Like Julie on "The Love Boat" but not so wholesome.
I was in my 20s when I was first dubbed "cruise director" by family and friends, who even presented me with a t-shirt spelling out that moniker in sparkly letters. And, no, I was no more the sparkly letter type then than I am now.
It wasn't because of anything to do with travel over water, mind you, but because I enjoy researching travel plans. I'm that person who will happily devour a couple of travel guides in pursuit of knowledge.
When I went to Memphis and Oxford with a friend earlier this year, she left cruise directing in my hands and later marveled at how much I'd uncovered for us to do.
So it was a no-brainer to use my train ride to Richmond today to gather intel for my upcoming trip. So far, I've found far more I want to see and do than there could possibly be time for, a first world problem if ever there was one. The way I look at it, better to have too long a list than too short.
Amazing what a person can accomplish on Amtrack's Quiet Car (yes, the same Quiet Car Chris Christie was thrown off of for talking on his cell phone). Where to start? Where to stop?
A literary walking tour that includes poetic focaccia (and I have to know)
An oyster company with half price oysters twice a week for happy hour (because I can eat some bivalves)
A garden featuring 150 plants and flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's writings
A western saloon located in an alley and serving lamb pot pie and bone marrow fritters (howdy, pardner)
A Victorian camera obscura projecting outdoor seascapes on a parabolic screen
A restaurant design that won a James Beard award
A sea cave archway that offers end of the world views at low tide (not to self: check tide charts)
A bowling alley that does Soul and Bowl nights (so stoked for this)
A vintage tiki lounge with rattan booths serving Hurricanes with two straws
Communal baths where bathing suits are only required on co-ed Tuesdays (better not to take my suit?)
A dive bar with cheap drinks, pogo-worthy music in the back room and peanuts for eating and throwing
A live music bar in a Victorian hotel, a stalwart of the '70s underground scene and now host to indie label debuts
A park dedicated to a poet laureate with awe-inspiring vistas
A beach shack bistro near a nine-mile ocean beach (this could be an entire day lost)
An art bar with rotating installations and regular Prince/Michael Jackson nights (Purple Thriller, yes!)
And don't get me started on museums, architecture, rooftops gardens and viewing platforms.
Besides, all that just might show up in upcoming posts, complete with details, conversations and conclusions. Consider this the movie trailer version set to the rhythms of a rocking train.
Just don't call me Julie.
Showing posts with label bowling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bowling. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2015
Monday, September 9, 2013
Aiming for a Strike
It had been a decade, so it was time to bowl.
The last time I'd rented shoes and thrown a ball had been with Frank, my Scottish friend, an avid bowler.
He'd teased me about wearing a skirt to bowl, beaten me soundly and made me laugh throughout with bits of Scottish bowling wisdom.
Needless to say, he's the one I'd immediately e-mailed for tips when I'd first been invited on this unlikely outing.
Today's occasion was the birthday of a long-time friend, so I went with another long-time friend and this time I wore a skirt with shorts underneath to save myself the teasing.
But rather than jump right into bad shoes and large balls, we began at Ledo's for chicken wings and a thorough reading of the Washington Post's fall art preview.
Tedious as so much small print can be, it's the only way to ensure that I know about obscure shows while tickets are still available.
But culture only takes you so far when bowling calls, so eventually we had to head to AMF Sunset Lanes for the festivities.
The only people who beat us there were a couple who'd brought their own shoes and balls.
In other words, formidable competitors. Luckily, they were also really nice people.
The two of us got our ugly shoes from the counter and killed time talking until the rest of the party arrived, which they soon did.
One guy I knew from Rose parties, another because, like me, he's a regular at 27 and Ghostprint Gallery, and the rest I was happy to meet.
Make new friends, but keep the old, I always say.
I went and took my hand measurements so I'd know what size ball to get (a medium) and opted for the 9-pounder because it would give me more heft than the 8-pounder.
In what can only be described as a stroke of luck, I was given a hot pink bowling ball that coordinated beautifully with my skirt.
The counter girl insisted my date comment on what a fetching pair my ball and I made, but he's not one to be coerced so the compliment went unsaid.
While listening to a 20th-century playlist -Backstreet Boys, Goo Goo Dolls, Dishwalla- we divided into three teams and I proceeded to demonstrate my lack of bowling skills.
Out of three games, my highest score was 69 (and, yes, I heard the jokes), although I'm happy to report a couple of spares.
Somewhere across the pond, I feel certain Frank is smiling knowing that I did my best and that it was a 69.
I wasn't the only Karen playing, necessitating aliases (mine was Scoop) on the scoreboard and occasional rallying cries of, "Go, Karens!"
It certainly didn't help my bowling ability to hear that chorus coming from behind.
After two hours of bowling, I packed up my socks and we spent half an hour reminiscing about how and when we'd met the birthday boy before his loving girlfriend insisted on taking him home.
It wasn't nearly so difficult to pry me away from the lanes.
If no one's going to comment on my coordinating skirt and bowling ball, I've got better places to be.
And at least a decade to get there.
The last time I'd rented shoes and thrown a ball had been with Frank, my Scottish friend, an avid bowler.
He'd teased me about wearing a skirt to bowl, beaten me soundly and made me laugh throughout with bits of Scottish bowling wisdom.
Needless to say, he's the one I'd immediately e-mailed for tips when I'd first been invited on this unlikely outing.
Today's occasion was the birthday of a long-time friend, so I went with another long-time friend and this time I wore a skirt with shorts underneath to save myself the teasing.
But rather than jump right into bad shoes and large balls, we began at Ledo's for chicken wings and a thorough reading of the Washington Post's fall art preview.
Tedious as so much small print can be, it's the only way to ensure that I know about obscure shows while tickets are still available.
But culture only takes you so far when bowling calls, so eventually we had to head to AMF Sunset Lanes for the festivities.
The only people who beat us there were a couple who'd brought their own shoes and balls.
In other words, formidable competitors. Luckily, they were also really nice people.
The two of us got our ugly shoes from the counter and killed time talking until the rest of the party arrived, which they soon did.
One guy I knew from Rose parties, another because, like me, he's a regular at 27 and Ghostprint Gallery, and the rest I was happy to meet.
Make new friends, but keep the old, I always say.
I went and took my hand measurements so I'd know what size ball to get (a medium) and opted for the 9-pounder because it would give me more heft than the 8-pounder.
In what can only be described as a stroke of luck, I was given a hot pink bowling ball that coordinated beautifully with my skirt.
The counter girl insisted my date comment on what a fetching pair my ball and I made, but he's not one to be coerced so the compliment went unsaid.
While listening to a 20th-century playlist -Backstreet Boys, Goo Goo Dolls, Dishwalla- we divided into three teams and I proceeded to demonstrate my lack of bowling skills.
Out of three games, my highest score was 69 (and, yes, I heard the jokes), although I'm happy to report a couple of spares.
Somewhere across the pond, I feel certain Frank is smiling knowing that I did my best and that it was a 69.
I wasn't the only Karen playing, necessitating aliases (mine was Scoop) on the scoreboard and occasional rallying cries of, "Go, Karens!"
It certainly didn't help my bowling ability to hear that chorus coming from behind.
After two hours of bowling, I packed up my socks and we spent half an hour reminiscing about how and when we'd met the birthday boy before his loving girlfriend insisted on taking him home.
It wasn't nearly so difficult to pry me away from the lanes.
If no one's going to comment on my coordinating skirt and bowling ball, I've got better places to be.
And at least a decade to get there.
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