Posts filed under 'Travelin''
Okay, so it’s been a few weeks since we got back from Puerto Rico, but I figure since we hadn’t been there in three years, it’s still well within the acceptable time limit to post about it. Why it took us so long to get back to one of the places we love most on earth, I don’t know. Life. It gets in the way of taking time for what’s truly important. And considering we hadn’t actually taken a trip of any sort that wasn’t business- or family-related in all that time, we were due. We were ready. Oh so ready.
One of the great pleasures of discovering a place you love is getting the opportunity to share it with other people you love. Of course, for a massively codependent people-pleaser like myself, it can also be nerve-wracking. Will they see the beauty that you do? Will they appreciate the non-glossy aspects of Puerto Rico as being part of the true experience? Will they like the quirks? Hell, will they like the food.
On this trip, we met up with our amazing friend Denise. In fact, she’s the one who kicked off the whole affair, announcing her plans to spend 10 or so days in Puerto Rico in between leaving her fellowship here in Ann Arbor and moving to San Antonio. On a whim, we decided to join her and uncovered the adventure of seeing a familiar place through new eyes.
We met up in Old San Juan the first night of our arrival. At the risk of offending anyone, San Juan proper doesn’t have a lot to offer visitors, unless you’re looking for high rises and night clubs. I think it’s safe to say we’re not. Old San Juan, on the other hand, is the oldest settlement within the territorial United States, at least according to Wikipedia, so you know it has to be true. It’s a lovely place, dating back to 1521, founded by the Spanish, teeming with 16th & 17th century colonial architecture, and surrounded by El Morro and the old city walls.
Chris, master of crazy travel bargains, managed to swing us a stellar deal for staying at El Convento, a former Carmelite convent we’vewalked past many times and coveted from afar. Let me tell you, it was charming and delightful. The rooms were comfortable and well-appointed and — although likely not in keeping with its historical state — air conditioned to an icy-cold state.
Aside from such nods to modernity, the place felt steeped in history, with its wooden beam ceilings and giant carved doors. It wasn’t hard at all to imagine the nuns wandering the hallways in quiet contemplation. Although it was so frickin’ hot, I can’t imagine that was particularly comfortable for them in their habits. I’d venture to guess at least a few of them prayed for a break in the weather. (Legend has it that the nuns still walk the hallways in silent prayer, but I tried really hard not to think about it while I was there.)
The convent was built around a central courtyard, with balconies on each level over-looking it. The big tree in the middle of the courtyard (see photo below) is apparently hundreds of millions of years old. Okay, maybe it’s actually just, like, hundreds of years old, but that’s still pretty impressive.
One of my favorite things about El Convento were the nooks and crannies you could explore at every turn and had I not been close to expiring from the heat, I might have done more. We did, however, make it to the roof, which offered us some lovely views of San Juan…
…as well as a nice little saltwater dipping pool which, had the water not been the temperature of tepid bathwater, would have been very refreshing.
While I’m busy complaining about the heat in San Juan, you’re probably thinking, “Duh. It’s summer in Puerto Rico. What were you expecting?” I know, I know. I’ve certainly been there during summer before — after all, it’s when flights and hotels are often cheapest — but we usually make a beeline straight for the rainforest, where it’s much, much cooler. Besides, the last time I was there, I was still somewhat acclimated to St. Louis summers which are pretty comparable to Puerto Rico, actually. In other words, the past few years in Michigan is making me a pansy.
Anyhoo, there was no point in staying in the A/C, no matter how tempting, considering we had only part of the next day to show Denise a good ol’ time in OSJ before heading off on the next leg of our adventure. So we braved the heat of our second day wandering the streets of Old San Juan, looking buildings the color of tropical fruit and, priorities well intact, stopping for breakfast at La Bombonera, our favorite old-timey bakery which has been open for more than a century. (And marveling at the old men at the counter who looked as though they might have been present on opening day.) May I just say that there is a special place in heaven for whoever invented the quesito, Puerto Rico’s answer to a cheese danish. Chris and Denise also had success ordering mallorcas, toasted sandwiches filled with ham & cheese or cheese & egg and then dusted with powdered sugar. All washed down with cups of strong Puerto Rican coffee. Fantastico!
There’s so much to see of Old San Juan and I took so many pictures I can’t possible bore you with them all here. But I think one of the things I love most is that you can find something beautiful and interesting no matter where you look, including down. Many of the streets of Old San Juan are composed of cobblestone made from 16th century ship’s ballast, which has the most beautiful blue-gray hue to it. You know, in case you were wondering. See, here:
I’m telling you, if I ever get my hands on some 16th century Spanish ship’s ballast, I’m so doing a walkway outside my house like this. Then I’ll paint my house the color of mangoes and we’ll just see what the city of Ann Arbor has to say about that. Although, knowing Ann Arbor, the answer is probably: nothing. But I digress.
Where were we? Ah, yes. Wandering through the crazy heat and the bright sun to take in some of Old San Juan’s sites, including the aforementioned fort El Morro and the neighboring cemetery, which overlooks the Atlantic and is the final resting place of many of Puerto Rico’s most notable citizens.
Since you can’t get down there easily on foot, I can’t exactly tell you who these famous people are, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Either way, they have an incredible view.
Next, we made our way down to the El Morro walkway which led to the Paseo de la Princesa. (Not, as Denise insisted on calling it, the Paseo de Principesa, but we let her have her fun.) Here are Denise and Chris at the Old San Juan Gate, which leads to the walkway.
Somehow we’d never been down there before and it afforded us a nice new perspective on Old San Juan. Go Denise for blazing new trails! (And by new, I mean centuries old.)
After lunch at Cafe Manolin, where we sat at a lunch counter rubbing elbows with locals and scarfing down authentic Puerto Rican fare, Chris had to dash off to do some work. (Work!) So Denise and I wore ourselves out doing a little souvenir shopping. Afterward, we seized the opportunity to pause in a plaza and shield ourselves from the sun while sipping amazingly delicious iced coffees. Quite cosmopolitan, we felt.
By that time, we were just hot, sweaty and tired enough to go and meet up with Chris, say adios to Old San Juan and head east to the El Yunque rainforest for a few days. Stay tuned for details!
August 10th, 2009
What’s the greatest birthday gift a girl could wish for? Or, more specifically, this girl could wish for? How about unlimited time in an ultra-cool, super-deep soaking tub with little else to do but relax, read and enjoy.
And that’s precisely what I got. Chris whisked me away on Saturday to a surprise destination. Turned out to be the high design Euro-style City Flats Hotel in the perhaps unlikely location of Holland, Michigan. Check out the coolness:
The fancy neon lights in the lobby and the ultra mod-looking, funky and totally uncomfortable chairs.
I loved, loved, loved these botanical style green and brown panels in the hallways. I’d adore some fabric like this for our house.
Hotel lobby bar. Needless to say, on a November weekend, the hotel wasn’t exactly packed, but there were a few revelers here on Saturday night.
I fell in love with these light fixtures, crazy messes of curly wire. Too cool.
Holland’s just a couple of hours west of Ann Arbor, not far from Saugatuck, where we spent a weekend last November. (We seem to pick the coldest, greyest weekends for our getaways.) It’s known for its Dutch heritage, obviously, and its annual tulip time festival which, as you can probably guess, doesn’t take place in mid-November. It’s also heavily Dutch reformist which means that the town basically shuts down on Sundays. Thus our plan to spend part of Sunday exploring the charming but tiny two-block downtown was canceled.
We asked the eager and youthful help at the hotel’s front desk what people in Holland do on Sundays and they said, “Go to Saugatuck.” So we thought we’d do that. But we had a couple of stops before that. From the window of our hotel we spied a giant scrap heap in the distance and I figured it’d make for some good and interesting photos. We were surprised to find the gates to the scrap yard were wide open and we could drive right in. (Although we later discovered the hidden cost.)
I think it’s fascinating to view these giant piles of weird, odd shapes and think that they all served some purpose at some point and are now on their way to being something else.
The road outside the metal yard was dotted with some odd scrap metal sculptures that, upon looking at these pictures, I realize aren’t actually that interesting.
Once my scrap metal jones was met we were slated to hit the road to travel the 20 miles or so to Saugatuck. But before we did I convinced Chris we needed to check out what I suspected was a corny little attraction called The Old Dutch shops. I was right. It was a cheese fest. A closed cheese fest. Of which I have no photos, because we were distracted by the realization we had a flat tire.
Yes, the price for the scrap metal photos was a thin, long shard of metal in the right rear tire. Which meant that instead of heading for Saugatuck, we had to kill two hours at an outlet mall and shopping strip.
By the time the wheel was patched (a mere $10 repair, thank you very much), there wasn’t much daylight left. We decided that we wanted to take a gander at Lake Michigan and, on the auto mechanic’s advice, drove the 18 miles to Grand Haven instead of Saugatuck, for a little more direct beach access.
There was barely any sunlight left but the sky had been dark grey and moody all day anyway, letting out random flurries of snow here and there. We braved the cold wind for the briefest of walks on the beach, whipped by the wind, watching the waves raging across Lake Michigan. Then we retreated to the warmth of the car and watched the Lake until there wasn’t enough light left.
We headed back to the hotel. There were more baths. More relaxing. And, best of all, more of Chris’ time, with him completely unplugged from work. That was the best of all the birthday treats he lavished me with. Well, that and the morning bath I took on Monday before heading home, from which I watched snow fall on the crazy little town of Holland, Michigan.
(As always, there are more photos the hotel, scrap metal, etc. on my Flickr page.)
November 20th, 2008
We spent the first couple of days of our trip just wandering around Glasgow, sleeping off jet lag and visiting with family. Although by all accounts the weather (a topic of great interest to Glaswegians) had been glorious the prior week, it was largely dull and grey for much of our trip. (Hence, not a ton of photos of Glasgow, since the light kind of blew.)
Then on Friday, we headed to Edinburgh for the day. It’s a quick 45-minute train ride from Glasgow’s Buchanan Street train station to Edinburgh Waverly, which spits you out in the center of downtown Edinburgh, practically at the feet of the castle and a couple of blocks from the Royal Mile.
We happened to be there during the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the internationally renowned event that brings performances of all kinds to Scotland — theater, musicals, opera, comedy, dance, etc. — and turns the city into madness. Madness! At first I’d worried it would make everything too chaotic for the girls to enjoy, but how wrong I was.
While the trudge up the Royal Mile is usually a fun one, its cobblestone streets lined with ancient houses and overpriced gift shops, this was a whole ‘nother thing. Street performers everywhere, plays being previewed on tiny stages, musicians and human statues vying for coins, young starving actors pleading and cajoling to get you to their shows. (The guys above were promoting a play called “Smells Like America.” Hmmm…)
We didn’t have time to attend a performance that day, since the castle was our main attraction, but we had an absolute blast sampling the madness and it didn’t cost us a dime. To wit, my nieces Rebecca and Olivia making a faceless friend:
Rebecca getting pre-castle knighthood: (The best way to do it, really. Speeds up entry.)
Olivia getting a pretend something from, uh, some silver lady:
And Lucifer himself, never one to miss a good festival:
The castle itself is always a blast, methinks. Some photographic evidence: (Oooo, castle-y)
Nieces on a rock. Not the rock they got yelled at for climbing on. A different rock:
Spooky dungeon-y view!
Spectacular view of Edinburgh from the castle:
And more madness after, on the Royal Mile, going back down:
Another silver lady, this time with wings but sans hat. So different!
An acrobatic Kiwi. Fancy!
Exhausting day. Perhaps moreso for that guy than for us, but still.
August 28th, 2008
If it seems like I’m always going to Glasgow — city o’ my birth — it’s probably because I’ve now been three times within the past year. That’s more than I’ve ever been since I left 27 years ago. In October, Chris and I took my niece Rebecca back with us so she could meet her great grandma for the first time. That trip was such a hit that we hatched a plan to take my sister Jane, her husband Bill, Rebecca and her sister Olivia over for my grandma’s 90th birthday in May.
However, the girl’s school schedule made that tricky. So Chris and I went in May and attended the wedding of my oldest childhood friend and celebrated my grandma’s birthday, albeit a tad early. And we surprised Grandma with the news that we’d return in August with the whole gang. My sister hasn’t been back since we left decades ago, nor had she seen our grandma in 15 years and my grandma hadn’t yet met her other great-granddaughter Olivia. How’s that for a lot of familial plotting?
In fact, it truly was a family affair to get the whole gang overseas earlier this month. It involved the donation of frequent flier miles from my father and my brother and hours of Chris’ problem-solving to try to coordinate flights, etc. A Herculean task, really. And it all came off without a hitch. Well, unless you count major delays and much headache for the Browns (my sister’s family) on the way there. Otherwise, a grand and completely exhausting adventure.
Following are a few posts chronicling our trip, mostly through photos.
August 26th, 2008
Among the many, many reasons you should feel sorry for me is the fact that I never went to camp as a child. In Britain, people just didn’t send their kids off to camp. (They may today, but I’m not certain.) When we moved to the states when I was about 10, camp was a distinctly American tradition, largely saved for people who had the means and, I thought, didn’t like their kids so much. So while a handful of my friends trotted off to camp for weeks on end during the summer, I remained behind, largely puzzled and only mildly envious. I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy camp nor was I sure why kids would want to sleep in bug-filled cabins, swim in murky lakes and fashion macrame bracelets when they could stay indoors all summer watching sitcoms.
So you can imagine it was a little odd and, surprisingly, a little thrilling for me to shop for my trip up north to the Bear River Writer’s Conference at Camp Michigania last weekend. As I tossed bug spray into my basket at Target and mulled over the right flashlight to take (who knew there were so many flashlights?), Chris assured me that if I got lonely and the other writers made fun of me, I could come home at anytime.
As it turns out, the conference was a terrific experience. For the past few years, I’ve made a point of attending a summer writing workshop, saving my pennies and signing up for five-day sessions at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. But at the urging of the generous and lovely Nick Delbanco, I opted for Bear River this year — largely because the special guest was, as I’ve noted here, one of my favorite authors, Amy Hempel.
One of the unique things about Bear River, as compared with other writing conferences and workshops, is that it focuses squarely on producing new work. It’s not the place to drag along the manuscript you’ve been working on merely to expose it to a new set of critical eyes — or as often happens, let’s face it, in the hopes of receiving unqualified praise and encouragement. Instead, it’s about inspiration, greasing the wheel and writing on the spot. Which is just as well, because I’m so far behind where I’d like to be with my current writing project that being in an environment that forced me to exercise my writing muscles was precisely what I needed.
I took a workshop on Painting and Fiction with Elizabeth Kostova, she of the best-selling vampire epic, The Historian. It was, in retrospect, perhaps not precisely the right workshop for me. While I thought we would focus on how the process of writing compares with the process of painting, and how the latter could inform and influence the former, the workshop leaned more strongly towards the use of paintings in our writing — as inspiration but, more directly, as subject. And I confess to being surprised by the number of people in our ten-person group who were specifically interested in including paintings in their fiction, for the most part in historical novels.
But the experience of attending Bear River was still good for me for two key reasons. First, I tend to forget that I know how to write. As silly as that may sound, and despite the fact I make my living as a freelancer, I do. I get so cowed by my fears and what feels like the weight of writing that I forget I’m even capable of it. Confidence among writers — more specifically, among this writer — is so fleeting, so difficult to maintain. Our free writing exercises and our homework, as rusty and slap shod as they were given time restraints, reminded me that I can do this, that I can string words together.
The second reason is that I remembered I like to be around people and that I am, for the most part, pretty good at it. As someone still relatively new to Ann Arbor and who works from home, I spend a tremendous amount of time by myself. Most of my time, in fact. Again, my memory proves tricky and, locked away in my office typing on my keyboard, I forget that I can meet new people, that I can make conversation with strangers and that I am, at least as a general proposition, likeable. I forget that I’m funny. I forget that I can find things in common with writers from all different backgrounds, from all walks of life, with all different interests. I was fortunate to be paired with cabin mates who were friendly and funny and I crossed paths with all sorts of interesting folk I’m grateful to have known, however briefly.
I think when I sit at home alone in my office, my fear can so easily eclipse my passion and, as a result, my productivity (which is weak under the best of circumstances) grinds to a halt. Over dinner the night of my return, Chris noted the extent to which I come home from these things energized and excited about writing and he suggested I look for at least one more to attend during the year. Such a smart man that husband of mine. (If you have any suggestions for great writing workshops, perhaps during the winter to balance my summer excursion, please let me know!)
Of course, the real initial draw for me to Bear River was the chance to meet Amy Hempel. She is, as I’ve noted here, pretty much the reason I wanted to become a writer. And when I glimpsed her across the room the first night — petite and pretty beneath a mass of long white hair — I was practically catatonic. I became a bumbling dork, moving closer to where she sat and glancing furtively at her out of the corner of my eye.
By the second day I worked up the courage to assault her, just as she was on the way into the craft talk she was scheduled to give. Clutching my hard copy of her collected stories, I blabbered on, slathering her with praise and actually (I kid you not) getting misty as I spoke with her. She was, fortunately and not surprisingly, extremely gracious and was kind enough to sign my book rather than having me escorted from the building.
I have to say, even in my starry-eyed state, I found her craft talk a little hard to follow. She warned us at the start that it would not be linear as she doesn’t think in a linear way and, in turn, doesn’t write linear stories. And while that’s part of what I admire most about her stories — along with her use of humor and pathos and her ability to plum the depths of emotion without being sentimental — it doesn’t necessarily make for a riveting craft talk. I came away with a page full of notes that included the names of poets she likes, some quotes from writers and not much sense of how Amy Hempel writes or how to apply it all to my own writing life. While a tad disappointing, it was also somehow comforting. I’m not sure that I want my writers to be completely polished, to be dazzling orators, to be good at every mode of expression. It helps to know they are imperfect in life, even as I may make them perfect on the page.
Hempel also did a reading in the nearby town of Petoskey, along with the very funny and talented poet Jim Daniels, at the Crooked Tree Arts Center. It was a brief but enjoyable reading and the Center is stunning — a Victorian church repurposed, and beautifully so, into a community Arts Center with a small stage and gallery space. I have a feeling the world might be a much better place if we repurposed all the churches in this manner. (We also had time to visit the current show, a collection of photographer Bill Eppridge’s 1968 campaign photos of Robert F. Kennedy. Extremely moving and while it could be argued that I’ve been crying at everything of late, I’m certain this would have yielded the same results under any circumstances.)
The Bear River experience was so different from that of the Iowa workshops I’ve attended and, at the risk of blasphemy (although, given the previous paragraph, that may seem a disingenuous concern), I enjoyed it far more. At Iowa, the workshops and homework seemed a bit more intensive, but once you’re outside of the classroom, you’re largely on your own. Everyone stays different places and no meals are provided and although the isolation can prove productive, it can also be, well, extremely isolating.
At Bear River, you share a cabin (that’s mine above, #14) with other writers and take all your meals in the dining hall. (You can, of course, skip them if you like and wander off grounds or hole up in your cabin with a bag of nuts, so to speak.) The result is a much greater sense of community. With about 90 attendees, by the end of four days, you know just about everyone by sight if not by name. And while I’m blaspheming, I’ll even go so far as to suggest that, in my limited experience, the overall talent at Bear River was superior to what I’ve encountered thus far at Iowa. Again, no offense. To anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
In addition, the setting is so bucolic, with meandering camp grounds along the shore of the same Lake Walloon that inspired Hemingway. I found it a great deal more inspiring than the campus of the University of Iowa, with its sterile air-conditioned classrooms, and the surrounding streets of Iowa City. (No offense, Iowa City.) Even on the rainy days — and two out of the four were overcast and drizzly — there was a mysterious fog that settled over Camp Michigania of precisely the sort we writers enjoy. Each morning, whether the lake was illuminated by the beating sun or hidden by mist, I felt a deep sense of peace as I trudged through the wet grass, warm coffee in hand, across the wooden foot bridge to my workshop in north camp. I don’t necessarily make a habit of communing with nature — we’ve found we don’t often have much to say to one another — but it was beautiful and quiet and I loved it.
On the last day, as tends to happen at these things, participants signed up to read their work. (I never sign up for these things; I’m never sure I have anything I want to hear myself read.) While these things are always hit and miss, I was blown away by some of the writing, and especially moved by the funny, smart, emotionally surprising work of the Ann Arbor Youth Poetry Slam team members who were there. I’d seen these teenage boys bumbling around camp for three days, wondering who on earth were these yahoos playing football with a soda bottle on the front lawn — only to be wowed into reticence and deep admiration by their rhythm, vocabularies, perspectives and humor. (If you’re in Ann Arbor, you should find a way to check them out.)
Unfortunately, a pall was cast over our last afternoon when a woman suffered what turned out to be a cerebral hemorrhage while reading her poem. It was scary and threw everyone off and even though the evening’s reading continued as scheduled, I think we were all a bit shaken and worried. We learned at breakfast our last day, before heading out, that she’d been airlifted to a hospital in Detroit and was in critical care. Should anything awful happen as a result, I hope there’s some comfort to be taken in the fact that she was doing what she loved when tragedy struck.
June 5th, 2008
Our trip to Scotland was scheduled so that we could enjoy two celebrations: the wedding of my oldest friend Deborah and my Grandma’s 90th birthday (a few days early.) Deborah and I met when we were four years old and we’re absolutely the worst when it comes to staying in touch with each other. Still, we have that kind of friendship where even though we go months without emailing, we have enough history that we know the other is floating out there in the universe and will be there for the asking.
And so Chris and I were thrilled that we could be there on her big day, which took place at the lovely Shieldhill Castle, about an hour outside Glasgow. (That’s Deborah & her husband, Patrick, below, in case you hadn’t put two and two together.)
This is Ruby, Deborah’s niece and flower girl, reacting (probably quite rightly too) to something Chris was saying to her.
And Libby, older sister of Ruby and also a flower girl. (Sans wand but with basket for flower petals.)
Jennifer, mother of the bride, looking pleased-as-punch just minutes before the ceremony.
Deb’s brother, Ed, and father, Neil, striking dashing poses.
Imparting a bit of motherly wisdom to the new bride, perhaps?
Toadstools and daffodils.
Each of the rooms at Shieldhill is named for a Scottish battle. Although this wasn’t ours, the name seemed to fit me quite well…
And, on the day following the wedding, me donning a top hat because, of course, that’s what one does…
And, of course, more photos of the big day in this Flickr set.
May 12th, 2008
I’ve added a new plug-in for my blog, which uses PicLens Lite to create slideshows of photos posted here. If you wanna give it a whirl, click the link at the bottom of the post. It’s a very cool thing.
Below’s a shot of Cleveden Crescent, the Glasgow West End street we stayed on our first night in town this trip. There are a number of these crescent-shaped streets around Glasgow, redolent with the Victorian architecture that is the city’s hallmark.
One of my favorite things about the Victorian architecture is the details… like this beautiful period doorbell below. Why don’t we make things this simple and lovely anymore?
Speaking of lovely details, behold this rainy rooftop, the view from our room at the White House Apartments.
As regular blog readers will know, I have a particular (and peculiar) fondness for the image of a lovely cup of coffee and I take shots of my coffees on my travels the world over. This one’s a white coffee, as they say, set against the pink formica table tops of the University Cafe on Byres Road. I love the fact that the Uni, as its called, has been around forever and my mom and dad came here on dates, probably sitting across from each other at this very same table.
 
Some of the best details of Glasgow’s architecture requires a glimpse upwards. Behold this birdie perched on a beautiful spire. The stained glass on the bay windows of the red sandstone tenements are another architectural hallmark of Glasgow’s West End.
There is a very specific quality to the light in Glasgow. I’m a sucker for how it hits the red sandstone tenements in the morning.
Speaking of tenements, below is the view from the kitchen window of the flat we rented for the majority of our stay. At night you get a glimpse into other people’s worlds, somehow both sweet and voyeuristic…
Again with the Victorian details: gorgeous green glass tiles adorn the fireplace of our rental flat.
On one of our days, we took a trip to the People’s Palace and Winter Gardens, the museum to Glasgow’s social history. While the museum proper wasn’t the most riveting thing we’d done, there was a concert of multicultural music in the Winter Gardens, complete with wee kiddies banging along on percussion. Lovely and very moving.
Did I mention the weather was glorious while we were there? Stumbled upon this oeuvre en produce at a green grocer’s on Byres Road on our way to the Botanic Gardens. Never have I found eggplant quite so beautiful.
This is Kibble Palace at the Botanic Gardens. Apparently the glasshouse underwent a massive renovation in 2006.
Botanics, fittingly enough. Sunny days like these are not what one typically associates with Glasgow. It was a stunner.
Don’t let this pretty green plant fool you — it’s in the carniverous section!
I often forget to take photos of actual people when I’m traveling, but here’s actual proof that Chris was with me!
Sigh. I know. For someone who professes not to be such a girlie girl, I’m a sucker for stunning pink blooms. I don’t know what these flowers are but I remember them from when my grandma and grandpa would take us to the Botanic Gardens. Anyone know?
I’m also a total sucker for meringues. I managed to get away without eating one of these fluffy wonders (from Kember & Jones on Byres Road) but not without snapping their likeness.
And proof that I was there too — along with my aunt Noriko and my uncle Douglas. Coffee and people watching at the Patisserie Francaise on Byres Road, our last afternoon.
(For those who wish to see even more shots of our brief visit, visit my Flickr page here.)
May 11th, 2008
I get to Glasgow and I have great intentions of posting regularly, keeping you, my dear readers (and, especially, family members) apprised of our every move across the great pond. Then I wake up and it’s our last day and I haven’t written a word. Yet. It’s also an unbelievably beautiful day, so I won’t be spending much of it posting here. Glasgow in the spring is something to behold indeed, almost gorgeous enough to justify the massive rise in the ticket price compared to our usual October-November visits. Almost.
This has been a particularly quick trip for us, really only five days on the ground and the first hardly counts as we always spend it wandering around in a daze, having lost a night’s sleep on the way over here. It has been a whirlwind, this two-fold visit: attending the wedding of my oldest friend and celebrating my Grandma’s 90th birthday. There are tons of photos and stories to post later.
But the sun is shining — no guarantee here, even in spring — thus, I’ll wrap it up and get on with my day. We’ll try to work in a visit to Glasgow’s famed Botanic Gardens (which I haven’t been to since I was a wee lassie), but the real priority of the day is getting in farewell visits with family and friends. I see many cups of tea in my future!
May 5th, 2008
I’m finally getting around to writing a bit about our trip to St. Louis a couple of weeks ago. In short, we had a grand time during our brief visit to our old stomping grounds a couple of weeks ago. While I love, love our new life in Ann Arbor, I’ve 17 years worth of friendships built up in St. Louis and there’s just no substitute for that. I miss having so many good friends, the kind who know you really well, the ones who have been around you for years and know your back story. So while it was a tad exhausting going from one date to another and playing catch up, it was also really wonderful.
Amanda and I did Free Candy on the Sunday night and it was a blast. I wish I had some photos to share, but my memory card was full and the few Chris got were not, let’s say, particularly flattering. (I reserve the right to censor such things so that we hosts can always remain in the most beautious light at all times.) The audience was great — I can’t believe that for nearly four years folks have loyally been coming out to catch this crazy live show that began as a goof in a coffee shop.
The evening was linked to the release of the new issue of 52nd City. I know I keep saying this but it bears repeating: but this St. Louis-based magazine is a thing to behold. If you still don’t know it, if you still haven’t picked up a copy or, better yet, subscribed, please, please do so. It’s a collection of some of St. Louis’ best writers musing on art, culture, life, following a specific theme for each of its quarterly issues. This issue’s topic is Foreign Exchange and, as if the print edition didn’t offer up enough solid reading, there’s additional content on the website.
It is a labor of love — and, yes, sometimes frustration — for its dedicated editors, Thomas Crone, Stefene Russell and Andrea Avery and I really want to believe, despite history’s suggestion otherwise, that St. Louis readers can and will support this kind of effort. Phew. I’ve said my piece. For now…and I’m not even IN the current issue. Wait until I get on my soap box for an issue I’m in!
Anyhoo, because we were linking Free Candy to 52nd City, we went with a theme that honored St. Louis writers. Thus, instead of a guest band to play “I Want Candy,” our theme song, we had Thomas do a dramatic reading of the lyrics. And I must say it was one of those moments when I wished dearly we were not non-broadcast, non-recorded, because it was a funny as hell performance I’d love to toss up on You Tube and watch again and again.
In keeping with our writer’s theme, our guests were Debbie Baldwin of The Ladue News and legendary St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist Bill MacClellan, who’s been musing on behalf of the everyman for three decades now. Debbie was a guest on one of our very first installments of Free Candy and she was just a blast again. Having MacClellan on our show as a real “get.” I don’t think he knew quite what to make of us but he was a terrific sport and good fun. He’s a real throwback to the day of the old write-hard, play-hard school of journos, a dying breed, and there’s great comfort to know that a few of these metro columnists are surviving as newspapers “retool” for new readership.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog posting about St. Louis… In addition to visiting old haunts, I also checked out a few new spots. I had tea with Amanda at the London Tea Room on Washington Avenue. Lovely space with tons of tea options and, important for ex-pats like myself, a solid selection of British sweets and foods also for sale.
I also met the aforementioned TC for breakfast on Martin Luther King Day at Rooster, a new spot on Locust. It’s a nice place, decorated with a mish-mosh of deco light fixtures and ancient mirrors on the walls. They’re known for their crepes, but TC and I both opted for egg sandwiches, which were big as our heads (well, my head, maybe not Thomas’) and absolutely delish. Mmmm. In fact, writing this, now I really want one.
We stayed at the Ballpark Hilton again (thank you, Priceline!) and I’ll tell you, downtown St. Louis was crazy-deserted. I felt like I was starring in I Am Julia Legend. Granted, it was a holiday weekend, but there’s that odd combo of stunning architecture, empty streets and signs everywhere for new loft developments that all kind of baffles me.
So we headed to the Loop where, apparently, we had missed some sort of ice sculpture event. Thus, there were a few sad almost-melted statues in front of shops, but also a gigantic pile of ice next to Blueberry Hill, just waiting for some skate punk to jump on, break his or her neck and sue the pants off the city of University City. It didn’t happen while we were watching, but the ruffians were circling and danger seemed imminent.
Speaking of Blueberry Hill, it has a new flashy sign up over its door. Or, at least, it’s new to us. It features a nice, white retro couple dancing above a marquee that now flashes upcoming acts on the LED screen. It all seems a little Hollywood for the venue, but what do I know? Maybe Joe Edwards got a buy-one-get-one offer on flashy LED screens when he put up the one at The Pageant.
All in all, a very good trip. Never long enough to see all the people I love, for as much time as I’d like. I leave you with one last shot, the Vintage Vinyl tribute to MLK. I’m many days late and more than a few dollars short, but honor his dream, people. Word.
February 1st, 2008
Partly because I had a certain song by The Weepies going through my head, I picked stars as my photo theme for Saugatuck so I could play with my camera settings like a gal with purpose. Given the season, it wasn’t that much of a challenge.
November 30th, 2007
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