General Globe Trotting Archives - Page 8 of 11

FLYING BACK THROUGH TIME. AND SPACE.

IOWA, VIA OMAHA—Several times, this trip felt like flipping through a book from back, to front. When you start by knowing how it ends. And end at the very beginning when you know nothing at all. I am flying west today. Across the country. And, it feels like, across time.

The captain says &ldquo’Well, it is now 9:30 a.m. here in Chicago. You can set your watches back for Central Standard Time if you like”. I wind mine back one hour. And several years. Before Umbria. Before Maine. There was Chicago. I found myself here in graduate school. Found my wife too. And my first job. Good old Chicago.

Next stop, Omaha. Rent a car and follow the signs to Des Moines. Now the video replay screen on my Mental Time Machine is a blur of yearbook pictures, parties, nervous dates and proms. I see the exit signs for Drake, I slow down but don’t stop. I always think I will. But I haven’t yet. Past Des Moines and rewinding faster now. My life flashing before my eyes in reverse chronological order. Am getting younger in the process? Does this kind of time tripping work like that? I know the answer to that one. But, ahead I see there are signs we’re closing in on Conrad. Where we can go far, far back in time. Conrad, full of pioneer ancestors who settled the town. And left their family names on everyone in town and on rows of granite in the cemetery. I know all their names. I recognize their ever-serious, black and white faces looking back at me from frames on aunts’ and uncles’ mantles and bookshelves. High school memories are bubbling up and drowning out college now. There is Kathy’s driveway. The school bus picked her up there every morning, right after I got on. She lives there still, but I would not know her. Not now. I only know the person she was, then. Our farm. Our mailbox, on its post, two miles from Grandpa Stewart’s farm and his mailbox.

Mom and Dad. Coffee in the kitchen. Something baking in the oven. This is the house I was raised in. I’m all the way back now. I’m home. Is that apple rubarb pie for me?

HOW TO EAT LIKE A STONE

OMAHA— Surely some of the rewind and flashback feeling of the trip stems from one of the reasons for the trip: The Stones. The Rolling Stones are playing in the Midwest. Just like they did in 1967. I did not see them in 1967. But I will fix that oversight in 2006. Can the same stones really have played both those dates here?

A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way. The Italian influences in their huge spread of gourmet food far outweighed the occasional British classics like Shepard’s Pie.

Yes, we were in their inter santo santorum the “Rattlesnake Inn”. Just as a serious hanger on. Not any doing of my own. But tickled nonetheless just to be in their hospitality suite with them. No, we did not get to actually touch, talk or even photo. At a certain point, the tables were pushed back, the Stones handlers rushed them in a for a Grip and Grin Official Photo with their opening act, Brooks&Dunn. And then they rolled those Stones right out of the room and onto the stage. Of course, I had my camera with me! And you know I wanted to take pictures. But, I almost got that trusty Olympus taken away with the one spy photo you see here from the Stones sound check. The venue looked empty except for the Stones on their massive stage. I took one shot, no flash and headset-wearing Men in Black rained down on me, commando style. From the rafters? I do not know where they came from. But they came. They stoically re-explained the subtle meaning hidden in the Absolutely NO Cameras Allowed signs posted around the auditorium. Ok, ok, all right, already. I get it. The passes we had, shown here, really parted the waters. Well, right up to the part about the cameras.

Thank you Brother in Law for breaking me into the epicenter, the very heart of rock and roll!

HAS ANYONE SEEN THE REMOTE? WE HAVE.

Must be there when my roses spread their cheerful springtime yellow all over our pergola and brighten that whole corner of Umbria. For now, we are settling for reading about Italy, cooking Italian, emailing friends and neighbors there and day dreaming of our arrival.

LIMESTONE, Maine— Admit it. To anyone, from anyplace OTHER than Maine, the whole state of Maine itself sounds remote. Being “from away” as they say, I know it sounded pretty remote to me before we moved there. But there is Maine, where we live, and then there is Northern Maine. That is where Limestone is. How far North IS it? Seven hours by car from our house in the sissy Southern part of the state. Limestone looks to me to be North of most things. Including Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Montreal just for a start. Past towns with names like Mars Hill and Caribou. The radio announces time of day in EST and Atlantic Time. There IS an Atlantic Time Zone? I did not know that.

So, if anyone asks you how big Maine is just say BIG. That stretch of road up north in Maine that has never ever seen the light of day, from Bangor (bang gah) to Houlton is two hours of the forest primeval. Trees. A four-lane highway at the end of your car hood. And you. Occasionally there are signs for obscure towns that you could possibly exit to, but no sign of the towns themselves. And today the road itself is a long lonesome ribbon of wind blown, snow covered concrete. Needless to say, you need to “go” before you leave home. There really aren’t even any gas stations in sight there. Surely they exist. Somewhere. Out there.

Understanding this cosmic remoteness full well, and being pummeled with tractor trailer blown white outs every few minutes, we gratefully pulled our snow caked car out of the slippery line of traffic and into an oasis of Offical State of Maine Information. We thought we would ask them where to eat before hitting the next stretch of highway. Dysart’s Truck Stop was their answer. Dysart’s Empire would be more apt. But they did not steer us wrong.

Biggest truck stop I’ve been in this side of Great Plains. An industry unto itself. Whole sections of the restaurant dedicated to only truckers. Do not even think of going in there without a billfold on a long silver chain attached to your belt. Banks of phones (cell phones systems start starving for lack of towers, inhabitants up here) showers and signs exhorting you to consider a career in transportation See Chuckie on Second Floor, Excellent Benefits.

You know how I was bragging on the exotic new Japanese restaurant in London? Dysart’s can hold its own even against those fond culinary memories. The chowder (chow dah), fish chowder was a god send in the midst of this wild Maine day. Pieces of haddock as big as your hand were in our big bowls. We were cutting our soup! True fact. The most all inclusive and diverse menu I have ever seen. Whatever you wanted. Steaks, pies, Italian food, breakfast any way any time. What did you wish they had on the menu? Yes, look, its right here on the next page. And biscuits? Only to die for. Home made breads, too. All home made, home baked, comfort food. Some place on the menu they mentioned the bakery and spelled out how much flour they use a week. Want to guess how much? Would you guess over a ton? As in two thousand pounds in a week’s time?

THE LAND THAT CAPPUCCINO FORGOT

I was being a boring esthete when I pointed our car North. Thinking fondly of places we had been recently like Italy, like NYC, like London. Even Southern Maine. Outposts of civilization where you know where your next cappuccino is coming from. And that is one thing I suspect may not be coming to this menu any time soon. But I will tell you I was mighty glad to be there for an hour during the blizzard. It helped pass the time and steel us for the next five hours of road trip to The Forbidding North. And eventually we got to see our baby daughter in the play she was in at The Boarding School At The Top of the World. And, for a couple hours, we got to be the proud parents that we happily are. Grayson went to high school in London for her Freshman year and now here she is at The Maine School of Science and Mathematics, Maine’s only magnet school. A study in diversity in one child. She’s experienced a wide, wide range of education and geography. And why not? It is lovely and exciting in London, but it is grand up in the tippytop of Maine. Even in Winter. Beautiful, vast, wide-open, unpopulated spaces up there, and we are always happy to see her happy there. But we are pretty happy to be heading to the balmy south of Maine the next day, too.

OH. THAT’S WHERE ROGER’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS WENT

Seven hours one way or not, we went up to the top of Maine one day, and right back down the very next. The trip back was much nicer. And sunny. And thirty degrees warmer. When we got back to southern Maine, we had to dig our way into our house as it had snowed over a foot while we were gone. And, unbeknownst to us, as soon as we had headed North, FedEx had dropped two Christmas orders out on the lawn by our back door. They did that just before it started to snow. Two, small, white cartons. Which we found poking up out of a snow bank. A few days after Christmas. Life in Maine.

NEXT STOP, WEST TO OMAHA. AND THEN, EAST TO ITALY.

Like a Rolling Stone. That would be us. We’re going all the way West to the Qwest Center in Omaha to see two legends together: . The Rolling Stones and Brooks & Dunn. I can rationalize this trip West like this: Rationalization No.1) It is near my family in Iowa. Rationalization No.2) It will be a big time, once in a lifetime, party time!

And then, when both the holidays, and this concert, are behind us, we can start pinning down our exact springtime trip back to Umbria. Finally! Must be there when my roses spread their cheerful springtime yellow all over our pergola and brighten that whole corner of Umbria. For now, we are settling for reading about Italy, cooking Italian, emailing friends and neighbors there and day dreaming of our arrival.

Day dreaming, and wondering: Is our home there missing us as much as we miss it? Has time stood still? Has life there in Umbria been on “Pause” vs “Play” while we have been gone? We know better. But irrational flights of fancy often get us through the day.

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THE WHERE THE HECK ARE WE TRAVEL QUIZ. London? Or Limestone, Maine? These pictures were taken the same week in those two exotic locations. Can you parse out which ones are which?

Stay tuned for the next blog featuring Ferraris in the Panicale Piazza. What a collection of classics. Che shock, che piacere.

London to Limestone Express?

Being the shallow, easily impressed outoftowners, that we have proven ourselves to be, I loved seeing a RED Rolls Royce (no, I did not know they painted them that color, either) parked right under our windows. Rolls or not, we felt Positively Royal the whole time we were there.

LONDON, England—No, London-Limestone is never going to replace Venice-Istanbul on the Orient Express. But there these two very different destinations were in the same week on our travel calendar recently. What a long, strange trip through time and space it was. The contrasts were just so extreme and so obvious because we visited them back to back. In a few day’s time we saw one daughter at the center of the universe — balmy, temperate, downtown London. And a couple days later we saw the other daughter at one of the universe’s furthest flung and most likely to be frozen solid outposts — Limestone, Maine. Where? Limestone, Maine. No, really. Yes, really. Even though we live in Maine, Limestone, Maine is seven hours north of us. Could anything sound more remote? Or actually be?

CROSS CONTINENTAL DAY TRIPPING

LONDON—Have you ever taken the flight over the pond during the day? This works swell for my body clock. We leave Boston at 8 am. And hit London at 7 pm. Versus the killer overnight where we arrive at 5 or 6 am, hours before your hotel is ready for you. On a normal, “work day” in Maine we would be leaving our office at five pm. On this travel day, at that same time of day, it was 10 pm in London’s East End, and we were in an orange and black striped Indy club (The Urban Bar) trying to talk over impossibly loud music. Wiley’s boyfriend Daniel is the bass player in a rock band, and we wanted to see and hear his gig. Hearing it was not a problem at all. Hearing anything afterwards, another subject entirely. So. There we were. Fresh as Daisies because our bodies said Heck, it’s Five in the Afternoon. Let’s Rock.

WILL WE LIKE THE SUBURBS OF LONDON?
WELL, I THINK HAROLD WOOD.

Daniel’s family has a new home in the far outskirts of London in a town called Harold Wood. And we wanted to experience a bit of that, too. They found us a place near them called, bizarrely enough to me, New World Hotel.
And here I thought England was part of the Old World. No Matter. It was the quintessential Tudor manse drowning in Charm and Class. It even had a formal “Italian Garden,” and our huge, huge antique-laden room had organic-themed, Art Nouveau styled, leaded glass windows, looking right out on the garden. In answer to your unasked question – because you are way too polite to ask, really – it was 89 GBP “pounds” a night. I’ve paid twice that in downtown London and gotten rooms smaller than this room’s marble clad bathroom. Being the shallow, easily impressed outoftowners, that we have proven ourselves to be, I loved seeing a RED Rolls Royce (no, I did not know they painted them that color, either) parked right under our windows. Rolls or not, we felt Positively Royal the whole time we were there. Che shock. I know it was way off-season, but even so, the price seemed incredibly fair, the people so nice, we did not want the magic moments to end. We really wished we could spend an other night. I checked with the front desk. Our room was available. So we grabbed the moment and stayed.

SPOTTED DICK AND KING HAROLD

The town of Harold Wood is pretty. And, pretty idyllic. Especially when you consider that it is part of one of the major cities of the world. It is clearly urban. But urbane as well. To get to Daniel’s house you get off the train right in the town center. Walk down the main street and you almost feel like you are on a country lane. A couple cars, a taxi, a horse and rider, two bicyclers constituted the traffic on our first walk through town. In the block long village center we couldn’t help notice the strangely named Laughter and Tears Flower Shoppe (weddings and funerals, you figure out which is laughter which is tears, I suppose) an Asian take-out called Bamboo Garden, a great Indian restaurant which we sampled and loved: Bombay Palace, and a great “local” King Harold pub that looks right out of the movies stucco’ed with many chimneys and gilded signs. Spotted Dick by the way, is one of those classic, bizarrely named desserts you should be able to get in any good British pub. We Puritan Americans would call this dish something wild like Raisin Cake with Creme Sauce. All this wonderful English-ness is to be found in the single block of Harold Wood outside the train station. A half a block further on is their house. At the other end of the rail line, all of London.

WHEN IN ROME

Don’t think that we got so caught up in the rural life that we forgot about London. We do what right thinking people should do and follow ”a local native” to the best. We always make sure we find our Panicalese friend Francesco when we are in London. His famous Umbria Rentals web site is the reason we have a home in Italy and specifically in Panicale. If you have not been to the site, run there quickly. So much information about the area of Umbria around Panicale. Francesco is from Panicale, but he is half Swedish and totally uber-global, man about town. No matter what the town. Londontown, Cape Town, China Town and every place in between. He and his British girl friend Alison, travel constantly but always come back to London so they can set us straight on hot new plays, museum openings and the best new restaurants. They seem to have fun surprises to share with us every time we come to town. We now have blind faith in their awesome recommendations.

The world is Francesco’s oyster and he eats up the oysters and everything else London has to offer, with relish. But, let’s talk about British food for a moment, shall we? For generations “English Food” had a big ugh factor going for it and that is about all. Not anymore. Not if you follow someone like Francesco around town. We’ve eaten Moroccan with him, Turkish, Indian, Italian of course, of course and this time Japanese. I know what you are thinking: I saw that yawn. I am the same way. I often think that all Japanese restaurants get the same five gallon buckets of generic goop off the same truck. OK, put some cashews in that one and some pea pods in the other one. Close enough. Boring as it can be, it is somewhat addictive and we find ourselves needing a fix of Thai or Chinese or something a couple times a month.

OK. CAN YOU SAY OKONOMI?

Well, neither can I. But this kind of Japanese food is a revelation. Especially in the way we were able to sampled it at the Abeno Okonomi-yaki , a block from the British Museum. I Googled them (okonomi london) when we got home and it appears this is London’s ONLY Okonomi-yaki style restaurant. I saw one review that said it was the only one in EUROPE. Oh, us tourists from the wilds of Maine and Umbria are out on the leading culinary edge now! Tiny tables with hotplates built in them like the Benihana’s of old. Fresh, fresh ingredients of veggie and meat variety, your choice, cut up before you and made into an awesome something. Can I call it a pancake? Maybe. Some people call Okonomi an omelette, but I remember eggs being an option that only showed up in some items on the menu. Regardless, there is some light, light batter involved as it all holds together quite nicely. Here are some of the things we sampled but had never seen on Asian menus before: Furikake On, Gyoza, Inaka DX and the ever-popular Nasu. Have you ever? I, certainly, had not. After cooking the pancake patty a bit, they put a shiny metal lid over it, let it cook under that for a short time and then decorated it with sauces, spices, fish flakes, and oh, my. Now THAT is what I call some outrageous good British food.

Coming up next: The Frozen North portion of our trip. After that, Ferraris in the Piazza. Could we interest you in something in red? Stay tuned.

Happy Holidays wherever you may be.

WINTERWONDERLAND, MAINE— Where am I? Really. Good question. Where haven’t we been this month? Everywhere but putting up blog stories, it appears. Gathering Material. Yes. That’s it. You know, just like Hemmingway fighting the matador’s bulls or wrestling mutant Marlins into his fishing boat. Or not. But in the last thirty days time we have spent some long, fun weekends in NYC, London and Limestone, Maine. More on the London to Limestone sagas coming up. And Wiley has a big blog backlog direct from Italy that she is polishing up in Harold Wood outside London right now. But for today, we are grateful to have most of our family sitting right here at the dining room table. Zak, of NYC, bent over a growing chart, pen in hand, doing NYC Dutch ancestory genealogy, Midge in her “OLIO” cooking apron talking to the missing Wiley in London, and baby Grayson holding a bag of frozen peas on her jaw where her wisdom teeth came out yesterday. Poverina, figlia minora. She’s in good spirits and ready for whatever the holiday and Babbo Natale is about to bring her.

So, why is Midge in her apron? What’s cooking, Midge? Panetone? Yes, indeed. We’re braving up to try making the tradional Italian Holiday treat. Is it cake is it bread, I really do not know. But when in Italy it seems they are everywhere. Except on forks. Do they actually eat them? Not so much, is my observation. Sometimes I think they are more atmosphere than cuisine. Occasionally they are put out of their decorative boxes and nibbled with Prosecco. Anyway, we are growing our own, sans decorative box. It sounds like a proper family fun holiday activity. You stir this. I’ll chop that. You find the yeast. And it goes on all day if I read correctly the instructions in “Italian Cooking” magazine. Dec 05 to Jan 06 Holiday Issue. That recipe rocks. Available in newstands as they say. The recipe on their website sounded like a very complicated train wreck and we would have never even attempted that one, sissies that we are. More news on our Italian pastry dessert cooking experiment as it becomes available.

FLYING TURKEYS

We will probably be the only people in Maine having homemade Panetone with Cajun Turkey. Totally random culinary combination. Never look a gift turkey in the mouth. Oh, wait, ready to eat, fresh from the store turkeys don’t have a mouth. But we do and it will be great. Midge’s Nashville brother Kix had this fried turkey flown up to Maine and she found it waiting on our doorstep when she went on her humanitarian cappuccino run: LOOK WHAT I FOUND! Hey, hey, you HAVE had “southern deep fried turkey” , haven’t you? Please, please say yes. Or quick, put it on your life goals list.

As the fried turkey indicates, we may not be in Italy for the holidays but with emails coming in from our Italian Home Away From Home we are feeling the love and day dreaming about different times we have been in Umbria for Christmas and New Years. Good times all.

Well, as our red and gold Italian Holiday Banner here at the top of the page says BF, UE, OS, NT, EE (Buone Feste) to all!

Michelangelo. Of New York.

The hotel is very cool, very downtown and quite Italian. Coming in late Saturday night, I saw bound-up stacks of ”La Republica” next to stacks of New York Times. And get this: they carry Rai Uno on the TV’s in their rooms! Our satellite dish in Umbria is so out of whack that we can’t get Rai Uno in Italy. And they get it in NYC? How DO they do that?

NY, NY— Let’s see, how can we contort being in the Big Apple for the Country Music Awards into something Italian? Could be tricky. No. Wait. I think I see an opening. OK . . . how about this: we stayed at the Michelangelo Hotel and saw works by the real Michelangelo at a gallery?

We blame our problem on Moonlight. Our satellite TV guy, who we could not find on our last trip, is poetically named Marco Lumadiluna. Marco Moonlight. Could there be a more evocative name for the person in charge of bringing moving pictures down from the heavens? Allora, non fa niente.

GALLERY SLAVES

The art by Michelangelo was in the Salander-O’Reilly Gallery up by The Frick on Central Park. Our son, Zak, is the librarian at the gallery and master of what looks like hundreds, maybe thousands of art reference books. So, we had to go see him, in situ, in this new-ish job. What a place. Sculptures by Bernini, paintings by Tintoretto, carved life sized madonnas, rooms full of them, in fact. Crucifixs? What size do you want? We went to the Salander Gallery after seeing the Fra Angelico exhibit at the Met and before going to the Frick and before we saw the illuminated Italian manuscripts at the Public Library.

As you enter Zak’s domain in the fourth floor Salander library, the first thing you come to is a Cellini sketch. And a signed letter from old Benvenuto, himself. In the totally, non-public reference library! I guess I can, make this about Italy. Yes. Yes, I can.

LA DOLCE VITA, LA DOLCE VINO

We ate at several fine, fine Italian places in the city including Scalinatella which is just down the street from the Four Seasons on the Upper East Side on East 61st. Hyper hip. All the waiters spoke Italian to each other. Loudly. And in an accent I had never heard, so I got a case of timid and didn’t get into it with them. Food was off-the-chart good. Waiters were suave, funny and engaging. And the wine. Aces, truly aces, 1999 red wine from Montalcino, which is near us in Italy. Just velvet.

You know, this shoehorning Italy into New York is pretty easy, once you get into it. We also had great Italian Proseccos and pastas at Orzo. On west 46th in the Theater District. We ordered all kinds of fun anti pastas for the table and dived in and liked it too.

What with cappucchinos every morning and Italian food almost every night, it was rather like being in the old country. And the Fra Angelico show I mentioned at the Metropolitan was Really like being there. I did not previously understand, or fully appreciate how articulated and gilded his backgrounds are. From studying him in art history I knew he was amazing, in person and in quantity it was really overwhelming. The detail, the etched lines in the gilding in the feathers of the angels was just too wonderful for words. He could paint on wood in a way that would make that wood turn into surreal, luminous, precious metal, fabrics truly fit for angels to wear. And consider, if you will, these pieces of art are hundreds of years old. My mind boogles and reels at seeing them. Imagine the people of the times seeing these when they were new.

SHOW ME SOME STARS

We were lucky enough to tag along to party where James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano. How Italian/American can you get?) was hanging out in the middle of the night in a big party house on Gramercy Square. We did not speak, omerta and all that, but for a moment, we were so traveling in the same circle.

Oh? The Yoko thing? OK, she may not be 100 percent Italian, but as long as we are name dropping here . . . we had finished our Italian sausage sandwiches and I was shooting some photos near Zak’s gallery. A pretty Japanese bride was walking to her wedding photo session in the park, her formal, hoop’ed wedding gown hitched up to mid thigh over white Nancy Sinatra type boots. I was focusing on that, when Midge poked me in the shoulder and said See the Purple Jacket that just went by? Yes. You just missed it . . . That was Yoko. Oh, no!

Buone Feste! And Happy Holidays too!