Finding the Real America in California

A few years ago celebrity chef Alton Brown had a show on the Food Network called Feasting on Asphalt. He and a camera crew rode around the country–carefully avoiding interstates–in search of real American food. In other words, they did not go to Chilis, Applebees or any other place you’ve ever seen a tv ad for.

He found good and bad. Good biscuits and ham in the South and a bad concoction of cactus and something else in Arizona. Unfortunately, he actually did feast on some asphalt when he face-planted off his motocycle somewhere out west.

Next time Alton gets an urge to travel and eat in some out of the way places, he needs to come to northern California.

We landed in San Jose on July 4 and drove north about 2 hours to tiny Monte Rio on the Russian River, about 10 miles from the Pacific. It’s another world. By about Wednesday, it occured to me that we hadn’t seen a red light since leaving the Bay Area behind. We had traveled from Jenner where we watched the seals from the side of the road down to Point Reyes, the foggiest place in the U.S. In between, we drove though Bodega Bay, the tiny coastal town Alfred Hitchcock chose as the setting of The Birds.

Along the way we saw lots of Italian places. Lots of signs promoting barbecued oysters, a local favorite, and plenty of roadside joints that just promoted themselves as “restaurant and bar.”

This is not a chi-chi area, despite its beauty. And I’m not saying that we had any great meals except for what I cooked–especially my ersatz coq au vin simmered with an excellent local syrrah–until we went to the town of Sonoma. There we ate at The Girl and the Fig and it was outstanding. If you’re ever there, try the heirloom radishes with anchovy butter.

These local places are not guided by a corporate philosophy–they were not selling dishes created in a test kitchen hundreds of miles away, dishes based on focus groups and profit margins. Husband had tongue tacos in a tiny Mexican place in Occidental, something I really can’t imagine on a Taco Bell menu.

I think that for many of us, California is the last place we would think of when it comes to “real” America. But we forget about what a big place this is. It’s not all fake tans and red carpets.

I like my travel with a dash of funky every now and then. It’s why I adore the Keys. If you’re looking for a little adventure, you might want to think about the Russian River in western Sonoma County. It’s not fancy, but it is gorgeous. I’ll put up some pix next time.

Coming Soon to a City Near You

The first time Husband and I traveled overseas we went with a small tour group to Scotland and England. It was November and I barely remember the stupefying hours between landing in Glasgow and being driven to Edinburgh. We finally reached our hotel which was old and quaint and all those things you want in the British Isles. It was also icy cold–at least to our Southern way of thinking. But it didn’t matter because at long last I was overseas and the room had a little electric tea pot and a supply of shortbread in that plaid wrapping.

We always knew we wanted to travel and, while the group aspect wasn’t really our thing, it was nice for the first trans-Atlantic trip. We made friends with the others and were quickly pegged as the young, energetic members of the group. The guide didn’t mind when we begged off group excursions to explore on our own, she knew we’d find our way back. I remember in Windsor we were wandering around the stables behind the castle and came across an elderly woman from our group who was completely lost and terrified. She had become separated from her companion and had been walking aimlessly for quite a while.

There were a lot of firsts on that trip–first castle, first time to order a pint in a pub, first time to have broiled tomatoes for breakfast. First time to witness “ugly American” behavior. (I really wanted to spell that behaviour, but that would just make me a poser.) We were walking up to St. Andrews–the place where golf was birthed more than 600 years ago. There was a rope strung  between the lane we were on and the golf course. Thirty seconds after we were told not to cross the rope, one of our group did…running across the fairway to get a better photo of the clubhouse. I’m sure he thought that they meant everybody BUT him. He was a nice enough guy, but our opinion of him wasn’t the same after that.

Anyhow, that trip whetted our appetite for more, and two years later we went back to England with another group. It was a fun trip too, but we we were ready to start traveling on our own agendas.

Fast forward 13 years. We’ve got lots of international travel under our belts and have gotten good enough at it that people seek our advice and counsel. Nevertheless, when a local group put together a trip to Italy, we signed up. There were a lot of friends and family going and Italy was a place I’d never been. After consulting the schedule and the map, we decided to tack on a few days of our own at the end.

We started in Rome and then headed north, stopping in Florence, Sienna, Venice, Assisi and other places I’ve forgotten before ending up at Lake Como. In between, we saw some amazing sites and, I’m sorry to say, a few more examples of ugly American behavior. We spent way too much time on our big bus, going through the Italian countryside on interstate highways without any chance of taking a back road or a wrong turn just because you felt like it. You’d see a little village in the distance, maybe surrounded by grape vines with an ancient steeple rising above the other buildings. But you’d never say, “hey, bus driver–can we just go over there for a half hour or so, just for one glass of wine?’

We had a schedule and it must be kept.

But on the last morning as everyone else was packed up and ready to go home, the bus did make one slight detour and dropped us off at the train station. We said our goodbyes, grabbed  our luggage and charged up the steps–ready at last for our own adventure on our own time.

Three hours later, here we were:

High in the Alps. I know that most of the people on the bus were ready to go home. But more than one has said that they were just a little jealous of us heading up those steps to the train station by ourselves.

p.s. This post was inspired by Rassles.

Farmer’s Markets–There and Here

I wish that I had not relied on others to take pictures in the past. I didn’t get my little camera until right before our trip to Japan last fall. One place in particular I wish now that I’d had a camera is the Richard Lenoir street market in Paris. If I had, you would’ve seen scenes like these:

Now that I have my trusty little camera, I can subject you to my less-than-stellar efforts. Nevertheless, here are shots from the local farmer’s market.

Can I just say that it’s really hot here right now? It’s been over 90 for the last week, and it’s predicted to be the same for the next week. Don’t let the outfits fool you–these folks charge a fortune for their fabulous heirloom tomatoes.

All the stuff at this market is organic and grown or made from within 100 miles.

And here tomorrow’s dessert–blackberry cobbler.

If you have a quart of your own blackberries–try this:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees

Mix a quart of blackberries (or fresh sliced peaches) with 1/2 C sugar and set aside

Melt one stick butter in 2 quart baking dish

Combine the following:

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup flour

2 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 cup milk

Pour this over the melted butter–do not stir

Spoon fruit on top and bake for 1 hour.

Adieu. Ciao. Auf wiedersehen. Adios. Ta ta.

My traveling companion of the last 10 years has made its last journey.

In these days of electronic tickets and pocket computers, the passport seems like a throwback to a century ago. A time when steamer trunks were pasted with colorful stickers from the owner’s grand tour. Today our travels are documented by poorly inked stamps that you have to squint to read. Except for Japan–I have an actual sticker from Japan.

There are a couple countries that I  have no record of at all. We rode a train from Lake Como, Italy, into the Swiss Alps. Armed Swiss Guards walked through the train and checked our passports once we crossed the border, but there was no stamp. We drove from Brussels to Paris once and crossed through Luxembourg. As I recall, the border  guards were in a little turreted house. They checked our passports, but offered no stamp. I was too intimidated by the surroundings to ask for one. Why is it I always hold my breath in such situations, even when I’m innocent of any malfeasance?  Too many viewings of the Von Trapp family hiding in the convent? Or maybe Midnight Express?

Each page is divided into quadrants–perfect little squares that are meant to be filled with precise stamps. But as you can see, the stamping is pretty haphazard. Looks like Ireland and Belgium have the most trouble with the system.

But now my little blue book is about to expire, so I’m sending it off for a replacement tomorrow. I know I’ll get it back, but I’ll miss it on my next trip. The new passport will be all stiff and shiny. It won’t know the ropes of international travel. It might wander off instead of sitting quietly in my pocket, always there when I need it. I’ll keep it in a drawer next to the old one, hoping that some of its experience will rub off on the new one.

A Walk Through the English Countryside

A couple of weeks ago, Husband and I drove to a nearby park and walked a couple of the trails. The first one was 2.5 miles, all level, very easy and the second was only a mile. It went alongside a river and was the site of a town that has since disappeared, probably in a flood. The town had some claim to historic prominence as both Andrew Jackson (7th president of the United States) and Nathan Bedford Forrest (famous Confederate general) spent time there. As we were leaving the trail, we passed a family just starting their walk, three or four adults and an equal number of children. We were amused by the amount of gear they had–everyone had a backpack and one woman was carrying a two liter bottle of water–for a 15 minute walk. Kudos for them getting out into the sunshine, but holy cow…way to overdo the equipage.

It reminded me of a walk I took in 2006. It was the first time I went on Pilgrimage with the youth from my church. There were 12 of us, I think, give or take. A mixture of high school juniors, young adults, regular adults and me, the oldest by far. The last few days of our trip were to be spent at Canterbury, the home of the Anglican (and therefore Episcopalian) Church. We were to walk to Canterbury as the pilgrims of old did…along an ancient path.

It was a seven mile trip…on the outer limits of my endurance, but something I wasn’t worried about completing.

One thing you have to know about the summer of 2006–it was one of the hottest ever in England. Remember, this is the land of no air conditioning, no ice and a place where heavy duvets adorn every bed. It is also the land of no screens on windows. One of my personal quirks is that I can not sleep with an open window. I’ m a Southern girl…open windows are an open invitation to mosquitos and snakes. And don’t tell me snakes can’t climb trees because I know they can.

We set off on our journey one hot afternoon. Unfortunately, our first few hundred yards were straight uphill. One of our group faltered about halfway up. We regrouped in the shade so she could calm down. After a while, we marched on, and once we were at the top of the hill, had a nice, level trek through a typical English village.

So far, so good.

 

We walked on through the village and came to a farm. The directions got a little hinky. We walked down one hedgerow and up another. Across a field and behind a barn. By this time I had promised the only boy in the group dinner at the restaurant of his choice at home if he’d carry my backpack.

 The heat rose and the levels in our water bottles went down. But on we marched, reminding ourselves that the pilgrims of old had no bottled water. Because we were walking through the woods, I kept an eye out for snakes, despite being told time and again that snakes are really rare in England. But I know snake country when I see it…I told them there was a snake nearby and I was right. 

 On we walked, through nettles and woods and forest. It was hotter than the hinges of hell, but we finally reached the outskirts of Canterbury.

I had, at one point, really doubted that the trip would ever end. When we were finally in sight of our destination, we dropped. After a few minutes, with the catheral in sight, we ventured on. Canterbury Cathedral is surrounded by a wall and we were staying inside, on the grounds. This was the view from my wonderful room:

And here’s a shot of the cloister…

So that’s my abbreviated tale of the hardest walk I ever took. When I saw that family loaded down with backpacks and liters of water for a 15 minute stroll, it made me wonder what they’d pack for a trek to Canterbury.

Also, if you’re ever in England, don’t be fooled when they tell you there are no snakes. I’ve seen them!

Many thanks to Sally for the wonderful photos.

The Eye of the Beholder

When I was in New York last week, I did more than lose my wallet–I visited three of the museums that make that city a cultural mecca. Let me be the first to say that what I know about art would fit comfortably on the head of a pin. I never took an art class in college and am ignorant of many aspects of art. Huge museums like the Louvre drive me crazy and that’s why I always gravitate to smaller places that I can wander around in for an hour or two before my attention span conks out.

The Frick is just about perfect as far as I’m concerned. It’s not too big and it encompasses an era that fascinates me–New York’s gilded age that Edith Wharton captured so perfectly in The Age of Innocence. It was the time when the old money of the original settlers of New York headbutted the newer riches of the robber barons named Vanderbilt, Rockefeller and Frick. Those men amassed huge fortunes, built fabulous houses and collected some of the world’s greatest art.

The Frick Collection is showcased in the 5th Ave. home the Frick family once lived in. There are works by Rembrandt, Titian, Renoir, Constable and Monet. But this was my favorite.

 

It’s called Lady Hamilton as Nature. Lady Hamilton–Emma–was quite the gal about town. She was born the daughter of a blacksmith and worked as a housemaid in her younger years. She also worked as an actress and model and was the muse of artisit George Romney who painted this picture. Emma was the consort and mistress of several influential men and eventually married  Sir William Hamilton, British Envoy to Naples. While in Naples she met and became the mistress of Lord Horatio Nelson. She outlived both her husband and her lover and died deeply in debt. Ironically, the many paintings Romney painted of her are priceless today.

This is the kind of art I like. Art with a story. Most of the paintings I own have a story–they’re of a place I love, a place I’ve been, are painted by a friend or have been handed down. They’re personal.

The next day I visited MoMA–the Museum of Modern Art. I saw a shoebox on the floor…

…and four yogurt container lids glued to the wall.

I love yogurt, and I have quite a collection of empty shoe boxes.

I just never considered them art.

Out of My Comfort Zone

I’ve been fortunate enough to travel quite a bit. Over the years I’ve figured out places where I could potentially live, at least part of the time. Paris is at the top of the list, of course. The Florida Keys are right up there as well. There’s a great appeal of the ancient holy places like Lindisfarne in the far north of England. Or Assisi way up on a hill in Italy.

But there’s one place I could never, ever live–New York City.

Don’t get me wrong–I think New York is a wonderful place and if I had unlimited funds, I might splurge on a pied-à-terre there. But not until I’ve secured living quarters in all the other places first.

We spent last weekend in New York. I left my wallet in the first cab we took.

Hell damn and hell.

No wallet=no ID=equal sticky wicket when passing through airport security.

Husband said not to worry, and I attempted to do (or not do) just that.

The next day I spent some time with a gracious woman who has spent a great deal of time in New York. We had a very elegant lunch. We strolled down 5th Avenue and she pointed out some of the sights. We went to her apartment and saw the polar bears in the Central Park Zoo from her terrace.

That’s the way to live in the city. She knows how to do it. I, on the other hand, lose my wallet within 30 minutes.

By and by, it was time to travel home. We got our boarding passes and headed to security.

When I got to the front of the line I presented my boarding pass and told the agent I had lost my ID.

“Stand to the side,” she told me. (Husband asked for and received permission to stand by me.)

It was crowded in our little corner of LaGuardia and we had to keep telling people that we weren’t in line. One woman heard us talking and decided to share her thoughts on the situation.

“Oh my god–that happened to a friend of mine and it turned out that she had THE EXACT SAME NAME AS A PERSON ON THE NO FLY LIST.”

“Shhhh,” I said. “I don’t want to hear that.”

“Why not?” her male companion said. “Are you a PERPETRATOR?”

“Would the both of you PLEASE quit talking now?” I asked in my nicest voice.

They huffed away, clearly not understanding why I didn’t want to hear about other people’s misfortunes.

In the end, a nice man came and had me fill out a form. He asked me a few questions and then made a call. Evidently the person on the other end had a copy of my permanent record and deemed all my answers acceptable and I was cleared. I got patted down and wanded, and another nice young man saw way more of the inside of my suitcase than I’m sure he wanted.

We made it on the plane and now I’m back in my zip code.

It’s not New York’s fault that I lost my wallet. I just always feel a little out of step there. Like I’m moving too slowly. Talking too slowly.

In New York I’m wading through chocolate pudding while everyone else is zipping by on hovercrafts. Or in cabs–only they remember to take their wallets when they get out.

Up In the Air–A Movie Review of Sorts

Husband is rarely interested in movies, but because this one had been so cleverly promoted by American Airlines, it piqued his interest.

You see, Husband spends a lot time with American Airlines. Like George Clooney in the film, Husband travels light and navigates through the concourses of strange airports as well as he does streets of downtown Franklin. George spends his time between flights in the private lounge (the one behind the discreet, secret doors) and boasts of never buying a thing unless it adds to his frequent flyer account.

In the movie, George’s character flies around the country firing people for companies that are downsizing. Unfortunately, business is booming and that means George is always either taking off or landing. George has a goal–amassing 10 million miles making him a mythical, uber frequent flyer. In the movie, people reaching this milestone are visited by the chief pilot of American, feted with champagne and given their own titanium membership card.

But here’s what’s wrong.

In the movie we see George flying from Omaha to Dubuque to Milwaukee. He goes from Chicage to Denver to Dallas.

Short hops like those will not get you to 10 million miles. Not even in 20 years. Plus, most of those flights are on the commuter planes operated by American Eagle and the first-class seats we see George sitting in aren’t even available.

For most of us, our frequent flyer miles rarely add up to being worth more than a free magazine subscription. But if you fly on enough international flights and watch for deals offering double or triple rewards, you can earn some significant benefits.

In the movie, George finds out that those benefits aren’t worth as much as he thought they would be. In real life though, it’s nice to go behind those discreet, secret doors every now and then.

A Really, Really Cold Hike Along the Duck River. (And there was a cave!)

It was 14 degrees when we got up this morning–perfect hiking weather! I gave Husband a book titled 60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of Nashville and this was the first one we picked. We traveled about 30 miles south to an area mananged by the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency.

My clothes consisted of leggings, cargo pants, cotton turtleneck, hoodie, fleece jacket, thick socks, gloves, knit hat and, unfortunately, Husband’s boots which I had mistaken for my own when I grabbed them from the garage. (He has several pairs.) However, I didn’t discover this problem until we reached the trailhead and changed from car shoes to boots. Luckily, his feet aren’t too big.

 

Here’s a little of what we saw along the way. (You can click on some of the pictures to see larger images. Not sure why you can’t click on all of them.)

 

There were lots of plants with these icy curls around them.

Frozen creeks are not a very common sight around here.

This is as close to the edge I get.

We’re going to go back in summer and use this grill.

I like a well-marked trail. (Notice similarity of drawing and actual cave seen below.)

 

Yes. I went in there. It was dark. 

Here’s Husband on the other end.

When we got back to the car, the temperature had soared to 18 degrees. In celebration of the heat wave, we came home and had mimosas.

A very pleasant way to spend a Sunday morning.

Japanese Toilets and Other Odds and Ends

Please note that the following observations are mine alone, based on only a few days in Japan. I’m sure that these generalities can be easily disproven on many levels. Again, just my personal observations.

1. When you’re traveling, you have to get used to going to the bathroom in lots of public places. On our recent trip, that often meant train stations. The public bathrooms in Japan are immaculate and many of them feature a wonderful product know as the Toto toilet. Totos aren’t your average toilet. When you sit down, you’ll notice what seems to be an armrest on one side. Look closely and you’ll see dials and buttons. These controls operate features that are unfamiliar to most Americans. You see, these toilets have additional water jets–one that will duplicate a bidet and  one that will…hmmmm….wash your butt. The dials control the water pressure and temperature.

I totally want a Toto, but they cost around $3,000 so I don’t think Santa will be putting one under my tree.

But here’s a contradiction–once you leave the stall with your freshly washed behind, you notice that there’s no soap and no towels and no hot water.  The best you can do is to rinse your hands with cold water and then rub them on your pants. That’s right–your rear end is cleaner than your hands after a visit to a Japanese railway station bathroom.

2. As I said earlier, Japan is immaculate. But garbage cans are very hard to find. There are lots of recycling bins for plastic and aluminum, but no place to put regular garbage. On our last afternoon we were catching our breath and repacking our backpacks in the hotel lobby. Husband needed to discard an empty plum wine bottle and set off to find a garbage can. He looked and looked (the lobby was immense). One hotel worker came to his assistance. Then there were two. In all, three people helped him throw away his empty bottle…all apologising the entire time. I don’t know how a country that’s so clean can have so few places to put garbage.

3. Most Japanese people are quite small by American standards. The younger ones are definitely larger than their parents and grandparents, but I saw some of the tiniest people I’ve ever seen. However, when we were visiting some of the ancient temples and shrines, we walked up some of the steepest, tallest steps I’ve ever been on. I just measured the steps in my house–7.5 inches. I’m guessing that the ancient steps in Japan were at least 10 inches. They were a stretch for my long legs…I can’t imagine how the diminutive monks of old managed them.

4. Husband frequently travels on business to China and Japan and one of his observations is that the people living there never get hot. Everytime we sat on a train or went into our hotel room we felt like we were in a furnace. The temperature was around 60 degrees F–perfect for sightseeing. We were walking around in shirt sleeves and light fleeces. All around us though, people were bundled up in hats, coats, scarves and gloves.

5. There were Christmas decorations everywhere, including our hotel. Not sure why these devotees of Buddha and Shinotism are decking the halls, but it looked pretty.

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So there you have my thoughts on Japan. It was a wonderful place to visit, and there’s lots more to see. It will never replace France as my favorite place. but if you have the chance to go, by all means, do. Just remember to take a buddy if you visit an onsen.