Hollywood Cemetery in the Hot, Hot Heat

The Richmond restaurant world is almost as incestuous as its musical world; you're likely to see a member of either group at another place or in another configuration somewhere.

So it was that on walking into Perly's today that the waitress eating at the end of the bar looks up and says, "Hi, Karen."

It's not that I go in Perly's often, because I don't, but I actually know the waitress from the Belvidere.

Later as I'm leaving, I hear a voice from the corner table, "Hey, Karen!"

It's a fellow Census worker and waitress from Tarrant's. It's 11:45 in the morning and the familiar faces are everywhere.

I ordered a turkey sandwich because their menu said that they roast their own turkey (I asked to verify), but it can't compare to the turkey sandwich at Comfort, which I had just last week.

Ideally, I want big, irregularly-shaped chucks of turkey to mimic a day-after-Thanksgiving Day turkey sandwich; Comfort gives me that, but Perly's doesn't.

Still, it's a perfectly fine turkey sandwich, with chips on the side, another post-Turkey Day requirement. I'm satisfied.

I am having lunch with my long-time friend from Williamsburg, here, and it's good hearing his stories after so long; he was in radio forever so he has a Voice with a capital V.

We couldn't be more opposed politically, but we have plenty to talk about without that (and I do try to avoid it).

And in all the years I've had lunch with him, I've never seen him eat anything except either eggs and sausage or a hamburger with fries and mayo.

He's an odd one, but unusual in a fascinating sort of way. He calls himself "the last of his kind" which may very well be true for a host of reasons.

Afterwards we went to Hollywood Cemetery, a favorite place of his and one he hadn't visited in several years.

Because of the heat and his health, we drove it rather than walked it, parking periodically under a shady tree to roll down the windows, admire the view and chat.

We could see all the people sunning themselves on the rocks and enjoying the water at Belle Isle.

I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that at least a few of them were restaurant workers I know, but it was too hot to walk over there and find out.

And no one was shouting, "Hey Karen" from across the river.

So the last of his kind and I stayed in the shade, amongst the past, talking about the present and hoping the best for the future.

The Dead Don't Whine

Question of the day: Why do people go on a walking tour if they don't like to walk?

Would you enter a marathon if you didn't run?

Honestly, some people just need to get a clue.

With absolutely nothing on the books for this afternoon, I decided at 1:50 to take the 2:00 Hollywood Cemetery walking tour.

As the last arrival, I have to say I was amazed to find forty or more people waiting for the tour to start; later, the tour guide said the average group is ten to twenty.

I just figured there were a lot of geeks like me (walking enthusiasts with a taste for history) free today, but as it turned out, that wasn't exactly the case.

Maybe it was partially an age thing, since probably two thirds of the group was 50+, but some of the loudest complainers were under 30 ("My age may be young, but my body's old," one girl whined).

When the guide told us that we were going to "march up that hill" the incredulous looks on some of their faces were priceless.

Clearly walking means different things to different people.

The guide said that the tour would cover 2 1/2 miles and last two hours.

It actually took 2 1/2 hours because our oversize (both literally and figuratively) group took so long to get from place to place.

Still, I really enjoyed myself. As many times as I've been through Hollywood, including writing and directing a video shoot of it for my last employer, I learned all kinds of new information today, so that was nerdily satisfying.

Before the purchase of the land for the rural-style cemetery, it was a dueling and hunting ground, not that I think for a moment that there aren't still fights and perhaps even a bit of scavenging that goes on there (the PBR cans I saw lined up next to a decorated tomb stone from 1874 attested to something).

I didn't know that the gatekeeper's residence is a Queen Anne kit house, bought from a catalog (or that in the 19th century you could buy burial monuments from a catalog).

Or that stones were left like calling cards at tombstones to indicate a visit from a loved one.

For the most part, I stayed at the front of the straggling pack so as not to have to deal with the painfully slow walkers, but I still heard some of the complaints from the group.

"Does she really expect us to walk for another hour?" and "I'm too old for this much exercise."

One woman said she had been planning to go to Disney World with her grandkids next month, but now she was realizing what a handicap she was going to be to them. How sad is that?

And two women showed up for a walking tour in dressy clothes and heels. Heels!

The guide told me that she's suggested to the tour's sponsor, the Valentine Museum, that they rate their walking tours according to difficulty to prevent people from being subjected to a more challenging walk than they want.

I wouldn't have minded scaring off the whiners either, but then the tour would have been down to about four of us and that wouldn't make much money for the Valentine, now would it?

Since cemeteries were where 19th century urban dwellers went for recreation (before the advent of public parks), I got a retro kick out of doing a Sunday stroll through the headstones and monuments, much like Richmonders did 150 years ago.

I'm going to guess that, like me, they just enjoyed it, rather than complaining all the while.

Not sure, but I don't think whining about walking was done back then.

Oh, for the good old days.