though my jambalaya is better).
Charleston SC: In search of a hurricane
In the early 1970s, my brother Joe and I lived together in “Upper” South Carolina, the mountainous part of the state that abuts Georgia … where Deliverance was filmed. One weekend, we decided to visit his friend “Steinberg” in Charleston. Moments after we left the mountains, the radio started blaring alarming messages of Hurricane Gladys bearing down directly on Charleston. It was going to be a direct hit only a few hours after our arrival. Being a couple of dumb-ass boys having fun, we said WTF, let’s go anyway. We arrived at Steinberg’s, filled the bathtub with water to be safe, bought a mountain of fresh seafood and beer, and settled in to a balconied Charleston apartment waiting for the storm to hit. At the exact moment the winds were to arrive, the clouds opened and the sun broke through. We had plenty of seafood, beer, and water, but never a single sign of a hurricane. I have not been back to Charleston since. The photo is assuredly not the exact location, but a Charleston balcony is a Charleston balcony. It is damn close to where we had planned to weather the storm. Plus, the brunch we had at the High Cotton restaurant was darned good, and the jazz duo playing were fun to listen and to talk to.
We had a swell brunch at the High Cotton in Charleston of She Crab Soup, shrimp and grits, and some really sweet live music.
Diner Art
If you are really lucky, you might happen across a local diner that showcases some amazing local art. Kate’s Pancake House in Carolina Beach, NC filled the bill. A local artist gathers driftwood, sands and polishes it, then adorns it with fabricated brass pieces. The result is magnificent. We captured the sailfish (maybe 6′ long), the marlin (about the same size), and the turtle family (the large one must weight 150 pounds). Really beautiful, unusual, well-crafted work.
Eating in the Low Country
Ain’t nothing better than low country seafood!
$0.50 clams and low country shrimp. But they always overcook the corn!
Fun Moments
Dolphins frolicking outside the restaurant windows in Carolina Beach, NCA container ship passing the Fort Fisher – Southport ferry. All the old guys came out of their cars with their camerasCamelia’s blooming in early February in Pawleys Island
You just gotta love a good ship in a bottle. There is no shortage of them in the museums and visitor centers along the coast. I’m awed by the work that goes into them and love the stories … like learning that the wood in the carving came from the ship in the bottle.
This is not actually me on the moon. It is me on Wallops Island, VA, on the road to Chincoteague. Stay tuned. We will be at Cape Canaveral in the few days with our grandsons. If we are really lucky, we might just find another photo op.
Superlatives matter. “A small church” in America may not have caught our eye. But the “smallest” church did. So we turned around for pictures. It’s about 6’X8′. No preacher. No bathrooms.
As I have come to understand this history, the Gullah-Geechee people came to the US as slaves from West Africa. They were enslaved specifically because of their rice-growing prowess, so they populated the plantations from Wilmington NC to St. Augustine FL. In some areas, the plantations grew cotton or harvested native lumber, such as live oak. On this trip, I wanted to learn more. Jim Brown, the NFL running back and Michelle Obama among many others, have Gullah-Geechee roots. We found a Gullah-Geechee museum in Georgetown SC and learned more on St. Simons Island GA at the Harrington School Museum. Learning of this culture and seeing it respected and sustained has been a high point of the trip. Any time you want to visit us and have some Hoppin’ John or enjoy a low-country shrimp boil, we’ll make a point of thanking the Gullah-Geechee.
Quilts and tools and magnificent sweet grass baskets adorn the Gullah Museum in Georgetown SC. From bottom left to bottom right, each quilt tells a story. The one on the right is the Michelle Obama quilt, telling the story of her enslaved ancestors moving north in the great migration, her going to Princeton, marrying Barack, and, from a slave cabin, moving into the White House. If that doesn’t make you tear up, nothing will.
A painting and historical marker at the Harrington School in St. Simons tells the story of slaves drowning themselves in Dunbar Creek at Igbo Landing (or Ibo or Ebo, depending on the spelling) to escape the horror of slavery. The marker tells the story. The painting shows the story. The link following the next two photos shows a “Ring Shout” by the “Gullah-Geechee Ring Shouters” remembering the story.
Twenty-five or so years ago, Rebecca and I celebrated our anniversary by going to Tanglewood and spending a weekend in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. In Stockbridge, we saw a photo of a very pensive John Lee Hooker in a display case that we fell in love with. We asked about it and learned that the photographer, Clemens Kalischer, then in his 90s, still operated a small studio there. We hunted him down and spent a few hours jawboning. He told us about taking the photograph at a symposium at the Music Inn in Stockbridge in 1954 tracing the roots of American blues music. He had a single print of the photograph in his studio and an old matte. He erased the writing on the old matte, re-signed it, and put it into a used frame. It hangs in our living room as one of our most prized possessions.
The picture shows Hooker, hand on forehead, beneath a blackboard containing a map of the evolution of the blues. I knew most of the early influences on the blues – marches, hymns, reels, jigs – but I had never heard of a “Ring Shout.” Now I know. It is from the Gullah-Geechee tradition that has influenced not only blues, but also spirituals and zydeco music, with the percussion coming largely from a washboard. Just as I had done with the picture of John Lee Hooker, I fell in love the with the picture of “Sister Ross Playing Washboard” as part of “The Geechee Gullah Ring Shouters.” This link will take you to a video of the Gullah Geechee Ring Shouters singing about the drownings at Ibo (Igbo) Landing.
In my decades of traveling around the south, I have happened across any number of “blue bottle trees.” I have never known what they are … until now. The tradition has its roots in West African “Hoodoo” and dates back more than 1,000 years: Blue bottles are talismans that ward off evil spirits! As the interpretive explanation in the Georgetown museum explained, “Evil spirits are afraid of water so blue bottles ward them off. If the evil spirits enter the bottle, their fear traps them inside, and in the morning when the sun comes up, they will be destroyed by the sunlight. If you’re not sure the light of day has really done its job, you can cork the bottle, take it to the river and throw it in the water. An evil spirit has no chance against the river because they fear it.”
Tabby Construction
In addition to living in typical wooden shacks, the Gullah-Geechee lived in homes built of “Tabby,” a unique form of South Georgia concrete. They cooked seashells until they crumbled, which provided lime. They mixed the lime with sand, water, and intact shells to make a form of concrete. The unground shells stay visible in the long-dried slurry. The tabby photo is of the walls of a slave family’s home at Ibo Landing on Dunbar Creek in St. Simons. In 19th-Century construction, the “Tabby” was the concrete itself. In modern architecture, “Tabby” is a faux aesthetic technique that involves embedding shells into mortar on the exterior of buildings.
In August 1980, I finished my doctoral dissertation. Because of the timing, I wouldn’t actually graduate until January. For the first time in years, I had a bit of time to breathe and revitalize.
At that point in my life, I drove and often lived in a Volkswagen camper, “Victor Von Volkswagen.” (Thanks for the name, Wolbe!) Some people thought of Victor as a vehicle. I didn’t; he was my best friend. Victor and I planned a post-dissertation adventure: a week on Okracoke Island at the southern tip of North Carolina’s Outer Banks. We made reservations at the National Seashore Campground.
The beaches and sights of the northern Outer Banks – Kill Devil Hill, Kitty Hawk, Nag’s Head – were gorgeous but way-too populated. Okracoke was perfect. My campsite was a parking space on the beach with a picnic table and fire pit. The shower was open-air: a stand pipe with a shower head, pull cord, and wooden platform. Nudity at the shower prevailed; there was no privacy and no apparent self-consciousness. Wild ponies roamed the island and the campground freely; pods of porpoises frolicked in the surf. The heat and sun were oppressive and splendid.
My campsite was a parking space on the beach with a picnic table and fire pit
My daily schedule never wavered. I woke up early and ate breakfast. Then I hit the beach. First , I needed bait: sand crabs. Like a human sanderling, I following the surf and dug furiously. With a full cup of sand crabs, I waded waist deep into the ocean and cast as far as I could. Except for a couple of dogfish – small sharks that fight like crazy – I don’t remember what I caught. I just remember that I caught a lot of fish! Sometime around mid-day, I’d pack up my gear, go back to my campsite, clean the morning’s catch, and get the fillets on ice. Then I’d head into the village to re-provision at the Okracoke Variety Store (unchanged in 43 years): a sack of ice, some beer, a few groceries, then back to the campground for a nap. Sleeping allowed the hottest part of the afternoon to pass unnoticed. Then, around 2:30 or 3:00, the morning routine repeated: a cup of sand crabs, a few hours of fishing, fish cleaning, and a sack of fillets.
For a whole bunch of us crazy hippies, the campground came to life as the afternoon waned. Throngs of us became friends and prepared to party. Every evening turned into a community potluck. I provided lots of fresh fried fish. By the time we finished eating, someone had built a campfire on the beach. We told stories, communed with the waves, and played music until Mr. Sandman called us to bed. For seven days, the schedule never varied. I departed Okracoke sorry to see the island fade away, but happy that I had discovered and experienced a true paradise
As Rebecca and I planned this trip, a big part of the lure was knowing that we would spend several days on the Outer Banks, including a night or two on Okracoke. We had a perfect room in Nag’s Head: a funky Comfort Inn right on the ocean with our own private balcony for all of $82. On our first day, February 10, the thermometer hit 72.
Sunrise from Nags Head
February 11 was Super Sunday. Neither of us are real football fans, but every wannabe sociologist has to love the Super Bowl, one of the great annual societal moments of collective insanity. During the pandemic when traveling didn’t exist, Rebecca and I hosted our own Super Bowl parties for two, complete with chili, wings, guacamole, veggie platters, etc., etc., etc. This year, we couldn’t host because we’d be on the road. So we counted on the Outer Banks for a venue.
Alas, the Outer Banks let us down. Most places were closed, so we chose the upstairs bar at Mulligan’s in Nag’s Head. The bartender couldn’t wait to get out of there, and the other people at the bar had a “What game?” attitude. The hushpuppies were doughy and lousy. (Steamed shrimp and salad came through again. We have our go-to staples, you know.) We bolted in the middle of the second quarter, returning to the practice of hosting our own damn SB party. Fortunately, this year’s game actually had the very rare quality of being good, and seeing Taylor getting excited about Travis made everything else irrelevant. Don’t you agree?
Mulligans looked like it would be fun for the Super Bowl. Alas.
Monday was a driving day. We covered 85 miles in 7 hours, from Nag’s Head to Okracoke. Not bad, even by our standards. As I write, we are comfortably settled into a room at the Pony Island Inn and fully sated thanks to Jason’s, the only open restaurant on the island. Maybe we will leave tomorrow. Maybe not. Once the winds reach 30 mph, the ferries don’t run. We’d be stuck on Okracoke for another day. OH NO!
The Outer Banks are magical!
Nags HeadOcracoke
Ours were the only footprints in the sand for miles at low tide. Off-season travel is the best!
Front of the Pony Island InnBack of the Pony Island InnFor real Ocracoke Pony
When the phone rang on Tuesday with a North Carolina number, I hoped. ”Mr. Mirvis,” the man said, “I have some bad news. This afternoon’s ferry has been cancelled.” ”WooHoo!!!!” I blurted, thrilled to be stranded in Ocracoke.
We spent the afternoon making friends … with John “The Pirate” MacKenzie, the guy who sold us our ferry ticket and jawboned us about the island and retirement and being 75 and his comfy home in a small RV and the chili he makes; Kim, one of the desk clerk’s at the Pony Island and the partner of Grayson the General Manager who wasn’t sure she wanted to live on Ocracoke but loves it now; Jordan, the other desk clerk who wanted to learn more about WordPress, loves to fish, and has an epic number of food allergies; Grayson, who manages the Pony Island Inn and cannot understand why the Rescue Squad and Fire Department on Ocracoke don’t have a better relationship; Valentine aka “Rambo,” the maintenance guy at the Pony Island who washed and folded our laundry for us since Ocracoke does not have a laundromat; Danny and Jimmy, our waiters at Jason’s who waited on us three times since it is the only open place on the island; and Melissa, the Postmaster, who is simply delightful. Ocracoke is a true gem. You will never find yourself there by accident; it is 1.5-hour ferry ride north to Hatteras and a 2.5-hour ride south to Cedar Island or Swan Quarter. Man, is it worth it!!
Most really bad restaurants are in-your-face, impossible-to-miss bad: bad food, bad service, creepy and uncomfortable, grossly over-priced, etc. But some are much less obvious. Case in point: the Ropewalk Restaurant in Chincoteague, Virginia.
Our room view
In its defense, Chincoteague is an off-the-beaten path island in the middle of the eastern shore of the DelMarVa peninsula. It is not a place you might just find yourself. But it is not quite as deserted as the map might make you think. The Navy, NOAA, and NASA have facilities there. Plus, winter is a time for construction and infrastructure improvements. While not full, the motels that stay open do a brisk business, even if at a dramatically reduced rate. (We paid $84 for a water view room that might go for $300+ in summertime.)
The Ropewalk was one of the few open restaurants. It had a surprisingly large clientele to attract … and attract they did. On a random, cold Tuesday night in February, it was packed, mostly with contractors and workers, and only a few crazy wanderers, like Rebecca and me.
Fortunately, we arrived early, so getting a table was easy. Sandy, our waitress, was sweet and helpful. The view of the bay was superb. The murals lining the walls were gorgeous. Everyone seemed to be having fun. The menu has lots of variety, a fair amount of local and boiled (non-fried and gluten-free) options, and the prices were not at all outrageous. The place looked great. What could go wrong?
The murals were gorgeous
As we walked from the entrance to the dining room door, a life-size bronze statue filled the corner of the hallway. It stopped me in my tracks. What the hell was a life-size bronze sculpture of Ronald Reagan doing in a restaurant in Chincoteague? WTF!!!!!
WTF!!!
I asked Sandy to explain his presence. She said that the restaurant’s owner (who was noticeably absent) thought Reagan was the best president ever, so he had the bronze statue made at his own expense. It adorns the entryway to his restaurant.
For the most part, I try not to get too political in this blog. Unfortunately, I am not very good in the self-control department. While Reagan had qualities that I deeply appreciate – like his affability and his desire to work across the aisle with the likes of Tip O’Neill – his politics were horrible. Let’s start with his first official act as president: ripping Jimmy Carter’s solar panels off the roof of the White House declaring (as I recollect) that energy conservation meant sitting in the cold in a sweater. (Jimmy Carter famously encouraged energy conservation by turning down the thermostat and wearing a sweater, which he did throughout his presidency.) As a long-time advocate for renewable energy and conservation, shall we say that Reagan’s policies sort-of rubbed me the wrong way. His “trickle-down” economic policies, his labor policies still make me crazy (think Air Traffic Controllers), his military policies (like the invasion of Granada!), and most-of-all, his environmental policies were direct precursors to today’s rants of “I’m going to drill, drill, drill.” His Interior Secretary, James Watt, was a bastard!!! Known as an anti-environmentalist, he purportedly said that “after the last tree is felled, Christ will come back.” In characterizing the panel reviewing his coal leasing policies, he offered reassurance to others by saying he had “every kind of mixture … a Black … a woman, two Jews and a cripple.” He never did spend time in jail … just 5 years of probation … for withholding documents in an influence peddling investigation.)
Being greeted by Reagan upon entering the dining room made a most unpleasant first impression.
But let’s get back to Sandy the Waitress. She was in our age range, 70-ish +, and super nice and friendly. She also was alarmingly overworked, waiting on way-too-many tables across way-too-much geography. She could not possibly keep up.
We ordered a salad that came with blue cheese and asked Sandy to put the cheese on the side. (Rebecca doesn’t eat dairy.) Sandy replied, “Always.” When the salad arrived, it was filled with crumbled blue cheese, but we did indeed have two blue cheese dressings on the side. OOPS. As Sandy later said, and we totally agreed, it was an honest mistake. We did not see Sandy for 10 or 15 minutes while another worker took our salad back to the kitchen and replaced it with one with crumbled blue cheese on the side. Sandy was way too busy taking orders from other tables. The restaurant was insanely understaffed. Sandy’s comment about it being an honest mistake caused Rebecca and I to look at each other in guilt-ridden disbelief: we both feared that Sandy herself might be charged for the salad because of the mistake. I do not know if we were right, but I would not be surprised.
That the restaurant was so understaffed also seemed Reagan-esque: if the owner can keep the restaurant filled, the happy customers will tip the wait staff generously, thus enabling his profits to “trickle down” to the lowly line workers and wait staff. We did indeed tip Sandy well, but we have no idea if she or the cooks or the helpers received any of it.
Following the salad, we got our first course: a bowl of Maryland crab soup. It was really tasty … in a canned tomato sort-of way. Then I tasted the potatoes and the other veggies in the soup. Every bit of it, including the almost-imperceptible crabmeat, tasted like it came from cans. Crap! I could have made that soup in minutes for pennies per bowl. It was tasty, but a million miles from anything special or worthy of restaurant fare.
Our main course was actually delicious and deserves almost no criticism: boiled shrimp. It was as billed: boiled shrimp. I did, however, have to ask for lemon and horseradish to accompany the plain ketchup they served along with it. To the chef’s credit, the shrimp were not overcooked.
Once we ate, my Inner Sociologist started watching the restaurant, which was filled with contract workers who were there doing any number of different jobs on the island.
I noted the platters of food that the (all-too-sparse) waitstaff took to the tables. The fried stuff was the perfect color of fried food, but each piece had an identical swerve-y pattern and a perfect this-didn’t-happen-here crust. I’ll be damned, I thought; they are not preparing the fried fare here; they are buying it frozen, warming it in the fryer, and serving it.
Then I noticed the people, mostly young and densely packed. “Good lord,” I realized, “We are in a germ incubator! We’ve got to get the F out of here, and quick!” (Fortunately, we are recently vaccinated and very healthy.)
I stood up to try to get Sandy’s attention so we could get a check and bolt. Getting the check took a good while, and during that time a DJ started broadcasting something over a speaker system. His voice was so garbled that nothing audible resulted … but it was very loud.
Great timing. We got our check, left our tip, and escaped as quickly as we could.
Mine and Rebecca’s time in Chincoteague was good. My Inner Sociologist’s time in Chincoteague was FANTASTIC!!!!!!
And sorry for the political digression. I hope I did not offend anyone too badly.
Oh, and by the way, that in-town airport in DC will always be Washington National to me. No other names really work.
My father, Stan Mirvis, aka Pop, circa 1940-ish at Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey
When I was a kid, we had an old family photo that we cherished: My father by a lake with a top-hat and no shirt, a shit-eating grin, gripping a tennis ball, with a poison ivy rash on his side, looking exactly like Harpo Marx. A decade or two ago, Rebecca took the print to be reproduced. Now we all have copies of it, and it holds a place of honor in our homes. It is a wonderful way to honor and remember a truly kind, funny, smart, good man … and great father. He died of cancer in 1979 just after his 63rd birthday. That was 44 years ago. 25 or 30 of you reading this blog remember him. I feel happy every time I see this picture.
On Thursday, we left Vermont, headed for our wintertime adventure. On Friday, we arrived in Chester, NJ, where we spent the weekend with Jim and Julie Duffy, some of our very best friends. Chester, NJ is about 20 minutes south of Lake Hopatcong, the site of the photograph. For a few weeks, Duffy and I had been talking about what to do during our visit. Could we find the exact spot of the photo?
We’d be near the lake for a whole weekend. How many structures like the one in the picture could there be? We prepared to spend the weekend location hunting, searching for the exact site of the best father photo of all time!
Here is the story of the photo. After high school and before WWII, Pop had three best friends, Wally, Seymour, and Artie. The four of them worked in Manhattan. In the summer, they rented a cottage at Lake Hopatcong. They hopped on the train as soon as work ended on Friday and returned late Sunday or early Monday. The four of them stayed best friends their entire lives. Their wives became best friends. I loved them all immensely. Wally became an organizational consultant; Seymour a studio photographer; Artie a high school principal; and my dad, a textile wholesaler.
I carry a memory of the four of them in my pocket, where it has been since Pop died. He always carried two silver dollars in his pants pocket. They were so old that they were worn clean of any signs of having been silver dollars. They were just silver discs.
The four best friends all went off to WWII at about the same time. One of their fathers (I don’t know which one) gave them each a silver dollar when they left for Europe with the request that they all return them when they came home. Miraculously, they all came home. When they went to return the silver dollars, instead of accepting them, the father gave them each a second one. As far as I know, the four friends carried those coins the rest of their lives.
When Pop died in 1979, those two coins became mine. I cherished them. But one night, my car was broken into, and the coins vanished. Oh, how I cried at their loss. I put a Liberty half dollar in my pocket that day, and I still carry it. Like Pop’s, the signs of it having been currency are long gone, but it is one of my most loved possessions.
This weekend, I hope to bask in the love and camaraderie of those four amazing men as I search for the site of the photo. Stick with me. I’ll let you know what I find.
Chapter 2
It’s early Saturday morning. My heart is pounding with excitement. There is a good reason why Jim Duffy is such a best friend. He’s done his homework. He printed lit from the website of the Lake Hopatcong Historical Museum. He found a ton of leads. I’ve left messages with the museum. Sadly, they are closed for renovations until March. The search has begun. After breakfast, we hit the road.
Lake Hopatcong, I learned, had been a NYC playground until zoning changes in 1950 shifted its trajectory. It had competing amusement parks, vaudeville halls, and some of the best performers from New York. The train ran from Manhattan to either the Mount Arlington station or the Lake Hopatcong station, and from there, trolleys carried the weekend frolickers to the various villages. There was no need for a car or much money. Everything four young shenanigan-prone men could have wanted was at their fingertips. They were pups at play!
I couldn’t wait to unravel the mystery.
Chapter 3
Well, that seemed easy! We drove the 20 minutes from Duffy’s house in Chester to the southern end of Lake Hopatcong. Duffy grew up just north of there, so he had stories of the lake, like the old Chris Craft speedboat that his uncle owned and kept at a marina on the lake. Jim recognized the marina where Uncle Tom had moored the boat. About five minutes after starting our drive along the lake, we saw a sign for Nolan’s Point. We had read about it on the website as being one of the centers of summertime activity. It was home to one of the two amusement parks on the lake. The other was the River Styx Cove.
We followed the road to the point and pulled into the parking lot of the Windlass Restaurant. It was right on the water and looked old and classic enough that I suspected it might have some good pictures on the wall. I was right. The place was filled with hundreds of postcards, paintings, and assorted memorabilia from a past age of glory.
Ann Marie, the restaurant’s hostess, asked if we had a reservation. “No,” I replied. “We just wanted to look around the place,” and I showed her the picture of my father.
“That’s the old boardwalk,” she said. “It was right there,” as she pointed out a window. “It was torn down years ago, but that is where your father was standing.”
First stop. First conversation. Paydirt!!!! It seemed too good to believe… and probably was. We took photos, proudly showed the picture to patrons at the restaurant, then drove around the lake marveling at how vibrant it must have been in its heyday. While it is the largest lake in New Jersey, we also marveled at how tiny it is compared to Lake Champlain. We noted the density of the houses and cabins along the shore, and we imagined how thick the boat traffic must be on a pretty summer weekend. We also observed how murky the water appeared and the signs warning swimmers of algae blooms, and we questioned how so much septic effluent could possibly be managed.
Ann Marie was a gem. She showed us pictures, told stories, and introduced us, in absentia, to Marty Kane, the resident historian and founder of the Lake Hopatcong Historical Museum. At the time, I had called and emailed Marty, but we had not yet made contact. Marty is the local repository of knowledge. He takes visitors on historical cruises of the lake. This summer, Duffy will be stuck with us again when we come down to meet Marty, tour the museum, and cruise the lake.
All in all, a day very, very well spent!
Chapter 4
We slept soundly Saturday night knowing that we had been successful in our quest to find the site. On Sunday morning, that bubble sprang a leak! I awoke to an email from Marty Kane, the local historian. It read, “There simply is nothing distinctive in the photo. As you have probably learned in your visit there are some 2,200 homes on the lake, and there were formerly two amusement parks, some 40 hotels, and a host of marinas and other businesses. The wooden structure is simply not recognizable, and there is no clear view of the shoreline. Best guess is possibly River Styx Cove or Van Every Cove based on the distance to the other shore.”
A quick glance at the photo made Marty’s comment obvious. The shoreline across the lake in the photo is way too close to have been at Nolan’s point. Fortunately for us, we had driven around the Styx River Cove. The cove is narrow, so the opposing shoreline was a lot closer; in the 1930s, the area abounded with cabins, social activities and entertainment; and it was home to the second amusement park on the lake. In addition, it is a hop and skip from the Lake Hopatcong train station, maybe five minutes by trolley, much closer than the Mount Arlington station that would have served Nolan’s point.
At this point, I am voting for Styx River Cove. My father’s love of music and performance and socializing would have made that corner of the lake a perfect destination. Alas, we will probably never know, but communing with my father along the shores of Lake Hopatcong is a perfect beginning to this road-trip adventure. Thank you, Ann Marie. Thank you, Marty. Thank you, Jim and Julie. You’ve brought a smile to every cell in my body.
Thank you Ann Marie!The Boardwalk where Ann Marie thought the picture was takenLake Hopatcong State Park at the Styx River Cove, where the lake is much narrower than at Nolan’s Point. Probably closer to the site of the pictureThe station where Pop, Artie, Sy, and Wally probably arrived
A gallery of Lake Hopatcong in its prime, thanks to the Windlass Restaurant….
Chris Craft models…and even a Chris Craft barMusic of the 30s and 40sHundreds of vintage postcards along the walls of the WindlassThe shoreline today; the Texaco sign of the past
Rebecca and I are planning a couple of winter adventures. The first one is all set: down the eastern seaboard and home in time for the April 8 total solar eclipse, which will be visible from our house in Vermont. We plan to visit some friends, then hug the Atlantic Ocean all the way to Cape Canaveral. At Canaveral, we’ll hook up with grandsons for a week-long dose of NASA, Harry Potter, and manatees. From there to New Orleans, Atlanta, and back to New England. After the eclipse, we’ll head out again to someplace exotic. Figuring out where is becoming a challenge.
Perhaps the challenge of figuring out where to go is a function of age. Perhaps it is more a function of the state of world. Perhaps we have just spent too much time in Vermont in the last few years and are losing our taste for city living. I expect it is a combination of all of them.
Our first idea was Tbilisi, Georgia, but a few minutes on Google dashed that fantasy. Tbilisi, it seems, teems with gangs of young people, identified as “Gypsies” in a YouTube video, who travel in gangs, loudly and aggressively targeting anyone who looks like they might have cash in their pockets. I am just not sure how to not look like I might have some cash in my pockets. Almost every traveler I know has an experience of being pickpocketed somewhere. It happened to me on a light rail in Athens. It’s no fun.
The skinny about Tbilisi had touched a nerve. In September, we went to Portland Oregon for an afternoon. We had been on the Oregon coast with my brother and south of Portland at a nephew’s wedding, so our time in Portland was a mere few hours while we waited for Amtrak’s Empire Builder to carry us east through Glacier National Park. Portland has been a favorite city for over 60 years. My grandfather took me there as a teenager. My work took me there every year for a bunch of years. I loved it. No longer. It’s too much work.
After leaving our bags at the Amtrak station, my brother dropped us at Powell’s City of Books, one of the finest bookstores on the planet. It’s a 15-minute walk from Powell’s to Union Station. We generally walk anything under one or two miles. At the urging of everyone we asked, though, we took a Lyft instead. The street drug use and number of unhoused people along the route forced the decision. We probably would not have been in physical danger, but we would have been hassled and panhandled along the entire route. Portland has become a city of unhoused. Tent cities line the light rail routes and the highway rights-of-way. They fill park areas throughout downtown. For a couple of old people who cannot run anymore and who have precious little strength, being in those situations is just no fun. In fact, it can be damn scary.
We had planned to spend a tad over a month this winter in my favorite city, New Orleans. But alas, we have cut our visit back to a couple of weeks. Same deal. Sketchy street activity has never bothered me before in New Orleans. I figured I knew how to avoid it. This time, it feels more unavoidable. I don’t know if I am right, but I am dreadfully sad about this shift in attitude.
There is plenty of blame to go around: permissive attitudes about vagrancy, defunding of mental health services and housing, a conversion of our jails to holding tanks for non-criminals, rampant drug use, the replacement of jobs that require labor with technology, a reluctance on the part of society to provide real funding in areas that will make a difference. We are not only all part of the problem, we are also all victims of the problem.
Ruling out every place that might be dangerous or a big hassle has limited our choices. The fact that we have no interest in a conventional resort or cruise further limits our choice.
Crap. Figuring out where to go for an affordable, authentic, adventurous short vacation is getting hard.
We rejected Puerto Montt in southern Chile because it is too cold and really hard to get to. Rebecca liked the idea because she’d be able to visit the Baha’i Temple in Santiago. Wouldn’t you know: Santiago is another dangerous place for tourists.
We’ve rejected a cruise around Norway. Not only would it be too cold, but the northern lights would be unlikely, and most of our time would be on the ship rather than in the Norwegian villages we’d love to visit.
We rejected a lot of the Caribbean islands because they are just too touristy or too pricey.
Our current list of safe, affordable possibilities includes Costa Rica, a few less traveled islands in the Caribbean, Portugal, Crete, and southern Italy. Sigh. So much to consider!
No matter what, we cannot wait to blog about our adventures, and we are way open to suggestions for our post-eclipse / pre-summer leg. Bring ‘em on!
myinnersociologist 