Took a new walk, tried a new dog.
While I've been doing lots of new to me walks lately - I did the floodwall west Friday, ending up in the SunTrust parking lot on southside, and Randolph and the cemeteries there Saturday (even heard gun shots followed by a bugle playing "Taps") - today's jaunt had two major things going for it.
The historic nature of the slave trail, heartbreaking as it is, and the practically perfect weather, sunny, breezy and absent humidity.
I walked all the way to the Manchester docks where I met three gentlemen fishing and shooting the breeze.
They suggested I join them but I politely declined.
Coming back, I decided to circumvent the last part of the walking trail and instead clambered up the rip rap to access the bridge and save myself quite a few steps in the process.
Despite not being the clambering type, the good news is I neither dropped my keys nor scraped up the moneymakers.
Back on terra firma, I took the pipeline walkway, did a leg soak and climbed the hills home, where I immediately picked up the phone and called a friend for lunch.
A six mile walk will give you an appetite no matter how much breakfast you ate.
Last time we'd gotten together for lunch, he'd been in the midst of a terrible, awful, no-good day but today's mood was considerably sunnier.
Making our way through gaggles of VCU students with not a clue how to navigate crosswalks, sidewalks and streets (one young twerp stood in the right lane of Broad Street to light her cigarette), we ducked off of Broad and into Unleashed Gourmet Hot Dogs, dodging cold drips from the air conditioner over the doorway in the process.
Inside, it was cool, empty and a laundry list of imported and housemade hot dogs greeted us. A server at Empire had turned me on to this place, raving about the quality of the dogs.
My only complaint? Not one was named after that noblest of breeds, the beagle, nor was a picture of a beagle among those hung on the walls for decoration.
I'd call that a gross oversight.
When I asked the owner what was so great about his dogs, he boasted of importing some and making others.
"They're the best," he said. 'Let me know after you try one."
Friend went straight for the English pointer, a smoked sausage with roasted pepper, sauteed onions and honey mustard while I selected the Mutt International, a crisp-skinned oversized wiener that snapped when I bit it, with beer-roasted barbecue pulled pork and cole slaw riding atop it.
Both of us were impressed with the non-traditional rolls, more a crusty, toothsome bread pocket than a typical bland hot dog roll.
Russian potato salad, bright red with beet juice and a nice tang, went down easily as we sat at the window counter and watched the colorful street theater of Harrison Street parade by.
"So?" the owner called to us from his perch behind the counter.
Mighty fine dogs, sir, we answered and he beamed. "I told you!"
Now just hang a picture of a beagle on the wall and this place'll be practically perfect.
And, I might add, only a short walk from home.
Showing posts with label slave trail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slave trail. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
Follow the Rip Rap
I'm becoming a regular. Today's walk took me to southside again.
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
This time, I walked down 14th Street, spotting the green Google earth mapping car along the way.
With a red camera mounted atop a column on the roof of the car, it looked a little like a colorful bug with a long neck.
I'm actually that geek who had wondered how all those Google Earth photos were taken.
Taking my chances, I trespassed to walk alongside the floodwall on the north bank before heading across the Mayo bridge, so different from the other bridges I've walked because of its heavy stone sides and relatively low height.
I expected to see a few fishermen, maybe James "Cowboy" Smith, the guy who'd told me he'd caught more catfish in the James than anyone else, but the only people on the bridge were guys toting bags of cans to the recycling station.
Everyone's got to earn a living.
Once on the other side, I climbed the ramp to the overlook on the western side, disappointed that I didn't see a path anywhere.
Somehow I'd expected this to be easier than it was. All I wanted was a trail.
Of course, all I had to do was cross under the bridge to pick up the floodwall walk and while parts of it were marked slave trail, I didn't take it all the way to the Manchester docks.
That's a walk for another day.
A line of geese swam along side me as I made my way, honking occasionally to jolt me out of my reverie.
Coming back across the bridge, I passed a shirtless guy, ear buds around his neck, who greeted me.
"Has anyone told you today that you're beautiful?" he asked apropos of nothing. Nope.
"Well, you are."
People say the nicest things to sweaty women.
Rather than retrace my steps home once over the bridge, I took the ladder down to the pipeline walkway at 14th Street and came back along the river and over Brown's Island.
Moms with young children were picnicking while people in business attire walked the perimeter on their lunch hour.
A train chugged by on the upper track and the man riding shotgun waved down at me.
Another successful foray into new walking territory. Next!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Looking for Locals at The Belvidere
One of my favorite perks of living in the city is that when it snows, there's bound to be a restaurant open within walking distance filled with neighbors and locals wanting some snow company.
I'd heard from a friend earlier today that my closest watering hole, The Belvidere, would be open tonight and the owner was concerned they wouldn't have any business.
Far be it for me to be part of that problem and not the solution, so I set off in the snow.
The place was barely half full when I arrived, but neighbors did come, bike kids came, and a really drunk guy with a bright red nose and shorts on made a brief stopover.
I ordered the house-cured salmon (I think it's the best in RVA) and settled in with my book.
Not long afterwards, a guy with a book came in and took the stool one away from me and I'd have bet my bottom dollar he wasn't a local.
He ordered a glass of wine and started reading the menu.
Meanwhile, several people, staff and customers, spoke to me by name and he must have drawn a conclusion, because he put down his menu and addressed me. "Well, it's obvious you've been here before. What's good and what should I order?"
As it turned out, he was an out-of-towner, living three days a week in Toronto and four in NYC.
He was staying at the Omni, had had a mediocre meal there last night and wanted something funky and good tonight.
He'd tried Bouchon first because it was near the hotel, but they were closed, so he went back to his hotel room for more research.
Next he tried Lemaire because of what he'd read online about the recent renovation, but the piped in muzak and hotel guest crowd turned him off.
More research and he hit on The Belvidere, reading multiple enthusiastic reviews.
But this is Richmond, and a snowstorm was in progress, so it wasn't easy to find transportation to the B @ B, but he finally succeeded, a feat in and of itself.
So while I'd left the house expecting to chat away the evening with my neighbors, I ended up talking for four hours to a Canadian.
Since we 'd both brought books, we started there; he's reading How Fiction Works and by the end of the evening he was sure I'd like it.
He also wanted the scoop on what to see here since he's a history buff; he had a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the slave triangle and he was fascinated to hear about the Slave Trail.
His dad was a cartographer and yet he'd never heard of Matthew Fontaine Maury; I felt obligated to clue him in.
Like me, he had years of media experience, including radio, publishing and video (what are the chances?) and shares a love for the dying newspaper.
He wanted to know about Virginia's wine industry and questioned why there were no Virginia wines on the list (Julie, I'll let you take this one).
He mentioned that if he were at either of his homes, he would not be dealing with snow and laughed at the irony of coming south only to be snowed in (no outgoing flights today or tomorrow morning, at least).
He made fun of seeing Richmonders using umbrellas in the snow; I defended myself by saying at least I didn't jump in the James.
I went to hang out with locals on a snow day and instead stumbled on a stuck Canuck who wanted to eat local and chat local.
The neighbors I'll have another chance to talk to; better to enjoy the visitor conversation while it's stranded here.
After all, someone's got to represent.
I'd heard from a friend earlier today that my closest watering hole, The Belvidere, would be open tonight and the owner was concerned they wouldn't have any business.
Far be it for me to be part of that problem and not the solution, so I set off in the snow.
The place was barely half full when I arrived, but neighbors did come, bike kids came, and a really drunk guy with a bright red nose and shorts on made a brief stopover.
I ordered the house-cured salmon (I think it's the best in RVA) and settled in with my book.
Not long afterwards, a guy with a book came in and took the stool one away from me and I'd have bet my bottom dollar he wasn't a local.
He ordered a glass of wine and started reading the menu.
Meanwhile, several people, staff and customers, spoke to me by name and he must have drawn a conclusion, because he put down his menu and addressed me. "Well, it's obvious you've been here before. What's good and what should I order?"
As it turned out, he was an out-of-towner, living three days a week in Toronto and four in NYC.
He was staying at the Omni, had had a mediocre meal there last night and wanted something funky and good tonight.
He'd tried Bouchon first because it was near the hotel, but they were closed, so he went back to his hotel room for more research.
Next he tried Lemaire because of what he'd read online about the recent renovation, but the piped in muzak and hotel guest crowd turned him off.
More research and he hit on The Belvidere, reading multiple enthusiastic reviews.
But this is Richmond, and a snowstorm was in progress, so it wasn't easy to find transportation to the B @ B, but he finally succeeded, a feat in and of itself.
So while I'd left the house expecting to chat away the evening with my neighbors, I ended up talking for four hours to a Canadian.
Since we 'd both brought books, we started there; he's reading How Fiction Works and by the end of the evening he was sure I'd like it.
He also wanted the scoop on what to see here since he's a history buff; he had a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the slave triangle and he was fascinated to hear about the Slave Trail.
His dad was a cartographer and yet he'd never heard of Matthew Fontaine Maury; I felt obligated to clue him in.
Like me, he had years of media experience, including radio, publishing and video (what are the chances?) and shares a love for the dying newspaper.
He wanted to know about Virginia's wine industry and questioned why there were no Virginia wines on the list (Julie, I'll let you take this one).
He mentioned that if he were at either of his homes, he would not be dealing with snow and laughed at the irony of coming south only to be snowed in (no outgoing flights today or tomorrow morning, at least).
He made fun of seeing Richmonders using umbrellas in the snow; I defended myself by saying at least I didn't jump in the James.
I went to hang out with locals on a snow day and instead stumbled on a stuck Canuck who wanted to eat local and chat local.
The neighbors I'll have another chance to talk to; better to enjoy the visitor conversation while it's stranded here.
After all, someone's got to represent.
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