Posts filed under 'Travelin''
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
For the past several years, I have been absent much holiday spirit. Since we spend Christmas at my sister’s house in Indianapolis, I stopped putting up a tree years ago — so much hassle and hardly worth it if we weren’t going to be around to enjoy it. My mom died a couple of months before Christmas in 2003 and although we went through the motions, needless to say, spirit and buoyant hearts were in short order. For the past few years, with the Fellowship and moving to Michigan, etc., there just wasn’t “time” to feel the joy.
But I decided that this year would be different. Tucked into bed a few weeks ago, I read the holiday issue of Midwest Living and felt a little stirring inside looking at all the old-fashioned decorations and holiday lights — and I decided that this year, come hell or high water, I would try to get into the swing of the holidays. And in that very issue of Midwest Living was a spread about Saugatuck, Michigan — a tiny town on the state’s west coast — all lit up for the holidays. The article noted the town’s Sparkle ceremony, which lights up the town square and Chris and I decided we’d do a post-Thanksgiving getaway to Saugatuck, ripe with cheese, and try to force a little small town holiday spirit down our throats.
It should be noted that most people flock to Saugatuck in the summer, when its rep as a first-class Lake Michigan beach town means lodging rates are double and the square-grid streets of the small downtown are packed with weekend holiday-ers from Michigan, Illinois and Indiana. So when we told people that we were going to Saugatuck the weekend after Thanksgiving, the most common response was, “Why?”
Besides the aforementioned quest for a little good cheer, Chris’ work schedule is relentless and it’s rare to get him away from his desk — and focus his brain on something else — for a little while. It requires at least 48 hours away — the first 24 to unplug, the second 24 to enjoy. Saugatuck, at a 2-1/2 hour drive from Ann Arbor, seemed a quick and smart way to do that.
We looked originally at staying at the Wickwood Inn, which is run by the Silver Palate Cookbook’s co-author Julie Rosso, and is considered one of the best B&B’s in the country. The Midwest Living spread showed its decadent holiday decorations. But even off-season, the prices were far too decadent for us. After having some trouble finding a cheesy B&B with Friday and Saturday night vacancy, we opted for the rather modern Bella Vita Spa & Suites. It turned out to be a pretty good choice, especially when you can pad across the hall in your robe and get a cranberry facial or a couples massage.
We took great pains to arrive in plenty of time for Friday night’s Sparkle ceremony, even though both cats got quite sick and we spent Thanksgiving night at the pet ER with Allie, who spiked a 106 degree fever due to some still-undetermined infection. (Fortunately, our pet sitter is also our vet tech, so when Allie’s fever was done by early afternoon Friday, we were okay to go.) Upon arrival, we bundled up to protect against the chill and walked the few blocks to Wick’s Park where the ceremony is held. The town was playing its part perfectly — all lit up beautifully, with luminarias lining the pavement, giant snowflake lights dangling from all the trees, their trunks wrapped in strings of white lights.
There were about two hundred people, mainly families, huddled together around a gazebo when we arrived, being entertained by an ambitious but largely inaudible town choir. Within moments, a spunky, gum-chawing young woman took over as master of ceremonies, but without benefit of a microphone. All we heard was something about God and the troops. (Those of you who are familiar with the Gilmore Girls will appreciate that we were feeling distinctly as thought we were in Stars Hollow.)
The organizers stalled for a while, as we were waiting for the fashionably-late Santa to flip the switch on the square. At least that’s what I think we were waiting for. It was hard to hear. Then, sure enough, Santa arrives…via police escort. That’s right, a squad car complete with flashing lights and sirens comes dashing down the street to drop off Santa. That should scar a few kids for life. Not to mention confuse them greatly, as they dash out in front of cop cars racing to the scene of a crime, yelling, “Santa!”
And then it happened. In one ill-timed fell-swoop, with the freezing crowd counting down (badly, I might add) from ten, Santa flipped the switch and…voila! Exactly four trees lit up. Yes, four. THAT was it. THAT was Saugatuck’s Sparkle. More of a flicker, really. Sigh. So much for magic and beauty. So much for holiday sensations. We hoofed it out of there, bracing against the stiff breeze that came in off the harbor, squeezed into one of the packed downtown restaurants for dinner and were in bed, lights out and seconds from sleep by 9 pm.
We spend Saturday and part of Sunday wandering around the town, me snapping a jillion photos along the way. It was peaceful, silly and fun. Here’s what I saw:
A cheeky sculpture by the town hall.
Families shopping, bundled against the cold.
A beautiful wagon wheel on the side of a building.
A hot cup of blood orange infusion tea, which smelled and tasted like heaven.
The harbor, with an old steam ship on the far shore.
A wonderful little shop called the Olive Mill, where we tasted a zillion balsamic vinegars — fig, black currant, apple — and olive oils before walking away with a bottle of gorgeous organic olive oil and a decadent tangerine balsamic.
And lots and lots of holiday spirit:
Before we left Sunday, we took a quick drive over the bridge to neighboring town Douglas to get a look at Oval Beach on Lake Michigan, where Chris, a seagull and I tried to stave off the freezing wind:
And, where, just for good measure, a giant billboard in the middle of a residential street reminded us of the real meaning of the holiday season:
November 28th, 2007
We’ve been in Washington, DC since Friday, visiting family and friends, a trip built around yesterday’s Marine Corps Marathon which I ran in record time. Wait. No, I didn’t. Chris and his brother-in-law Mike ran it. That’s right.
Having accompanied my spouse on more than a handful of his 22 total marathons, I can say that this one — from a crowd perspective — was a doozy. I thought I’d been with Chris for the DC run before, but it turns out I was thinking of the time he and Mike ran Chicago together. This one was super-insane, people. There were 22,000 runners and the set up, which I’m told is different from previous years was, if you’ll excuse my French, a total clusterfuck.
The job of a marathon supporter is not an easy one, my friends. It involves dashing around from one point to another, elbowing your way through spectators in the hopes of catching a glimpse of your runner as they dash past, perhaps tossing a gatorade or goo packet at them if they need it. Then it’s off to do the same at the next spot along the course.
Yesterday, it was Chris’s sister (and Mike’s wife) Julie, my niece Kate and I dashing to spots at miles 13, 15, 22 (which we ultimately abandoned) and the finishing line. In some places, the crowds were really pushing in narrowly on the runners, in others, we were so far back, it was hard to see anything, let alone let your loved one know you were there. At the finish line, the set up was so wonky and weird that it took trekking hither and yon on mud-soaked ground to figure out how to spot your runners, then another long trek to meet them at the gathering spot.
And there were all these people. People in the Metro stop, where there was a delay and folk were shoving and pushing and packed into the train cars like sardines — which little ol’ claustrophic me just loved. Everywhere you went, you had somebody either crossing your path in the opposite direction or simply standing still in the middle of traffic. As someone with a well-documented hatred of crowds, it was a treat.
What’s that? The runners? Oh, sure. I bet it was a bit tough on them too. On the plus side, they had a glorious day for it. Mike and Chris finished, ignoring any time goals for the mere thrill of crossing the line. I haven’t seen Mike yet today as he was off to work before I arose, but Chris seems in remarkably good shape for a man who did something as silly as run 26.2 miles, on purpose, again. I promise some pics once I get back home and can upload them.
On a side note, we got to dine Saturday night with our good friends from the fellowship, Drew and Sally. It was great to have them meet Mike and Julie, as they live in neighboring areas and have friends in common, and wonderful to see their faces — but not nearly enough time for catching up.
In other important news, I have experienced the bliss that is the combo of vanilla frozen custard topped with sour cherries from the Dairy Godmother here in Alexandria and I may have tasted heaven.
Also, my nephew Lee, who’s 17, read The Catcher in the Rye yesterday afternoon and thinks it’s boring. I have a theory that the “novelty” of Holden Caulfield’s teen angst, which made the book remarkable at the time of its publishing, is so commonplace to a generation weened on teen-angst dramas like The O.C. and The Hills that the book probably does seem boring. Still, he’s promised to read it again in a few years and see if his opinion has changed.
That’s it for now — we’re off to take the metro into town to have lunch with my ol’ pal Lisa Lindsey, who I haven’t seen in an age and a half. Then we’ll wander around a bit and, if I’m lucky, I’ll get some good shots of DC. Lord knows there haven’t been enough pics taken of this town. Not sure how much time we have to kill today, but if there’s enough, I’ll hit the National Gallery of Art, but I might wait until tomorrow when Chris will be perusing papers in the SEC reading room all day. Boy does that kid know how to have fun!
October 29th, 2007
Okay, so truthfully we’ve been back for a few days but since it takes me forever to recover from jet lag, this is the first day I actually feel like I’m back.
It’s a bit of a surprise to me — and maybe a relief to some readers — that I didn’t chronicle this trip with a detailed account of our travels. Life’s a little different when traveling with an eight-year-old; there just isn’t a lot of extra time to sit around documenting everything.
That said, I was also blown away by the experience of traveling with my niece Rebecca. As people of the non-parental-variety, Chris and I had some expectations about the week. Considering we’d be logging in long travel hours and sticking her in front of a bunch of grown-ups she didn’t know (and probably couldn’t understand), we were prepared for at least one or two meltdowns along the way. It seemed reasonable that Rebecca would feel homesick and bored and we’d have to mitigate the circumstances.
The truth is, Rebecca was a dream travel companion. I’d gladly take her anywhere. She complained far less than I did about traveling for 17 hours on little or no sleep, gladly rolled with the punches, got along swimmingly with all the grown ups and marveled at every new thing she experienced — whether it was the seemingly minor thrill of riding in the top of a double decker bus or the major experience of Edinburgh Castle.
But besides all that, she was a hell of a lot of fun to be around. It’s an amazing experience when this little thing you’ve known since day one grows into a very cool human being with a terrific sense of humor, a sharp mind and a great perspective on things. I truly enjoyed her company and I don’t think the trip could have gone better.
In fact, there was only one set of tears the entire time (okay, two, if you count my accidentally shutting her finger in the airplane bathroom door), and that was on the last night after she said goodbye to her great grandma and her great uncle. “I always knew I had them,” she said, through sniffles. “I just didn’t know how much I would love them until I met them.” I KNOW! Almost too Hallmark, but true. I had to promise her that I would bring her back to see them again sometime.
So while I don’t have lengthy descriptions of everything we did, here’s a quick glance at our short stay in Scotland:
Meeting Elvis and other wildlife at the Kelvingrove Galleries.
When stuffed animals attack!
Grandma Pringle, Rebecca and Uncle Douglas.
Shopping on bustling Buchanan Street in Glasgow.
Lunch at the Charles Rennie Mackintosh designed Willow Tea Rooms.
A truly magnificent day in in Edinburgh, where Rebecca was romanced by a knight.
Chris and Rebecca at Edinburgh Castle.
Requisite Glasgow dining: chips wrapped in paper and doused with lots and lots of vinegar.
The Glasgow Science Center, with yet ANOTHER new boyfriend.
And a jaunt across the river to check out The Tall Ship.
And a last-night early birthday dinner with Granny P. and Douglas at our little flat.
It all went by way too fast. (Gluttons for punishment can find tons more photos on my Flickr set page.)
October 5th, 2007
This always happens. I scribble notes here and there, but then I get back from a trip and get caught up in catching up and then it’s forever since I was in whatever place I was in and it all seems too daunting (plus, minimally interesting) to go back and give a blow by blow account of said trip, which now seems so far in the past.
Thus, I present to you some highlights of the remainder of our trip to Montreal, in photo form. (I also went back and added some photos to the previous Montreal entries, for posterity.)
Saturday was possibly my favorite day in Montreal, as we hit the famed Jean-Talon Marche, an outdoor farmer’s market near Little Italy that runs week-long but hits its stride on the weekends. Especially on a crisp, sunny Saturday morning.
The abundance of fruits (or, as the French say, fruits) was amazing, especially the giant baskets of “bleuets.” Chris especially loved the signs for “bleuets sauvages” from Quebec. While it actually means “wild bleuberries,” I’d guess he had a more violent mental image going.
Our favorite part was that many of the stands offered up generous samples of their various produce, so we lined our tummies with bites of juicy peaches, pears, apple, mango and chunks of (thoughtfully) lightly salted tomatoes. We also tried some fresh figs (below), which have a strange, watery sweetness something like the consistency of watermelon. Not quite what I was expecting.
Other beautiful images included aubergine (eggplant) in every gorgeous shade of purple imaginable, from the palest lavender to the deepest, well, eggplant:
Giant clusters of garlic still on the stalk:
Baskets spilling over with ripe tomatoes:
And Chris was in heaven when we found a vendor selling fresh cooked cobs of “maize sucre,” complete with a pot of butter you could paint on with a brush and a sprinkling of salt. I don’t know if it was the fact that we were outdoors on a gorgeous day and surrounded by all the most amazing colors of nature but it was, without question, the best corn I’ve ever eaten. (Chris said it came close to rivaling fresh corn picked from the Iowa fields of his homeland, which is a pretty high compliment.)
We had what was probably our best meal in Montreal at the market. We picked up a baguette, some local goats cheese (flavored with garlic and olive oil), a little tub of stuffed olives and some organic cherry tomatoes and squeezed into a picnic bench in the crowded eating area for an impromptu picnic. It’s something we’ve done on several trips — picked up a few locally made goods for a simple lunch and it always winds up being one of our favorite memories.
It turned out that in addition to walking too far the day before, I’d also pulled or twisted something strange in my left foot — badly enough that, the night before, it had been excruciatingly painful to hobble to the bathroom and I barely made it down the block to dinner without tears. On Saturday, my foot was feeling a little better but I made a real strategic error in wandering for too long around the market before heading out on what I had thought would be the main attraction of my entire trip to Montreal: the fabric shopping district on St. Hubert.
Here in Ann Arbor, there are a few fabric and craft stores and my new sewing jones has me familiar with a couple of great online retailers, but I’d read much about the dozens of fabric shops located just North of a busy pedestrian thoroughfare. I even made room in a suitcase for all the fabric I anticipated finding and bringing back.
However, it turned out that the combo of foot pain and sheer volume of options — shop after shop with bolt after bolt of fabric to choose from — had me quickly overwhelmed. I didn’t have any particular projects in mind and I quickly got the same feeling I get at thrift stores — a little bit of claustrophobia and instant exhaustion at the thought of having to pick my way through so many bolts, squeeze my way down tiny aisles, in the hopes I might find something I liked.
I spent maybe 45 minutes going into four or five different shops, but at that point the fabric were all blurring together. I couldn’t remember what I’d seen where or even think of what I would use the fabric for. There were too many possibilities and not enough specifics. Bargain sections held remnant bolts stacked floor to ceiling. I couldn’t handle it.
In the end, I bought…nothing. Well, I did pick up a little ribbon trim at one shop, mostly because it was pretty and it seemed like a small and easy, manageable purchase. But all that extra suitcase room was for naught. If I return, it’ll definitely be with some projects in mind and at the beginning of the day.
Overwhelmed and ready for a refreshment, we ducked into a Nickels restaurant on St. Hubert. Nickels is a pretty cheesy local chain designed in a fifties-American-throwback sort of way. And it was here we decided to try one of the great Montreal culinary traditions: poutine. Although there are many fancy variations, the basic gist to this beloved snack/meal involves french fries covered in cheese curds and gravy. No, really.
Granted, in its most basic form, it looks like a plate of vomit. It took a little getting used to — it helped when the cheese curds melted — but the truth is, the taste grows on you. Enough that we polished our poutine plate clean. Not so much that we went actively seeking more.
Sunday, my feet feeling a bit better, we spent some more time on Rue St. Denis, which offers up block after block of boutiques, cafes and restaurants. The weather couldn’t have been more lovely and there are plenty of gorgeous buildings — mostly commercial on the ground floor and flat up above — to gaze at. To wit:
Reminded me a bit of Amsterdam in some ways…
You can spend hours ducking into one little shop or another but — from an aesthetic standpoint — Au Festin de Babette is perhaps my favorite. It’s a tea house, chocolatier and ice cream shop that’s just so charmingly set up in what was likely once a residential house.
And inside…so pretty, no?
Monday, we drove out into the Laurentian mountains, which takes about an hour from Montreal. It’s not as rustic as we’d hoped. A lot of ski resorts and golfing developments breaking up walls of stick-straight pines reaching skyward. We stopped for lunch in the charming little town of Tremblant and wandered its few blocks of touristy shops, then headed for Lake Tremblant, which was completely developed and difficult to access if you weren’t staying at one of the resorts on its shores.
And Tuesday, we headed home. End of trip. (If you’re a real glutton for punishment, there are a few more photos from our trip on my Flickr page.) I have to say that, while I enjoyed our trip to Montreal — and probably would have moreso if my foot hadn’t gone all wonky — it wasn’t one of those places that grabbed me (the way San Francisco or London or, even, Puerto Rico have) and made me long to return even after I’d left. I’m glad I went, though, and who knows — maybe Montreal and I will meet again and maybe next time, she’ll understand what I’m saying.
September 8th, 2007
Inside Cafeo, our favorite cafe-et-wifi stop on Rue St. Denis.
Phew. Milling among the trendies on Ste. Catherine and Rue St. Denis had me a bit worried, but they DO have fatties here. Repeat: there are chunky folk in Montreal. Of course, they may all be American tourists, but still. It brings one some degree of comfort.
The kids have some crazy fashions rolling here. I feel qualified to judge not because I have a natural flair for fashion but because I have absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever. You could put me in an $8,000 designer gown and within minutes I’d somehow look like I tumbled out of the drier. My hair would be bendy, my skirt wrinkled. My purse wouldn’t match and it’d be less than five minutes before I spilled something down the front. Thus, I feel that I’m particularly well-qualified to recognize fellow fashion disasters when I see them. And there have been many. I have no pictures to show you because I don’t want people to hit me. You’ll just have to trust me.
Non sequiter: Chris thinks there should be a midnight half-price tart shop where all the pies at day’s end go on sale. He’s worried about all the pastries going to waste when they could be in his belly, preferably at rock-bottom prices. (He really, really likes saying “tarte tatin” over and over again in a French accent.)
Guess which one’s old and which is new? Hint: the old one is Christ Church Cathedral on Ste. Catherine.
Okay…where am I? Where have I been? Ah, yes, Montreal. So…if you happen to like gorgeous old buildings, then Montreal’s the place for you. I do indeed, and there are some stunners — particularly from the Victorian era — just about everywhere you look.
Today we played touristes and checked out Vieux Montreal, the Old Port area down by the, well, port. It’s pretty touristy fare. We started out from our hotel on Rue Sherbrooke, headed back down Ste. Catherine to St. Laurent which took us, essentially, right into the heart of Old Montreal. Along the way, we passed from high street shopping to a slightly seedy few blocks of sex shops through the gates of Chinatown (or Quartier Chinois, as they say here.)
The weather has been unbelievably gorgeous, perfect for strolling the lovely cobblestone streets of Vieux Montreal, dodging schlocky gift shops and overpriced restaurants aimed at tourists.
We grabbed a bite to eat then wandered to the main square, at the top of which the stunning old Hotel de Ville sits.
Chris had to dash off for a business meeting, but I stuck around and wandered down by the waterfront, snapping a few shots along the way.
The Old Port waterfront area (more familiar to Blades of Glory fans when completely covered in ice):
Place Jacques-Cartiers, the heart of Vieux-Montreal, complete with wacky street performers and tons of tourists buying overpriced schlock.
This street performer, apparently out to lunch. Tragic for all those needing hugged. In two languages, no less!
The rather daunting silhouette of Notre Dame de Bonsecours, overlooking the waterfront:
The famed Bonsecours Marche where, I suppose, one can buy stuff:
Then I headed through the less-trafficked streets west of Old Montreal’s main square and gazed in the windows of art galleries. Were it not for the cars, there are moments when you could feel completely lost in time. After a while, I wound my way back in the general direction of our hotel, past the mini-Parthenon exterior of the former stock exchange (now a theater), and emerging at the Plaza des Armes and the Notre Dame cathedral. You can’t spit without hitting a fantastic cathedral here. And you probably shouldn’t be spitting anyway, what with Americans’ bad image over here.
My very favorite way to experience a new place is to wander around the streets, watching people and taking photographs. Montreal’s the ideal place for it — it’s relatively safe and somewhat compact, plus there’s something truly lovely to look at at every turn, whether it’s an old church or a Victorian building now housing boutiques or studio flats. And unlike many American cities, there are people everywhere, going about their business, but also just sitting and enjoying their environs. Outside one of the churches, people spent their lunch hour sitting on the steps or curled up in a corner reading. Locals grab a coffee and hang out on street benches, chatting or reading the paper. Montreal is a city that feels cared for, belonged to.
I’d been debating trying to find my way around the other Montreal, the underground city. Below the streets of Montreal, a series of tunnels connect Metro stations and shopping centers — in the harsh days of winter, you can access miles of commerce and much of downtown without ever stepping outside. I knew it was down there. I knew it was massive. I just didn’t know how to get to it.
Place des Artes
So I stayed above ground and made my way back to the Place des Artes, where the Montreal Film Festival is taking place. Like a local, I took a place on the steps outside the Contemporary Art Museum and just hung out for a bit. Then, of all things, my phone rang. It was Chris, calling from a payphone to say that his meeting had been canceled and so he was hoping to catch me somewhere in town. Turned out he was right across the street. Too cute, eh?
Okay, so on with the show…even though my feet were killing me (I ALWAYS walk too far the first day), we decided to brave the underworld. Man, is that a trip. There were a ton of people snaking their way through the netherworld of Montreal, moving from mall to mall, Metro station to Metro station, eating at giant underground food courts. Now it makes sense how Montreal’s sidewalks are pleasantly busy but not overcrowded. The unruly youth are underground eating frites!
Perhaps tomorrow we shall discover something equally new and fascinating. If my feet don’t hurt too much to move, that is!
August 31st, 2007
Chris found the place on Craig’s List. We’re savvy travelers, not lodging rubes. It sounded lovely: an apartment in a trendy neighborhood of Montreal, owned and decorated by an interior designer, filled with antiques, cozy, close to shops, and with a clawfoot tub. And, of course, wireless internet. Chris, as you may know, cannot work without reliable internet access. (He may not, in fact, be able to breathe without it, although it’s a theory we’ve never tested.) There were photos; nice pictures. It all sounded so much better than an impersonal Price-Line’d hotel.
You know where this tale is going. You know that when we arrived, the neighborhood didn’t seem particularly lively and was considerably further from shopping than we’d anticipated. The place didn’t exactly ooze charm from the outside but, still, we’d been up since six, we were thrilled to have arrived in Montreal. And then we went inside.
You know how there are times when you should just trust your first instinct…but then you get worried that maybe you’re being too fussy, too judgmental. An ingrate. An…American. We looked around. The antiques mentioned turned out to be a mish mosh of mid-century furniture in passable condition. The kitchen was…fine. The towels were a mismatched pile. The living room was dingy, with a couch that couldn’t remember when it saw better days.
The area as being perfect for doing business was an old desk with a ripped leather desk chair. However, the wireless internet signal was weak, so the owner suggested we sit on the bed in the front bedroom with the laptop by the window in order to use our computers.
I can’t explain it. We were trying to be optimistic. Trying to be grateful. Trying to make the best… The owner was odd and hovering, so we felt his expectations and didn’t have a chance to discuss it. So we handed over the balance of the money we owed — in cash — and decided to stay.
For about five minutes.
Then we changed our minds. It was all just too odd, too weird. Neither of us could get a decent internet connection. I had hoped for somewhere simple but maybe bright and sunny where I could read and write while Chris was dashing around investigating…whatever he investigates. I couldn’t even sit on the couch here without worrying about its previous occupants. There were orphaned hairs in the bathtub.
So we went upstairs and told the owner that we weren’t going to stay. It wasn’t what we expected, it wasn’t what was advertised. He was welcome to keep the deposit — that seemed fair — but we wanted the bulk of our money back. No dice. He wasn’t having it. We were putting him in a position, leaving him hanging. He seemed not to agree with my argument that this was the cost of doing business for him, the risk he takes on — no different than my risk as a freelancer when a client decides not to use the work I’ve done.
It got ugly. Not fisticuffs ugly, but verrrrry uncomfortable ugly. He’d give us our money IF he could find someone to stay there instead of us.
Uh, no. We were the consumers. We were unhappy and we wanted our money back.
He couldn’t give it to us. It wasn’t fair. Besides, he’d have to talk to his wife first.
Fine, we’d wait while he called her.
He couldn’t call her at work. She wasn’t reachable by phone. We were being unreasonable and refusing to work with him — he had a wireless range booster he could offer us.
The lack of reliable internet access was only one problem. He could have the deposit, but we had the right to our money back.
Why should we get our money back? That wasn’t fair to him. He would lose money on our booking.
It’s our right. As consumers. (Perhaps we were making it up at this point, but it SOUNDED reasonable to us.) Unless he had a cancellation policy that stated otherwise, he was welcome only to our deposit. But he had absolutely nothing in writing; a cash-only operation with no paperwork.
Could we show him paperwork that stated we DID have the right to our money back?
And then I said it. I thought about it first and decided if I was going to say it, I’d better mean it. I’d better be willing to follow through. I was. I said: “If you don’t give us our money back immediately, my next call will be to the police and we’ll let them settle the matter.”
He disappeared for a moment behind the open door. I heard him mumbling quietly to someone. His dog? His wife? He was gone for a few long minutes. I worried that he was loading his gun and would return to shoot us and THEN would it have been worth it, Miss Smarty Pants? Then I remembered we were in Canada. There are no guns. He was probably just off getting some socialized medicine or thinking in French.
He returned. We got our money back. We went off in search of a wi-fi cafe and a Priceline hotel. Montreal, you are kicking my ass so far. I hope we get along better tomorrow.
August 30th, 2007
From my sickbed, where a million tiny daggers stab my lungs every time I cough, I bring you some pics of a gentler time, not so long ago from our vacation on Bald Head Island. We spent four days there with the Carey clan. It’s a crazy little place, a sort of manufactured version of someone’s utopia, a little island accessible only by ferry. No cars are allowed on the island so everyone motors around on golf carts.
The pic at top was taken from the balcony of the house in which we stayed, which was only a few hundred yards from the beach. A quick jaunt down the zig-zag boardwalk and there you have it.
The island feels a bit like a giant subdivision in the sense that all the houses sort of look the same — different shades of grey and tan, porches wrapping around this way and that.
The real attraction of this trip for the Carey clan was getting to fuss over the family’s newest member, my niece Genevieve, who’s 15 months old and took to the ocean like a…well, you know. Fish, water.
The above is not an actual member of the Carey family, although he/she was so amazing we probably would have let him/her in. We spotted this bird from a distance at a nature reserve on the island. I have no idea what it is — heron? crane? — but it stood so still in this pose for so long we thought at first it was a statue. God bless the zoom lens. What a magnificent creature, eh?
Speaking of magnificent creatures, here’s the whole Carey crew, hanging on the beach. We harangued a nice fisherman to take a few snaps for posterity. A few more shots…
The core Careys…Joel, Julie, Mama Jean, Amy and Chris (who was so sick that day, poor thing.)
Mama Jean and her grandkids, Lee, 17, holding Baby G., and Kate, 14. (The older two belong to Chris’s sister Julie and her husband Mike.)
Genevieve agrees to sit still just long enough for a family photo with her parents, Kathleen and Joel.
Amy’s husband (and my fellow Scot), Hamish, holdin’ down the beach.
My brother-in-law Mike (Julie’s husband, Lee & Kate’s dad), relaxin’ in a styling hat borrowed from Baby G.
And if you’re a big fan of Bald Head Island or the Carey clan, or both, you can find even more snaps on my Flickr page. Enjoy!
August 5th, 2007
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