Sunday, that day when you showed a swell friend how to really enjoy what's out there.
First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.
The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).
We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.
Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.
The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.
Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.
But we weren't finished yet.
From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.
My loss.
From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.
Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.
At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.
My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."
Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.
When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.
I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.
When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.
We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.
Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.
If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.
Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.
We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.
From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.
Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.
What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.
Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.
By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).
Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.
After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.
Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.
Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.
Uh huh.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Pass the Hearts
An evening that ends with the man dropping me off calling, "You want to go dancing?" from the car is a very good night.
Our culture tonight came via the new documentary "Amy," playing at the Criterion. Standing in line to buy tickets, I struck up a conversation with the man in front of me (or maybe he struck it up with me), eventually asking if he, too, was going to see "Amy."
"She wants to see "I'll See You in My Dreams," he began before I stopped him to compliment him. Any man who starts a sentence with "She wants..." is a man worth talking to. When I mentioned this, he turned fully around to school me.
"The most important thing a man can learn to do in a relationship is to yield," he explained before sharing a story about a full bird colonel he met as a young man who advised him that he'd do well with women if he remembered one phrase: "Yes, dear."
It sounded like something out of a gentlemen's guide circa 1955, but he was adamant about a man's role in making a successful relationship. Checking his cred, I asked how long his relationship has been going on. "Years," he said with a big smile, bragging that he'd taught his son the secret, too. "He's been married for years, too," he said with not a little pride.
It was a good thing I met Joe Positive before the documentary about Amy Winehouse because, man, was hers a tragic story. The beauty of it was that she'd come up in an era when a young person's every move was captured on camera, so the film contained some amazing footage of her in every possible situation: talking, singing, sleeping, looking at her phone, drunk onstage.
Casually referred to as "Just another North London Jewish girl," the footage delivers irrefutable proof that she had a once-in-a-generation talent that deserved to be compared to Dinah Washington and Billy Holiday. This was something I hadn't known before I discovered "Frank," her first album, recently.
And she was funny, too, looking at herself and mumbling, "I look so f*cking grim," when she really just looked young and un-made up. A journalist asks her about her "Back to Black" album, wondering if she "used that album to clean out her emotional closet," a fabulous phrase to describe that kind of writing.
It was painful to watch her unravel, her body becoming skeletal because of her eating disorders, her enthusiasm for making music dimmed by drugs and alcohol (never more so than when she wins a Grammy and says, "It's so boring without drugs") and the men closest to her - her Johnny-come-lately father and her white trash, bad teeth druggie husband (and, sadly, love of her life) Blake - milking her for everything they could long after they knew she was past the breaking point.
Most annoying throughout the movie was the couple next to me (not my dates, but on the other side), who talked throughout, making inane comments such as, "Didn't she have lots of money? Okay, so if she did, why would she use crack?" Apparently they thought rich people should use better drugs.
It was easily one of the best documentaries I've seen and this documentary dork has seen plenty.
Because of so many hot topics to consider - the perils of the music industry, drugging and drinking, eating disorders, dysfunctional families, enabling, paparazzi - we'd planned a post-film outing for discussion purposes, landing at Rancho T just as the dinner crowd was winding down.
Taking the last three seats at the bar in front of a favorite bartender we trusted implicitly, we put our cocktail futures in his hands and he rewarded us handsomely. My drink began with Del Maguey Crema de Mezcal, because the bartender was impressed by its slogan: "For women only...and...a few strong men."
While he may have thought it applied to me, it could have also applied to Amy, who sang of being like a man and having to deal with a lady-boy for a partner. This evolved into discourse about why men's and women's sex drives are perceived so differently, even as recently as the past decade covered in the film.
The cocktail hit on all cylinders, a satisfying combination of the mezcal, rum, grapefruit juice and hot sauce with a pineapple basil garnish. My dates' drinks were just as seductive in different ways so we passed them around for sampling.
One of the servers remembered me from a prior visit, asserting himself in the most amusing ways with jazz hands, offhand quips and double-entendres.
Overhead, the music was a solid playlist called "Playing with the Band" (as in, the Band) and on the bar, the snacks were outstanding. Specials of cast iron-seared chicken hearts with hominy were swoon-worthy while fresh tomato gazpacho was, in essence, a bowl of summer.
Busy talking about an upcoming wine dinner, we barely noticed that a nearby bar sitter was hanging on our every word. "Where is this dinner?" she asked, not afraid to let on she'd been eavesdropping. I returned the favor later when she mentioned Rumors on 19th Street and my ears pricked up.
As a D.C. girl, I spent far too many nights in the '80s dancing at Rumors not to catch a reference to the long-time club when it's tossed around.
Back in those days, I was a rum drinker and tonight I picked that back up at my friend's recommendation with an exquisite sipper, Ron Zacapa Centenario Sitema Solera 23. The nose alone spoke to those 23 years of aging. "I wouldn't think of mixing this," my friend said. No, sir.
Never fear, we also discussed the film as planned, all of us agreeing it had moved us to tears in parts as we witnessed Amy's decline while the people around her stood by.
Pru may have had the funniest observation when referring to the sleazy boyfriend/husband who saw her as a cash cow and drugging buddy. "Oh, I could tell what kind of person he was from the first second. I could smell him from a mile away!"
You know, the kind of guy who could brag on camera about how handsome he was through horrid, British teeth.
Of course, we also discussed plenty that had nothing to do with jazz singers, namely where Aziza's cream puffs will land, how our mothers gave us bad Lilt perms as children ("The smell!" I said. "The burn!" Pru recalled) and how living in the Heron suite will benefit a relationship.
"You can't date when you live in the same house!" Pru protested. Tragic but true.
After much discussion, we decided on orange caramel pie to round out the evening. Beau and I had tried it together on a previous visit, but were told they're using a new recipe now. It was indeed an improved dish (although we agreed that pie crusts suffer in the refrigerator), one made even better by a practically perfect dessert cocktail featuring Frangelico and Cava, not too sweet, not too heavy.
The kind of drink suitable for women only...and...a few men, namely the ones who know how to yield. They're few and far between, I hear.
Our culture tonight came via the new documentary "Amy," playing at the Criterion. Standing in line to buy tickets, I struck up a conversation with the man in front of me (or maybe he struck it up with me), eventually asking if he, too, was going to see "Amy."
"She wants to see "I'll See You in My Dreams," he began before I stopped him to compliment him. Any man who starts a sentence with "She wants..." is a man worth talking to. When I mentioned this, he turned fully around to school me.
"The most important thing a man can learn to do in a relationship is to yield," he explained before sharing a story about a full bird colonel he met as a young man who advised him that he'd do well with women if he remembered one phrase: "Yes, dear."
It sounded like something out of a gentlemen's guide circa 1955, but he was adamant about a man's role in making a successful relationship. Checking his cred, I asked how long his relationship has been going on. "Years," he said with a big smile, bragging that he'd taught his son the secret, too. "He's been married for years, too," he said with not a little pride.
It was a good thing I met Joe Positive before the documentary about Amy Winehouse because, man, was hers a tragic story. The beauty of it was that she'd come up in an era when a young person's every move was captured on camera, so the film contained some amazing footage of her in every possible situation: talking, singing, sleeping, looking at her phone, drunk onstage.
Casually referred to as "Just another North London Jewish girl," the footage delivers irrefutable proof that she had a once-in-a-generation talent that deserved to be compared to Dinah Washington and Billy Holiday. This was something I hadn't known before I discovered "Frank," her first album, recently.
And she was funny, too, looking at herself and mumbling, "I look so f*cking grim," when she really just looked young and un-made up. A journalist asks her about her "Back to Black" album, wondering if she "used that album to clean out her emotional closet," a fabulous phrase to describe that kind of writing.
It was painful to watch her unravel, her body becoming skeletal because of her eating disorders, her enthusiasm for making music dimmed by drugs and alcohol (never more so than when she wins a Grammy and says, "It's so boring without drugs") and the men closest to her - her Johnny-come-lately father and her white trash, bad teeth druggie husband (and, sadly, love of her life) Blake - milking her for everything they could long after they knew she was past the breaking point.
Most annoying throughout the movie was the couple next to me (not my dates, but on the other side), who talked throughout, making inane comments such as, "Didn't she have lots of money? Okay, so if she did, why would she use crack?" Apparently they thought rich people should use better drugs.
It was easily one of the best documentaries I've seen and this documentary dork has seen plenty.
Because of so many hot topics to consider - the perils of the music industry, drugging and drinking, eating disorders, dysfunctional families, enabling, paparazzi - we'd planned a post-film outing for discussion purposes, landing at Rancho T just as the dinner crowd was winding down.
Taking the last three seats at the bar in front of a favorite bartender we trusted implicitly, we put our cocktail futures in his hands and he rewarded us handsomely. My drink began with Del Maguey Crema de Mezcal, because the bartender was impressed by its slogan: "For women only...and...a few strong men."
While he may have thought it applied to me, it could have also applied to Amy, who sang of being like a man and having to deal with a lady-boy for a partner. This evolved into discourse about why men's and women's sex drives are perceived so differently, even as recently as the past decade covered in the film.
The cocktail hit on all cylinders, a satisfying combination of the mezcal, rum, grapefruit juice and hot sauce with a pineapple basil garnish. My dates' drinks were just as seductive in different ways so we passed them around for sampling.
One of the servers remembered me from a prior visit, asserting himself in the most amusing ways with jazz hands, offhand quips and double-entendres.
Overhead, the music was a solid playlist called "Playing with the Band" (as in, the Band) and on the bar, the snacks were outstanding. Specials of cast iron-seared chicken hearts with hominy were swoon-worthy while fresh tomato gazpacho was, in essence, a bowl of summer.
Busy talking about an upcoming wine dinner, we barely noticed that a nearby bar sitter was hanging on our every word. "Where is this dinner?" she asked, not afraid to let on she'd been eavesdropping. I returned the favor later when she mentioned Rumors on 19th Street and my ears pricked up.
As a D.C. girl, I spent far too many nights in the '80s dancing at Rumors not to catch a reference to the long-time club when it's tossed around.
Back in those days, I was a rum drinker and tonight I picked that back up at my friend's recommendation with an exquisite sipper, Ron Zacapa Centenario Sitema Solera 23. The nose alone spoke to those 23 years of aging. "I wouldn't think of mixing this," my friend said. No, sir.
Never fear, we also discussed the film as planned, all of us agreeing it had moved us to tears in parts as we witnessed Amy's decline while the people around her stood by.
Pru may have had the funniest observation when referring to the sleazy boyfriend/husband who saw her as a cash cow and drugging buddy. "Oh, I could tell what kind of person he was from the first second. I could smell him from a mile away!"
You know, the kind of guy who could brag on camera about how handsome he was through horrid, British teeth.
Of course, we also discussed plenty that had nothing to do with jazz singers, namely where Aziza's cream puffs will land, how our mothers gave us bad Lilt perms as children ("The smell!" I said. "The burn!" Pru recalled) and how living in the Heron suite will benefit a relationship.
"You can't date when you live in the same house!" Pru protested. Tragic but true.
After much discussion, we decided on orange caramel pie to round out the evening. Beau and I had tried it together on a previous visit, but were told they're using a new recipe now. It was indeed an improved dish (although we agreed that pie crusts suffer in the refrigerator), one made even better by a practically perfect dessert cocktail featuring Frangelico and Cava, not too sweet, not too heavy.
The kind of drink suitable for women only...and...a few men, namely the ones who know how to yield. They're few and far between, I hear.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
16 Going on 66
It's a tad disturbing the way the mighty Internets claim to be able to "read" you.
Without so much as asking me a single question, I was told the following about myself:
Age based on general knowledge: 66
Age based on taste in music: 16
Age based on preferences: 32
Meaningless as it is, I'm fine with having the knowledge base of someone older than me. I'm hardly surprised my musical taste is considered younger, although I think 16 is a stretch. But where I need clarification is on the preferences issue.
I mean, my preference is to live without air conditioning even when my apartment registers 90 degrees like it does right now. My preference is to lock my car doors from inside rather than using the key fob and causing unnecessary noise pollution when it beeps loudly to indicate that the car is safe. My preference is to choose car routes that take me down streets I enjoy rather than automatically opting for the fastest route.
And this means I come in at age 32?
Okay, then, that means that a 32-year old loves it when her evening begins with a compliment from a stranger.
Walking down Cary Street toward Chop Suey Books just after the pelting rain had let up, a man greets me and observes, "You didn't get caught in the rain because your hair still looks great." Thanks for the kind words, stranger.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Chop Suey to hear Bob Suren read from his book "Crate Digger" about the hunt for punk rock records. Actually, it turned out to be a memoir of growing up in Florida and about all things punk rock, not just digging for vinyl gems.
The friend and her cute husband met me upstairs where we took seats in the back row like the bad kids in school always did. My friend was concerned because the reading started in seven minutes and we were the sole occupants of the room. Her distress was short-lived, though, because before long every seat was taken and people were standing just outside the door to the room.
Bob explained that his odyssey had begun in 1983 when his sister's boyfriend had given him a mix tape called "Family Favorites," assuring him that, "This is better than the Scorpions," then one of Bob's favorite bands. There were no songs or band listings.
The mix tape became the soundtrack to his summer, but in order to identify the artists, he had to ask the one punk kid in his school to identify the bands for him. An obsession was born.
Reading chapters from the book, he shared memories of his first Ramones concert in Miami, an event that so impressed him he said that, "I thought 'Ramones' should become a superlative in every language." The post-concert antics - his drunk sister insisting on taking him and his terrified friends to an all-night go kart track - were even funnier.
We heard about some of the punk bands he'd played in, including one show opening for the Meat Men (and playing after the superbly-named Stevie Stiletto and the Switchblades), where his band decided it'd be a good idea to have a sandwich maker onstage and pass out sandwiches to the audience.
They threw them back at the band. "A piece of bologna landed on the drummer's thigh," may have been one of the funniest lines I've ever heard read. For years, they referred to the summer of '87 as "the Meat Men summer."
There were chapters about making his first record (with the advice, "Punk rock don't need no permission. Just figure out what you want to do and do it.") and in 1991, creating his own record label.
He told us about the triangular-shaped Confusion Records, the first place he took his record when it came out because it was local, but a place aptly named because there was no system for how records were filed (maybe by molecular weight or color of the album cover, he wasn't really sure).
It was interesting, when he talked about the rise of mail order records as a way to get obscure and imported albums - think Pillsbury Hardcore - in the '80s, someone asked whether he knew the bands and albums he was ordering or if he just took a chance on the unknown, which was, of course, exactly what he and his friends had done.
I know the concept is completely foreign to millennials who have never just gambled on unknown music based on a band or album name or especially compelling or gruesome cover art, but anyone over a certain age (ahem) recalls buying something you'd never heard of just because it spoke to you in some intangible way.
You have to admire someone who managed to be "employed" by punk rock for two decades, in one way or another. He was a shining example of doing what you love.
Because my friends had eaten before the reading and I hadn't, we parted company with my friend asking about my plans. "I like to think of you going off to do something fun and exciting," she said. Ah, the pressure, but I do what I can.
Tonight, that meant going to Dinamo for dinner and finding it packed with people, some even waiting on the bench outside. Ah, but therein lies the beauty of being a single because in moments I was escorted to the one and only open bar stool. Score.
The owner suggested San Vincenzo Anselmi for its fuller, citrusy flavor, which I sipped while getting to know my fellow bar mates.
Next to me was a guy who lives in Forest Hill, spends January and February in Florida and, along with his partner, had been the money behind a restaurant that just celebrated its one-year anniversary. His wife was busy talking to three recent transplants, including a couple who'd lived in Portland for ten years.
Hearing that I'd just come back, they wanted my impression since they'd just escaped from what they considered the smugness and precious nature of its populace. They'd already decided our food scene was better.
Since by then I was finishing up a white pizza (coincidentally, a friend who moved to Portland had already told me that no pizza there compares to Richmond's) before moving on to my cold seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and calamari marinated in olives, onion and lemon juice, I had to agree.
When the topic of Halloween came up, the couple - dedicated bar sitters, just like me - knew of no festivities, so I stepped in to enlighten the newcomers on the annual Halloween parade through Oregon Hill and all it entails. Everyone at the bar was stoked about the big bike race and what it means for Richmond. Of course the Folk Fest was touted as a must-do for the newbies while I savored a Nutella and sea salt cookie, a divinely satisfying end to my meal.
The owner, standing behind the bar and joining in our lively conversation whenever she could, smiled widely at one point and said to the six of us, "It's a very good bar tonight."
Could it be she was saying that those whose preferences make them 32 are a key element of a good bar? Pshaw, I'd like to think I meet that criteria no matter what age you call me.
Without so much as asking me a single question, I was told the following about myself:
Age based on general knowledge: 66
Age based on taste in music: 16
Age based on preferences: 32
Meaningless as it is, I'm fine with having the knowledge base of someone older than me. I'm hardly surprised my musical taste is considered younger, although I think 16 is a stretch. But where I need clarification is on the preferences issue.
I mean, my preference is to live without air conditioning even when my apartment registers 90 degrees like it does right now. My preference is to lock my car doors from inside rather than using the key fob and causing unnecessary noise pollution when it beeps loudly to indicate that the car is safe. My preference is to choose car routes that take me down streets I enjoy rather than automatically opting for the fastest route.
And this means I come in at age 32?
Okay, then, that means that a 32-year old loves it when her evening begins with a compliment from a stranger.
Walking down Cary Street toward Chop Suey Books just after the pelting rain had let up, a man greets me and observes, "You didn't get caught in the rain because your hair still looks great." Thanks for the kind words, stranger.
I was meeting a favorite couple at Chop Suey to hear Bob Suren read from his book "Crate Digger" about the hunt for punk rock records. Actually, it turned out to be a memoir of growing up in Florida and about all things punk rock, not just digging for vinyl gems.
The friend and her cute husband met me upstairs where we took seats in the back row like the bad kids in school always did. My friend was concerned because the reading started in seven minutes and we were the sole occupants of the room. Her distress was short-lived, though, because before long every seat was taken and people were standing just outside the door to the room.
Bob explained that his odyssey had begun in 1983 when his sister's boyfriend had given him a mix tape called "Family Favorites," assuring him that, "This is better than the Scorpions," then one of Bob's favorite bands. There were no songs or band listings.
The mix tape became the soundtrack to his summer, but in order to identify the artists, he had to ask the one punk kid in his school to identify the bands for him. An obsession was born.
Reading chapters from the book, he shared memories of his first Ramones concert in Miami, an event that so impressed him he said that, "I thought 'Ramones' should become a superlative in every language." The post-concert antics - his drunk sister insisting on taking him and his terrified friends to an all-night go kart track - were even funnier.
We heard about some of the punk bands he'd played in, including one show opening for the Meat Men (and playing after the superbly-named Stevie Stiletto and the Switchblades), where his band decided it'd be a good idea to have a sandwich maker onstage and pass out sandwiches to the audience.
They threw them back at the band. "A piece of bologna landed on the drummer's thigh," may have been one of the funniest lines I've ever heard read. For years, they referred to the summer of '87 as "the Meat Men summer."
There were chapters about making his first record (with the advice, "Punk rock don't need no permission. Just figure out what you want to do and do it.") and in 1991, creating his own record label.
He told us about the triangular-shaped Confusion Records, the first place he took his record when it came out because it was local, but a place aptly named because there was no system for how records were filed (maybe by molecular weight or color of the album cover, he wasn't really sure).
It was interesting, when he talked about the rise of mail order records as a way to get obscure and imported albums - think Pillsbury Hardcore - in the '80s, someone asked whether he knew the bands and albums he was ordering or if he just took a chance on the unknown, which was, of course, exactly what he and his friends had done.
I know the concept is completely foreign to millennials who have never just gambled on unknown music based on a band or album name or especially compelling or gruesome cover art, but anyone over a certain age (ahem) recalls buying something you'd never heard of just because it spoke to you in some intangible way.
You have to admire someone who managed to be "employed" by punk rock for two decades, in one way or another. He was a shining example of doing what you love.
Because my friends had eaten before the reading and I hadn't, we parted company with my friend asking about my plans. "I like to think of you going off to do something fun and exciting," she said. Ah, the pressure, but I do what I can.
Tonight, that meant going to Dinamo for dinner and finding it packed with people, some even waiting on the bench outside. Ah, but therein lies the beauty of being a single because in moments I was escorted to the one and only open bar stool. Score.
The owner suggested San Vincenzo Anselmi for its fuller, citrusy flavor, which I sipped while getting to know my fellow bar mates.
Next to me was a guy who lives in Forest Hill, spends January and February in Florida and, along with his partner, had been the money behind a restaurant that just celebrated its one-year anniversary. His wife was busy talking to three recent transplants, including a couple who'd lived in Portland for ten years.
Hearing that I'd just come back, they wanted my impression since they'd just escaped from what they considered the smugness and precious nature of its populace. They'd already decided our food scene was better.
Since by then I was finishing up a white pizza (coincidentally, a friend who moved to Portland had already told me that no pizza there compares to Richmond's) before moving on to my cold seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and calamari marinated in olives, onion and lemon juice, I had to agree.
When the topic of Halloween came up, the couple - dedicated bar sitters, just like me - knew of no festivities, so I stepped in to enlighten the newcomers on the annual Halloween parade through Oregon Hill and all it entails. Everyone at the bar was stoked about the big bike race and what it means for Richmond. Of course the Folk Fest was touted as a must-do for the newbies while I savored a Nutella and sea salt cookie, a divinely satisfying end to my meal.
The owner, standing behind the bar and joining in our lively conversation whenever she could, smiled widely at one point and said to the six of us, "It's a very good bar tonight."
Could it be she was saying that those whose preferences make them 32 are a key element of a good bar? Pshaw, I'd like to think I meet that criteria no matter what age you call me.
Friday, July 10, 2015
You Are My Richmond Hero
Some might be surprised how much wine is required when invited to a nibble and a nip at Pru's. Not me.
Heading to the mansion on Church Hill through construction traffic, I saw a license plate that said it all: "ETA soon." That said, it took me 40 minutes to traverse the couple of miles from Jackson Ward.
Fortunately, there was wine awaiting me, specifically the Danielle de l'Ansee Sauvignon Blanc Pru had fallen in love with last month, and three people who loved to talk. As if by a fashion directive, the day's lingering heat had resulted in all the women sporting paper-thin cotton dresses with boho roots in the styles of the '70s.
The evening of spirited conversation covered topics was as varied as the people in the room. A discussion of old-fashioned sleep bras led to a male guest positing that perhaps he should wear a sleep cup. "A sleep cod piece!" Pru interjected, no doubt inspired by our upcoming plans to see "Hamlet" at Agecroft.
Our hostess, who has gone on record as saying she could exist solely on hors d'oeuvres, laid out a tasty spread of same, including what the former Mexico dweller dubbed "a salad on bread," a savory layering of guacamole, radishes and hard cooked eggs on toasted baguettes adorned with EVOO and smoked sea salt that made for a practically perfect flavor combination with just the right amount of chew.
The music was vintage soul and while it wasn't quite a dance party (other than our dance moves riding the new stair lift), Al Green, the O'Jays and Aretha provided a rollicking soundtrack to the evening, sometiems lost under the raucous laughter.
It was while drinking Argyle Sparkling Brut Rose, an offering from the recent Oregon outing, that it was agreed by everyone in the room that while Pru comes across as sweet and low key, she's really every bit as much aninstigator troublemaker rapscallion firecracker as I am.
During a dedicated fashion discussion (hello, palazzo pants' comeback), Pru's Beau looked surprisingly interested, a fact we attributed to his female-centric upbringing. He's that rare male who not only notices hair and clothing changes and looks, but kindly mentions them to the woman rather than keeping them to himself. That's a man who'll go far with my people.
Our little group got along so well we wound up making plans to see a couple of Irish plays dubbed O'Theater at O'Toole's, an evening bound to be a blast in the back room. Fish and chips ought to be just the right accompaniment.
Maybe it was bottle number three - Miraval Rose - talking, but we got off on the topic of senior sex - how we're all hoping there's no cut-off point for a sex life's regularity. Needless to say, my randy parents came up as examples of making adjustments to keep things frisky.
I'm sure I was a bad influence, keeping the 9 to 5 set at the party up far too late, but then, isn't that why people invite me over for a nibble and a nip in the first place? I'll bet they were in bed before I crested the hill.
Heading westward ho, I had to pass right by Patrick Henry Pub and since I couldn't think of a single reason not to stop, I did. Within a minute of walking in I had an Espolon and within three minutes, a guy who works as an illustrator at the Martin Agency had come over to join me for conversation.
I guess I'd turned on my forehead sign "Talk to Me" without realizing it.
It worked out well because he'd lived in Portland briefly so we had lots to talk about comparing the two cities, praising Richmond's superiority and its lively arts scene before moving on to chatting abut each other's lives as the bar carried on around us. I'd lucked into a terrific conversationalist.
All because of a nibble and a nip, as the invitation promised, at Pru's, It may not be on my license plate, but ETA: Whenever I get home.
Heading to the mansion on Church Hill through construction traffic, I saw a license plate that said it all: "ETA soon." That said, it took me 40 minutes to traverse the couple of miles from Jackson Ward.
Fortunately, there was wine awaiting me, specifically the Danielle de l'Ansee Sauvignon Blanc Pru had fallen in love with last month, and three people who loved to talk. As if by a fashion directive, the day's lingering heat had resulted in all the women sporting paper-thin cotton dresses with boho roots in the styles of the '70s.
The evening of spirited conversation covered topics was as varied as the people in the room. A discussion of old-fashioned sleep bras led to a male guest positing that perhaps he should wear a sleep cup. "A sleep cod piece!" Pru interjected, no doubt inspired by our upcoming plans to see "Hamlet" at Agecroft.
Our hostess, who has gone on record as saying she could exist solely on hors d'oeuvres, laid out a tasty spread of same, including what the former Mexico dweller dubbed "a salad on bread," a savory layering of guacamole, radishes and hard cooked eggs on toasted baguettes adorned with EVOO and smoked sea salt that made for a practically perfect flavor combination with just the right amount of chew.
The music was vintage soul and while it wasn't quite a dance party (other than our dance moves riding the new stair lift), Al Green, the O'Jays and Aretha provided a rollicking soundtrack to the evening, sometiems lost under the raucous laughter.
It was while drinking Argyle Sparkling Brut Rose, an offering from the recent Oregon outing, that it was agreed by everyone in the room that while Pru comes across as sweet and low key, she's really every bit as much an
During a dedicated fashion discussion (hello, palazzo pants' comeback), Pru's Beau looked surprisingly interested, a fact we attributed to his female-centric upbringing. He's that rare male who not only notices hair and clothing changes and looks, but kindly mentions them to the woman rather than keeping them to himself. That's a man who'll go far with my people.
Our little group got along so well we wound up making plans to see a couple of Irish plays dubbed O'Theater at O'Toole's, an evening bound to be a blast in the back room. Fish and chips ought to be just the right accompaniment.
Maybe it was bottle number three - Miraval Rose - talking, but we got off on the topic of senior sex - how we're all hoping there's no cut-off point for a sex life's regularity. Needless to say, my randy parents came up as examples of making adjustments to keep things frisky.
I'm sure I was a bad influence, keeping the 9 to 5 set at the party up far too late, but then, isn't that why people invite me over for a nibble and a nip in the first place? I'll bet they were in bed before I crested the hill.
Heading westward ho, I had to pass right by Patrick Henry Pub and since I couldn't think of a single reason not to stop, I did. Within a minute of walking in I had an Espolon and within three minutes, a guy who works as an illustrator at the Martin Agency had come over to join me for conversation.
I guess I'd turned on my forehead sign "Talk to Me" without realizing it.
It worked out well because he'd lived in Portland briefly so we had lots to talk about comparing the two cities, praising Richmond's superiority and its lively arts scene before moving on to chatting abut each other's lives as the bar carried on around us. I'd lucked into a terrific conversationalist.
All because of a nibble and a nip, as the invitation promised, at Pru's, It may not be on my license plate, but ETA: Whenever I get home.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Shakedown 1975
You start out making lunch plans and before you know it, it feels like a getaway.
When I suggested getting together, my friend countered with an invitation to hit the the pool and have barbecue, a plan no sane person would resist in this weather. It was so appealing, I got up after 7 1/2 hours sleep instead of my usual nine so I could get my walk out of the way before it hit 97 degrees today.
Obviously a tad cooler than my usual mid-day walk, I nonetheless headed directly to the river, walking through the sprinklers on Brown's Island and spotting a stand-up paddle boarder in the James. While I've seen plenty of SUP-ing in the ocean, it was my first time in the river.
Walking back through Jackson Ward, I saw that a recent sign - "The world will ride here" (trumpeting the big UCI road world championship races coming in September)- had already been defaced since I first saw the sign two days ago.
"So what?" the anonymous marker asked. Children, please.
Once home, I changed from sweaty walking clothes into a bathing suit and went to meet my friend for our aquatic lunch. She was awaiting my arrival in her cute bathing suit cover-up, pool bag in hand.
Heading east to Varina, she commented on how delightful it is that Richmond gets rural within ten minutes of downtown. As a long-time devotee of Route 5 and points east, I heartily agree. I even use it to begin my trips to the Outer Banks every year, to the consternation of people who think it's an odd, indirect route.
She was right about the charm of the pool complex, which she described as seriously old school: a cinder block building, a snack shack and a pool that enforced an hourly adult swim. It reminded me a lot of the pool my family grew up going to, the one that formed my impression of what a neighborhood pool should be.
Experience had taught her to come before lunch because there'd be fewer kids and she was spot on. Oh, sure, there were a few in the shallow end, including an adorable father who would sit his little daughter on the side, demonstrate a stroke and then help her do it.
Personally, I had no intention of swimming. I was there to cool my core and shrivel my skin, nothing more. "When's the last time you were at a pool?" my friend asked. Except for a backyard pool in the country and a birthday pool party, both of which involved sitting on the side and dangling my legs in the water, it had been ages.
"Yea, I think it was about 30 years for me before here," she admitted. But unlike me, she had been a competitive swimmer in her youth and was reveling in having a place to swim laps again. But since you can't very well go three decades without swimming and jump right back into laps, she'd swim two laps and join me for conversation in the 5' depths of the pool before returning to her workout.
I told her some of my Portland stories and she shared gossip and details of her trek to The Shack in Staunton. We discussed the lack of infrastructure in Virginia to get small farm produce to restaurants, back routes from J-Ward to Church Hill and the princess and the pea theory.
After an hour, she'd finished her laps and I was looking like a prune but feeling deliciously cool to the core, so we dried off to head to Ronnie's Barbecue, which used to be Ronnie's Ribs when I went to its Main Street location in the Bottom. I hadn't even realized Ronnie had moved, but there he was at that cinder block building (which has been home to so many things) at the intersection of New Market Road and Varina Road.
Tooling along past fields and sparse housing, she observed, "It feels like 1975 out here, simpler times," saying it's become part of her pool routine to head to Ronnie's after the pool and then home for a nap. Now there's a solid summer day plan.
Ronnie's new digs were small with only two short counters in the front window with chairs. The idea seemed to be take-out, but we joined the all-male clientele to eat in. Saying she always got ribs, today instead she chose brisket while I was the one who got the three bone rib plate with beans and slaw.
Sitting in the front window chowing down, I paused to listen to voices and she looked at me grinning. "Yep, they're listening to the stories," she said, using a phrase I hadn't heard since my grandmother used it to describe her favorite soap operas.
Damn, 1975 probably was the last time I heard a soap opera on TV.
We made valiant attempts but neither of us finished every bite, although I did leave all my bones sucked clean, for what that's worth. Driving back,she commented on how entering Richmond from the east gives you a completely different perspective on the city, one that reminds you of its industrial and working roots, one that she'd been unaware of before joining the pool.
Stuffed, sitting on our beach towels with the air conditioning in her car chilling our still wet bathing suits and cover-ups, we decided we need to do this again...and again. A new summer ritual was initiated today.
"It's only a few hours we were gone, but it feels like we had a holiday," she enthused before we separated to both go work.
Like riding a bike, apparently you never forget how to enjoy the pool. Simpler times.
When I suggested getting together, my friend countered with an invitation to hit the the pool and have barbecue, a plan no sane person would resist in this weather. It was so appealing, I got up after 7 1/2 hours sleep instead of my usual nine so I could get my walk out of the way before it hit 97 degrees today.
Obviously a tad cooler than my usual mid-day walk, I nonetheless headed directly to the river, walking through the sprinklers on Brown's Island and spotting a stand-up paddle boarder in the James. While I've seen plenty of SUP-ing in the ocean, it was my first time in the river.
Walking back through Jackson Ward, I saw that a recent sign - "The world will ride here" (trumpeting the big UCI road world championship races coming in September)- had already been defaced since I first saw the sign two days ago.
"So what?" the anonymous marker asked. Children, please.
Once home, I changed from sweaty walking clothes into a bathing suit and went to meet my friend for our aquatic lunch. She was awaiting my arrival in her cute bathing suit cover-up, pool bag in hand.
Heading east to Varina, she commented on how delightful it is that Richmond gets rural within ten minutes of downtown. As a long-time devotee of Route 5 and points east, I heartily agree. I even use it to begin my trips to the Outer Banks every year, to the consternation of people who think it's an odd, indirect route.
She was right about the charm of the pool complex, which she described as seriously old school: a cinder block building, a snack shack and a pool that enforced an hourly adult swim. It reminded me a lot of the pool my family grew up going to, the one that formed my impression of what a neighborhood pool should be.
Experience had taught her to come before lunch because there'd be fewer kids and she was spot on. Oh, sure, there were a few in the shallow end, including an adorable father who would sit his little daughter on the side, demonstrate a stroke and then help her do it.
Personally, I had no intention of swimming. I was there to cool my core and shrivel my skin, nothing more. "When's the last time you were at a pool?" my friend asked. Except for a backyard pool in the country and a birthday pool party, both of which involved sitting on the side and dangling my legs in the water, it had been ages.
"Yea, I think it was about 30 years for me before here," she admitted. But unlike me, she had been a competitive swimmer in her youth and was reveling in having a place to swim laps again. But since you can't very well go three decades without swimming and jump right back into laps, she'd swim two laps and join me for conversation in the 5' depths of the pool before returning to her workout.
I told her some of my Portland stories and she shared gossip and details of her trek to The Shack in Staunton. We discussed the lack of infrastructure in Virginia to get small farm produce to restaurants, back routes from J-Ward to Church Hill and the princess and the pea theory.
After an hour, she'd finished her laps and I was looking like a prune but feeling deliciously cool to the core, so we dried off to head to Ronnie's Barbecue, which used to be Ronnie's Ribs when I went to its Main Street location in the Bottom. I hadn't even realized Ronnie had moved, but there he was at that cinder block building (which has been home to so many things) at the intersection of New Market Road and Varina Road.
Tooling along past fields and sparse housing, she observed, "It feels like 1975 out here, simpler times," saying it's become part of her pool routine to head to Ronnie's after the pool and then home for a nap. Now there's a solid summer day plan.
Ronnie's new digs were small with only two short counters in the front window with chairs. The idea seemed to be take-out, but we joined the all-male clientele to eat in. Saying she always got ribs, today instead she chose brisket while I was the one who got the three bone rib plate with beans and slaw.
Sitting in the front window chowing down, I paused to listen to voices and she looked at me grinning. "Yep, they're listening to the stories," she said, using a phrase I hadn't heard since my grandmother used it to describe her favorite soap operas.
Damn, 1975 probably was the last time I heard a soap opera on TV.
We made valiant attempts but neither of us finished every bite, although I did leave all my bones sucked clean, for what that's worth. Driving back,she commented on how entering Richmond from the east gives you a completely different perspective on the city, one that reminds you of its industrial and working roots, one that she'd been unaware of before joining the pool.
Stuffed, sitting on our beach towels with the air conditioning in her car chilling our still wet bathing suits and cover-ups, we decided we need to do this again...and again. A new summer ritual was initiated today.
"It's only a few hours we were gone, but it feels like we had a holiday," she enthused before we separated to both go work.
Like riding a bike, apparently you never forget how to enjoy the pool. Simpler times.
Jam Up and Jelly Tight
With a last quarter moon in the sky and Jupiter aligning with Venus, I doubt my evening could've been much groovier.
Cue finger snapping.
Given my penchant for poetry, where better to begin than a reading at Chop Suey Books featuring the varied poetic stylings of Cecily Iddings, Simeon Berry, and Sandra Beasley?
A small but devoted cadre of verse lovers filled the chairs and aisles as Simeon took his place facing us to warn of the weirdness of his poems ("They own a lint collective," hello?). He was an excellent reader, easy to understand, never stumbling over words as he read from "Ampersand Revisited" and "Monograpgh."
Favorite line: How fresh to make scholarship sexy
Cecily chose to read only one poem from her book "Everyone Here," but it was a long one (with some wonderfully phrased lines such as, "Strangers in pajamas, new from dreaming") and she tended to laugh at particularly sexual lines that didn't come across as funny, except to her. It was just a bit unsettling.
Favorite line: She's owed a life she can't collect
After thanking Chop Suey owner Ward for letting her "crash the party," Sandra read from her book "Count the Waves," which she characterized as a book of love poems. Not traditional love poems, but more "can you love me this way?" type of love poems. Her reading style resembled acting, loud and projecting to the back row.
From the poem #6459, a numerical designation for the phrase "the country is quite mountainous" came the line, "The goats gambol and bray on the cliffs." After she finished, she insisted, "I swear that's a love poem." We didn't ask her to defend that statement, but probably should have.
Favorite line tie: You must not look for poetry in poems and Fit a melody in the crook of your arm and strum.
Yet again, Chop Suey delivered another stellar hour for those of us who revel in hearing poetry read aloud to us.
The only way to top that was to head to the Earth Folk Collective in Manchester for the first ever Blackberry Jam, exactly the play on words it seems.
The couple who own the property had invited friends to come help pick blackberries, make jam over an open fire, enjoy a potluck and wile away the evening listening to three musical acts. I packed my chair, a bottle of wine and set out for southside.
Walking from the street up the path to the party, I passed a hand-painted sign saying "Compost," multiple garden beds encircled by large burlap coffee bags and a dozen or so people engaged in yoga off to the side of the path. One woman had a child mounted on her upright legs while another was giving a neck massage.
Further on, a small group held lit sparklers aloft, a post-holiday nod.
By this time, berries had been picked, jam had been made and Florida's Mark Etherington, also known as Mountain Hollar, was starting his psychedelic folk set on a fairy light-lit stage carved out of the freestanding garage. Behind him were flowered curtains and framing the open door were lights of green and white. Next to it, lights decorated a pergola where people sat talking or swinging in a hanging basket chair. The charming pale blue camper where my friends currently reside had its own string of pale blue lights.
All in all, everything had a magical feel to it.
The music paused. "Hot weather and guitars do not go well together," Mark said between songs, tuning. "It's out of tune again." No one minded waiting.
My favorite Jackson Ward neighbors spotted me and the handsome bearded one whispered, "Is this the new Listening Room?" referring to the long-time series we'd all attended. Wouldn't that be something if it were?
After Mark's marvelously trippy set, our host gave me a tour of the improvements they've made to the circa 1800s house they are working on while living in the trailer.
He showed me where they're stripping off the cheesy faux brick facade to reveal clapboard protected for over half a century by the tacky covering. The bathroom had gotten a floor-lift, green skylights and exposed ceiling rafters. They'd made a guest room for visitors and touring musicians.
Back outside, I watched toddlers take advantage of a baby pool to cool down, greeted a few friends and suddenly realized I couldn't very well go to a blackberry jam and not have, duh, blackberry jam.
I went in search of it just in time because the pot on the cooling embers had barely an inch of jam left, but I managed to score some along with my neighbors (I'd told the Beard I'd have to call him out if he left without tasting jam, so he did). It was tart with the satisfying crunch of blackberry seeds, but I found I liked it best in this heat when underneath a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream eaten out of one of grandma's coffee cups.
The J-Ward contingent discussed how very '70s-like the whole evening felt with people of all ages, kids running around, clusters of people scattered throughout the property and a committed DIY ethos. There was a dish-washing station on the porch, gray water collection inside for plant watering and recycle containers for beer cans and wine bottles.
Mentioning it to our much younger hostess, she enthused about how much she's learned from reading the '70s literature by the people who'd first resolved to live in harmony with the earth. "It's a way for sub-cultures now to benefit from everything they learned then," she said, no doubt referring to the stuff my friends and I recalled. See what I mean about the groovy factor?
The only jarring note to the peace and love vibe was the glare of cell phones by those unable to just enjoy the moment.
Before the next band began, she took the stage to share that she opposed the natural gas pipeline being espoused and letting folks know she had "No Pipeline" signs available for people to take home to share their voice on the subject.
"Sorry, you're at my house, so you have to listen to my soapbox," she said with a gorgeous smile. No one seemed to mind or differ in opinion.
Duo Haints in the Holler, playing drum and guitar, started playing and people began settling down again to listen to their earnest take on Americana. After a couple of songs played at center stage, they moved forward to the edge of the stage, making for far better sound for the audience and an interesting silhouette effect with the twinkling lights just behind them now.
As their voices melded in songs such as "Many Nights," I sat back in my chair enjoying the occasional breeze rustling through the tree tops and lifting my hair off my neck, just the way a summer evening should. Every now and then, a plane would fly overhead, lost behind the cloud cover of the thunderstorms that never happened, more of a fuzzy moving nimbus than a defined shape.
Twice they tried to end their set and twice the relaxed crowd called for just one more and they obliged. No one seemed in a hurry for the night to end.
Finally, our host thanked us all for coming, saying how happy it made him to share this kind of evening with friends. "We hope this is just the first of many Blackberry Jams to come!" he said from the stage.
Far out. It's poetry and Blackberry Jams that make up golden living dreams of visions.
And it's friends like the Earth Folk Collective - not the lint collective - who make it seem possible that peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars.
There's pure poetry in that kind of optimism.
Cue finger snapping.
Given my penchant for poetry, where better to begin than a reading at Chop Suey Books featuring the varied poetic stylings of Cecily Iddings, Simeon Berry, and Sandra Beasley?
A small but devoted cadre of verse lovers filled the chairs and aisles as Simeon took his place facing us to warn of the weirdness of his poems ("They own a lint collective," hello?). He was an excellent reader, easy to understand, never stumbling over words as he read from "Ampersand Revisited" and "Monograpgh."
Favorite line: How fresh to make scholarship sexy
Cecily chose to read only one poem from her book "Everyone Here," but it was a long one (with some wonderfully phrased lines such as, "Strangers in pajamas, new from dreaming") and she tended to laugh at particularly sexual lines that didn't come across as funny, except to her. It was just a bit unsettling.
Favorite line: She's owed a life she can't collect
After thanking Chop Suey owner Ward for letting her "crash the party," Sandra read from her book "Count the Waves," which she characterized as a book of love poems. Not traditional love poems, but more "can you love me this way?" type of love poems. Her reading style resembled acting, loud and projecting to the back row.
From the poem #6459, a numerical designation for the phrase "the country is quite mountainous" came the line, "The goats gambol and bray on the cliffs." After she finished, she insisted, "I swear that's a love poem." We didn't ask her to defend that statement, but probably should have.
Favorite line tie: You must not look for poetry in poems and Fit a melody in the crook of your arm and strum.
Yet again, Chop Suey delivered another stellar hour for those of us who revel in hearing poetry read aloud to us.
The only way to top that was to head to the Earth Folk Collective in Manchester for the first ever Blackberry Jam, exactly the play on words it seems.
The couple who own the property had invited friends to come help pick blackberries, make jam over an open fire, enjoy a potluck and wile away the evening listening to three musical acts. I packed my chair, a bottle of wine and set out for southside.
Walking from the street up the path to the party, I passed a hand-painted sign saying "Compost," multiple garden beds encircled by large burlap coffee bags and a dozen or so people engaged in yoga off to the side of the path. One woman had a child mounted on her upright legs while another was giving a neck massage.
Further on, a small group held lit sparklers aloft, a post-holiday nod.
By this time, berries had been picked, jam had been made and Florida's Mark Etherington, also known as Mountain Hollar, was starting his psychedelic folk set on a fairy light-lit stage carved out of the freestanding garage. Behind him were flowered curtains and framing the open door were lights of green and white. Next to it, lights decorated a pergola where people sat talking or swinging in a hanging basket chair. The charming pale blue camper where my friends currently reside had its own string of pale blue lights.
All in all, everything had a magical feel to it.
The music paused. "Hot weather and guitars do not go well together," Mark said between songs, tuning. "It's out of tune again." No one minded waiting.
My favorite Jackson Ward neighbors spotted me and the handsome bearded one whispered, "Is this the new Listening Room?" referring to the long-time series we'd all attended. Wouldn't that be something if it were?
After Mark's marvelously trippy set, our host gave me a tour of the improvements they've made to the circa 1800s house they are working on while living in the trailer.
He showed me where they're stripping off the cheesy faux brick facade to reveal clapboard protected for over half a century by the tacky covering. The bathroom had gotten a floor-lift, green skylights and exposed ceiling rafters. They'd made a guest room for visitors and touring musicians.
Back outside, I watched toddlers take advantage of a baby pool to cool down, greeted a few friends and suddenly realized I couldn't very well go to a blackberry jam and not have, duh, blackberry jam.
I went in search of it just in time because the pot on the cooling embers had barely an inch of jam left, but I managed to score some along with my neighbors (I'd told the Beard I'd have to call him out if he left without tasting jam, so he did). It was tart with the satisfying crunch of blackberry seeds, but I found I liked it best in this heat when underneath a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream eaten out of one of grandma's coffee cups.
The J-Ward contingent discussed how very '70s-like the whole evening felt with people of all ages, kids running around, clusters of people scattered throughout the property and a committed DIY ethos. There was a dish-washing station on the porch, gray water collection inside for plant watering and recycle containers for beer cans and wine bottles.
Mentioning it to our much younger hostess, she enthused about how much she's learned from reading the '70s literature by the people who'd first resolved to live in harmony with the earth. "It's a way for sub-cultures now to benefit from everything they learned then," she said, no doubt referring to the stuff my friends and I recalled. See what I mean about the groovy factor?
The only jarring note to the peace and love vibe was the glare of cell phones by those unable to just enjoy the moment.
Before the next band began, she took the stage to share that she opposed the natural gas pipeline being espoused and letting folks know she had "No Pipeline" signs available for people to take home to share their voice on the subject.
"Sorry, you're at my house, so you have to listen to my soapbox," she said with a gorgeous smile. No one seemed to mind or differ in opinion.
Duo Haints in the Holler, playing drum and guitar, started playing and people began settling down again to listen to their earnest take on Americana. After a couple of songs played at center stage, they moved forward to the edge of the stage, making for far better sound for the audience and an interesting silhouette effect with the twinkling lights just behind them now.
As their voices melded in songs such as "Many Nights," I sat back in my chair enjoying the occasional breeze rustling through the tree tops and lifting my hair off my neck, just the way a summer evening should. Every now and then, a plane would fly overhead, lost behind the cloud cover of the thunderstorms that never happened, more of a fuzzy moving nimbus than a defined shape.
Twice they tried to end their set and twice the relaxed crowd called for just one more and they obliged. No one seemed in a hurry for the night to end.
Finally, our host thanked us all for coming, saying how happy it made him to share this kind of evening with friends. "We hope this is just the first of many Blackberry Jams to come!" he said from the stage.
Far out. It's poetry and Blackberry Jams that make up golden living dreams of visions.
And it's friends like the Earth Folk Collective - not the lint collective - who make it seem possible that peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars.
There's pure poetry in that kind of optimism.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Captains of Cool
You never know where the dancing or the midnight gifts may come from. Or at least I didn't.
Walking over to Gallery 5, I was looking forward to familiar faces and a strong bill of local and national bands. Greeting me when I walked in was a friend, the leader of one of the bands I'd come to see. In typical Richmond fashion, the show wasn't starting on time because not enough people had shown up yet.
Insert roll of eyes here (mine) for punishing the punctual.
I didn't really mind because it gave me time to talk to the always-interesting Paul who, despite assuring me he can be an optimist, somehow always comes across more the pragmatic type. But he's also a word geek like me (eager to correct and judge the grammar-inferior) so I was delighted when he shared some old New York slang for a pretty girl: "bleak mort."
Seems he'd come across the bit of archaic slang at the very moment he was looking for a fitting song title. Kudos to him for making use of it.
Before too long the handsome Ben Shepherd mounted the stage to do what he does best (to my knowledge, anyway): drink red wine, play guitar and play his incredibly smart, melodic songs.
Tonight he did odes to having no money but lots of time (which is exactly the way I roll), keeping the muse around (harder than it sounds) and feeling at home at bars, driving through Texas and counting stars (I'm fine with bars and stars, but the only reason I go to Texas is because my best friend lives there). Great stuff.
Before his last song, he said he has a record, "11 for the Road," on Band Camp and clarified, "If you feel like looking it up." I'm betting lots of people who heard his last song - about cops not always being decent people, name checking Freddy Gray and about how "it hits you in the gut to see someone's last breath" bother looking up his album if they're smart.
It's been years now we've all been saying he's the best songwriter in Richmond and with every new song I hear, he only affirms it.
The beauty of having a singer/songwriter open a show is that when he walks offstage with his guitar, the next band is good to go on. Except Gouda Mayhem (I know, fabulous name, right?) then had to sound check and just as it was feeling endless, leader Paul griped, "Okay, can we start playing music now?"
When the sound guy said yes, the guy standing in front of me promptly put in ear plugs. You'll never earn your rock and roll cred that way, son.
I've seen several of Paul's past bands but GM had the distinction of having not only a female guitarist, Natalie, but a female bassist, Chrissie, making this his coolest band ever. His songs are invariably literate and clever ("They don't know you're choking on your silver spoon") and his Elvis Costello-like delivery gives them an extra punch.
Midway through their set, he announced that it was bass player Chrissie and her husband's anniversary. When he asked how many years, she said eight. "Wow, you guys are serious!" he joked before announcing that his parents - in the audience tonight -had celebrated 54 years.
Saying they were going to play "Nothing but the Beaten Path," Paul clarified, "Make up your own lyrics for now" about the instrumental song. That's Paul humor.
After a T Rex tribute, the band played the magnificently titled "Bleak Mort," their hit (conveniently available at local record stores), "Casual Wayne" and closed with "Crushed Glass Pastry," notable for lyrics such as "You're always there for your friends unless it's not convenient." Like I said, Paul has a way with words.
During the break, a friend came over and asked, "Mind if I tag you on Facebook to get more people to come?" Despite the likelihood of my presence making one iota of difference, I agreed. Anything to keep his thumbs busy.
I used the down time to talk to a friend about Jimmy Carter's appearance at Costco this weekend (I'm not a member so I won't be there), which segued to a discussion of how he's a presidential history buff, even going so far as to have a top 15 presidents of all time list.
He only shared four of them - FDR, Lincoln, Carter and Obama - but also divulged that he has a top three lovers of all time list (let's face it, that's a list every person has in their head if they're truthful) and it includes every woman he's ever slept with. You can't fake that kind of honesty.
All the way from Kansas City, the duo of Schwervon! (who've apparently opened for Belle and Sebastion and the Vaselines) took the stage, Matt on guitar and Nan on drums. It was looking like a very good night for girl power at Gallery 5.
After their first kick-ass song, Matt lamented that the small crowd was massed to the side with not nearly enough people in his sight line. The crowd promptly filled in in front of him. "We eliminate all judgment at our shows," he went on. "Feel free to move or dance or not to."
Chances are by the second song the crowd would have done so anyway because their music was so engaging, so well executed, so danceable. If you closed your eyes, you'd never have guessed it was only two people on stage given how much sound was being produced. And their harmonies were downright amazing, ethereal almost.
During the killer "American Idle," a friend leaned over and compared them to late '80s-era They Might Be Giants, while the people up front near the stage (and those of us on the side by the radiator) began dancing to the irresistible sounds of two people completely musically in sync with each other.
This delighted me no end because I'd had zero expectation of dancing tonight.
When Matt needed to tune his guitar, Nan filled in by telling bad jokes such as, "What did the mayo say to the refrigerator? Close the door, I'm dressing." Ba dum bum. Just as funny was her conclusion, "It's so bad but I feel heroic just the same."
Her effortless-looking drumming, great voice and sunny personality made her my hero, that's for sure.
In what might have been the most unique moment I've yet to see at Gallery 5 (and, let's face it, I've seen bazillions of shows there over the years), Matt announced an intermission of sorts.
"If you're not a fan of poetry or modern dance, this might be a good time for a smoke or to go to the bathroom." Wait, what?
Seems he'd written a poem on the drive down from Washington today and Nan was going to do interpretive dance to it. She disappeared backstage as he explained that this poem was only for tonight's audience, never to be heard again.
He began reading - "Speed-bumping it to the next venue" - while she was nowhere in sight and, lo and behold, she appeared in tap shoes in front of the stage as he continued to read - "Why do you do this, she says. Because it calms me, he says" - and she danced back and forth, pantomiming to the words when she could.
It was magnificent, probably worthy of the finest fringe festival stage.
Then it was back to music, several new songs, older ones such as "truth Teller" from the acclaimed album "Courage" ("a fun song we're dedicating to our new Richmond friend, Lorraine") and another bad joke, this one about pizza, that Nan explained away by saying, "It's nice to surprise each other sometimes when you're around each other all the time." Ain't that the truth?
Before their last song, "Landlocked," which only continued the dancing frenzy, Matt told us it was available on vinyl at the merch table "if you like mementos. We also have t-shirts if you like to wear your mementos."
My regret was having only brought the $5 required to get in the door or I'd have gotten a memento for my ears. I can see why big name bands had been using this duo as an opening act. This'll be a show Richmonders will regret missing once they finally discover Schwervon! and they will because they're that good.
The whole night of music had been outstanding and when I walked out into the hot evening air, I was feeling pretty happy with the world. I didn't get more than a block down when, from the shadows, I heard an unexpected "Hey, lady" and a friend appeared out of nowhere.
He'd been at Heritage and asked where I'd been. "You like chicken?" he inquired, as if that was a normal thing to ask a woman on a dark street at night, and then handed me a to-go container of a wildly flavorful chicken and spinach dish. "I don't eat meat," he shrugged.
Needless to say, he got a hell of hug for that one. "See you around soon," he said before fading into the darkness of Jackson Ward.
Could it be he thinks I'm a bleak mort? Does it matter after an evening as fine as this?
Walking over to Gallery 5, I was looking forward to familiar faces and a strong bill of local and national bands. Greeting me when I walked in was a friend, the leader of one of the bands I'd come to see. In typical Richmond fashion, the show wasn't starting on time because not enough people had shown up yet.
Insert roll of eyes here (mine) for punishing the punctual.
I didn't really mind because it gave me time to talk to the always-interesting Paul who, despite assuring me he can be an optimist, somehow always comes across more the pragmatic type. But he's also a word geek like me (eager to correct and judge the grammar-inferior) so I was delighted when he shared some old New York slang for a pretty girl: "bleak mort."
Seems he'd come across the bit of archaic slang at the very moment he was looking for a fitting song title. Kudos to him for making use of it.
Before too long the handsome Ben Shepherd mounted the stage to do what he does best (to my knowledge, anyway): drink red wine, play guitar and play his incredibly smart, melodic songs.
Tonight he did odes to having no money but lots of time (which is exactly the way I roll), keeping the muse around (harder than it sounds) and feeling at home at bars, driving through Texas and counting stars (I'm fine with bars and stars, but the only reason I go to Texas is because my best friend lives there). Great stuff.
Before his last song, he said he has a record, "11 for the Road," on Band Camp and clarified, "If you feel like looking it up." I'm betting lots of people who heard his last song - about cops not always being decent people, name checking Freddy Gray and about how "it hits you in the gut to see someone's last breath" bother looking up his album if they're smart.
It's been years now we've all been saying he's the best songwriter in Richmond and with every new song I hear, he only affirms it.
The beauty of having a singer/songwriter open a show is that when he walks offstage with his guitar, the next band is good to go on. Except Gouda Mayhem (I know, fabulous name, right?) then had to sound check and just as it was feeling endless, leader Paul griped, "Okay, can we start playing music now?"
When the sound guy said yes, the guy standing in front of me promptly put in ear plugs. You'll never earn your rock and roll cred that way, son.
I've seen several of Paul's past bands but GM had the distinction of having not only a female guitarist, Natalie, but a female bassist, Chrissie, making this his coolest band ever. His songs are invariably literate and clever ("They don't know you're choking on your silver spoon") and his Elvis Costello-like delivery gives them an extra punch.
Midway through their set, he announced that it was bass player Chrissie and her husband's anniversary. When he asked how many years, she said eight. "Wow, you guys are serious!" he joked before announcing that his parents - in the audience tonight -had celebrated 54 years.
Saying they were going to play "Nothing but the Beaten Path," Paul clarified, "Make up your own lyrics for now" about the instrumental song. That's Paul humor.
After a T Rex tribute, the band played the magnificently titled "Bleak Mort," their hit (conveniently available at local record stores), "Casual Wayne" and closed with "Crushed Glass Pastry," notable for lyrics such as "You're always there for your friends unless it's not convenient." Like I said, Paul has a way with words.
During the break, a friend came over and asked, "Mind if I tag you on Facebook to get more people to come?" Despite the likelihood of my presence making one iota of difference, I agreed. Anything to keep his thumbs busy.
I used the down time to talk to a friend about Jimmy Carter's appearance at Costco this weekend (I'm not a member so I won't be there), which segued to a discussion of how he's a presidential history buff, even going so far as to have a top 15 presidents of all time list.
He only shared four of them - FDR, Lincoln, Carter and Obama - but also divulged that he has a top three lovers of all time list (let's face it, that's a list every person has in their head if they're truthful) and it includes every woman he's ever slept with. You can't fake that kind of honesty.
All the way from Kansas City, the duo of Schwervon! (who've apparently opened for Belle and Sebastion and the Vaselines) took the stage, Matt on guitar and Nan on drums. It was looking like a very good night for girl power at Gallery 5.
After their first kick-ass song, Matt lamented that the small crowd was massed to the side with not nearly enough people in his sight line. The crowd promptly filled in in front of him. "We eliminate all judgment at our shows," he went on. "Feel free to move or dance or not to."
Chances are by the second song the crowd would have done so anyway because their music was so engaging, so well executed, so danceable. If you closed your eyes, you'd never have guessed it was only two people on stage given how much sound was being produced. And their harmonies were downright amazing, ethereal almost.
During the killer "American Idle," a friend leaned over and compared them to late '80s-era They Might Be Giants, while the people up front near the stage (and those of us on the side by the radiator) began dancing to the irresistible sounds of two people completely musically in sync with each other.
This delighted me no end because I'd had zero expectation of dancing tonight.
When Matt needed to tune his guitar, Nan filled in by telling bad jokes such as, "What did the mayo say to the refrigerator? Close the door, I'm dressing." Ba dum bum. Just as funny was her conclusion, "It's so bad but I feel heroic just the same."
Her effortless-looking drumming, great voice and sunny personality made her my hero, that's for sure.
In what might have been the most unique moment I've yet to see at Gallery 5 (and, let's face it, I've seen bazillions of shows there over the years), Matt announced an intermission of sorts.
"If you're not a fan of poetry or modern dance, this might be a good time for a smoke or to go to the bathroom." Wait, what?
Seems he'd written a poem on the drive down from Washington today and Nan was going to do interpretive dance to it. She disappeared backstage as he explained that this poem was only for tonight's audience, never to be heard again.
He began reading - "Speed-bumping it to the next venue" - while she was nowhere in sight and, lo and behold, she appeared in tap shoes in front of the stage as he continued to read - "Why do you do this, she says. Because it calms me, he says" - and she danced back and forth, pantomiming to the words when she could.
It was magnificent, probably worthy of the finest fringe festival stage.
Then it was back to music, several new songs, older ones such as "truth Teller" from the acclaimed album "Courage" ("a fun song we're dedicating to our new Richmond friend, Lorraine") and another bad joke, this one about pizza, that Nan explained away by saying, "It's nice to surprise each other sometimes when you're around each other all the time." Ain't that the truth?
Before their last song, "Landlocked," which only continued the dancing frenzy, Matt told us it was available on vinyl at the merch table "if you like mementos. We also have t-shirts if you like to wear your mementos."
My regret was having only brought the $5 required to get in the door or I'd have gotten a memento for my ears. I can see why big name bands had been using this duo as an opening act. This'll be a show Richmonders will regret missing once they finally discover Schwervon! and they will because they're that good.
The whole night of music had been outstanding and when I walked out into the hot evening air, I was feeling pretty happy with the world. I didn't get more than a block down when, from the shadows, I heard an unexpected "Hey, lady" and a friend appeared out of nowhere.
He'd been at Heritage and asked where I'd been. "You like chicken?" he inquired, as if that was a normal thing to ask a woman on a dark street at night, and then handed me a to-go container of a wildly flavorful chicken and spinach dish. "I don't eat meat," he shrugged.
Needless to say, he got a hell of hug for that one. "See you around soon," he said before fading into the darkness of Jackson Ward.
Could it be he thinks I'm a bleak mort? Does it matter after an evening as fine as this?
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Life and Hope and Love and You
War is not the answer. As if we didn't already know that.
But I didn't go to the Westhampton Theater to see "Testament of Youth" because it was about World War I. No, I went because I'd never even heard of Vera Brittain, a feminist and pacifist who'd written a memoir by that name, so I was curious. And I wanted buttered popcorn.
The theater was far more crowded than I'd expected for a Monday night, but maybe that's the lingering holiday effect. Or perhaps, like me, they all love a good British period drama with elevated language ("You colluded with him!") and English anachronisms (signs for "Way Out" instead of "exit").
A true story about a young woman with no interest in marriage who wants to go to Oxford (Father instead buys her a piano so she can develop a skill that might land her a husband) and eventually does - at least until WW I breaks out - centered on her awakening to the realities of war as a volunteer nurse behind the front.
But before war comes love when she meets Roland Leighton, one of her brother's friends he's brought home from school and, like Vera, he's an aspiring writer, meaning they exchange letters any time they're apart from then on.
In fact, after that first meeting, he shows his attraction to her by slipping a poem under her bedroom door.
In my book, this is romance of the highest order.
Proving right off that she was my kind of woman, when he asks her about it the next day, she tells him, "It was a little dry. I couldn't find you in it." A brilliant thing to say because he rises to the challenge and begins penning her more heartfelt poetry.
And, truly, what woman doesn't want that?
This being 1914, their romance unfolded slowly and discreetly, so when the moment finally came on the train for him to kiss her, I was none too happy when a cell phone began ringing from the purse of a nearby woman. How many times did the screen instruct you to turn that thing off, lady?
Fashion-wise, the film covered that period just before the Roaring '20s when skirts got short and hats got smaller. But I'm almost certain that good girls were not sporting pierced ears in England in 1914, a glaring error in period detail.
There was even a "Gone With the Wind" homage shot when the camera pulls back to reveal a massive muddy field of wounded and dying soldiers lying on the ground, with Vera careening around the bodies trying to find one person in the moaning masses.
"I have a dust and ashes feeling about it," her beloved Roland had told her when he departed for active duty.
By the end of the war, her fiancee, brother and his two closest friends (plus another three quarters of a million British soldiers) have all been sacrificed on the altar of war. More than a few scenes are made up almost entirely of women as a generation of men were lost to combat. They were labeled the "surplus women," a terrible phrase.
Devastated by her personal losses as well as those of the country, after the war Vera spent 17 years writing this memoir as her way of dealing with the impact WWI had on the lives of women and the middle class, which included her family.
My only question is, how have I never heard of this book considered a classic piece of feminist and World War I literature? For that matter, how have I never heard of Vera Brittain? Hell, it's not like I didn't take Women's Studies classes in college and she hadn't even been dead for long at that point.
This reminds me of the time my friend Leo and I were at the Museum of American Art and I saw a painting of Charlotte Perkins Gilman with a notation that she was a prominent American feminist. Neither of us had ever heard of her and he'd taken the same classes I had.
That time, I'd come home from D.C. and promptly ordered a copy of "The Charlotte Perkins Gilman Reader" to bring my knowledge base up a notch. Looks like I need to find myself a copy of "Testament of Youth" for another instructive read.
Not about the cost of war, because that much I do know, but about how an educated and intellectual woman dealt with a world that had no use for smart women, much less one scarred by losing the love of her life. Then to make it complete, I'll need to read a collection of Roland's poetry.
Again the shadowed pool shall break
In dimples at your feet,
And when the thrush sings in your wood
Unknowing you may meet
Another stranger, sweet
I have no doubt she was able to find him in that one.
But I didn't go to the Westhampton Theater to see "Testament of Youth" because it was about World War I. No, I went because I'd never even heard of Vera Brittain, a feminist and pacifist who'd written a memoir by that name, so I was curious. And I wanted buttered popcorn.
The theater was far more crowded than I'd expected for a Monday night, but maybe that's the lingering holiday effect. Or perhaps, like me, they all love a good British period drama with elevated language ("You colluded with him!") and English anachronisms (signs for "Way Out" instead of "exit").
A true story about a young woman with no interest in marriage who wants to go to Oxford (Father instead buys her a piano so she can develop a skill that might land her a husband) and eventually does - at least until WW I breaks out - centered on her awakening to the realities of war as a volunteer nurse behind the front.
But before war comes love when she meets Roland Leighton, one of her brother's friends he's brought home from school and, like Vera, he's an aspiring writer, meaning they exchange letters any time they're apart from then on.
In fact, after that first meeting, he shows his attraction to her by slipping a poem under her bedroom door.
In my book, this is romance of the highest order.
Proving right off that she was my kind of woman, when he asks her about it the next day, she tells him, "It was a little dry. I couldn't find you in it." A brilliant thing to say because he rises to the challenge and begins penning her more heartfelt poetry.
And, truly, what woman doesn't want that?
This being 1914, their romance unfolded slowly and discreetly, so when the moment finally came on the train for him to kiss her, I was none too happy when a cell phone began ringing from the purse of a nearby woman. How many times did the screen instruct you to turn that thing off, lady?
Fashion-wise, the film covered that period just before the Roaring '20s when skirts got short and hats got smaller. But I'm almost certain that good girls were not sporting pierced ears in England in 1914, a glaring error in period detail.
There was even a "Gone With the Wind" homage shot when the camera pulls back to reveal a massive muddy field of wounded and dying soldiers lying on the ground, with Vera careening around the bodies trying to find one person in the moaning masses.
"I have a dust and ashes feeling about it," her beloved Roland had told her when he departed for active duty.
By the end of the war, her fiancee, brother and his two closest friends (plus another three quarters of a million British soldiers) have all been sacrificed on the altar of war. More than a few scenes are made up almost entirely of women as a generation of men were lost to combat. They were labeled the "surplus women," a terrible phrase.
Devastated by her personal losses as well as those of the country, after the war Vera spent 17 years writing this memoir as her way of dealing with the impact WWI had on the lives of women and the middle class, which included her family.
My only question is, how have I never heard of this book considered a classic piece of feminist and World War I literature? For that matter, how have I never heard of Vera Brittain? Hell, it's not like I didn't take Women's Studies classes in college and she hadn't even been dead for long at that point.
This reminds me of the time my friend Leo and I were at the Museum of American Art and I saw a painting of Charlotte Perkins Gilman with a notation that she was a prominent American feminist. Neither of us had ever heard of her and he'd taken the same classes I had.
That time, I'd come home from D.C. and promptly ordered a copy of "The Charlotte Perkins Gilman Reader" to bring my knowledge base up a notch. Looks like I need to find myself a copy of "Testament of Youth" for another instructive read.
Not about the cost of war, because that much I do know, but about how an educated and intellectual woman dealt with a world that had no use for smart women, much less one scarred by losing the love of her life. Then to make it complete, I'll need to read a collection of Roland's poetry.
Again the shadowed pool shall break
In dimples at your feet,
And when the thrush sings in your wood
Unknowing you may meet
Another stranger, sweet
I have no doubt she was able to find him in that one.
Monday, July 6, 2015
History Lesson in 3-D
Talk about a timely topic.
Today the Library of Virginia opened a new exhibit, "Remaking Virginia: Transformation through Emancipation," so I walked myself down there for a look-see and some lunch.
The overarching theme of the exhibit was simple: freedom for the half million slaves in Virginia after the Civil War should have meant something more than just the absence of slavery. But it's Virginia and old white men's ways die hard.
Naturally, one of them opened the exhibit because you can't really talk about emancipation without starting with Abe. On display was a life mask of Lincoln, a reproduction done by VCU Arts using a 3-D printer from the original in the National Portrait Gallery. Very cool.
A blowup of a photograph of the Freedmen's Village at Greene Heights in Arlington showed a rustic-looking village that must have seemed like the promised land after slave quarters. The handwritten register of Colored Persons Co-habitating was a testament to legislation to legalize the marriages of blacks who'd been unable to legally marry as slaves.
An engraving, "The First Vote" showed a line of black men casting their ballots and nearby (under glass of course) sat a green ballot box marked "colored." Gee, I bet that box never got "mislaid." I also saw handwritten labor agreements between landowners and freedmen, negotiated by local freedmen's bureaus
The exhibit was very good about using both the term "freedmen" and "freedwomen" to indicate that emancipation effected both sexes. A display about Mary Smith Kelsey Peake said she'd been born free in Norfolk and worked in Hampton as a dressmaker with her husband until Confederates burned their house down. Taking refuge at Fort Monroe along with thousands of escaped slaves, she'd begun teaching adults and children under an oak at the fort that became known as the emancipation oak.
They sure didn't teach us about people like her in history class, but hopefully they do today.
A map of Jefferson Township in Arlington where blacks and whites lived together showed the political gerrymandering done to create voting districts segregated by race. The crazy configurations of the districts makes it obvious what they were trying to do (and getting away with).
Another thing I learned was that for a very long time, black churches had been required to have a white minister, something that only began to change with emancipation.
One thing the exhibit made clear was that Virginia has little to be proud of when it comes to how we assimilated former slaves into society as the old guard fought full citizenship, education opportunities and political participation. Ours was a commonwealth slow as a snail to accept change.
Afterwards, enjoying a salad at the Discovery Cafe, I overheard a tour group going through the exhibit, the group's leader explaining in summary all the things I'd spent the last hour absorbing.
Any way people can get the information is fine, because learning Virginia's past can only help us going forward. Transformation is a slow process, Virginia.
Today the Library of Virginia opened a new exhibit, "Remaking Virginia: Transformation through Emancipation," so I walked myself down there for a look-see and some lunch.
The overarching theme of the exhibit was simple: freedom for the half million slaves in Virginia after the Civil War should have meant something more than just the absence of slavery. But it's Virginia and old white men's ways die hard.
Naturally, one of them opened the exhibit because you can't really talk about emancipation without starting with Abe. On display was a life mask of Lincoln, a reproduction done by VCU Arts using a 3-D printer from the original in the National Portrait Gallery. Very cool.
A blowup of a photograph of the Freedmen's Village at Greene Heights in Arlington showed a rustic-looking village that must have seemed like the promised land after slave quarters. The handwritten register of Colored Persons Co-habitating was a testament to legislation to legalize the marriages of blacks who'd been unable to legally marry as slaves.
An engraving, "The First Vote" showed a line of black men casting their ballots and nearby (under glass of course) sat a green ballot box marked "colored." Gee, I bet that box never got "mislaid." I also saw handwritten labor agreements between landowners and freedmen, negotiated by local freedmen's bureaus
The exhibit was very good about using both the term "freedmen" and "freedwomen" to indicate that emancipation effected both sexes. A display about Mary Smith Kelsey Peake said she'd been born free in Norfolk and worked in Hampton as a dressmaker with her husband until Confederates burned their house down. Taking refuge at Fort Monroe along with thousands of escaped slaves, she'd begun teaching adults and children under an oak at the fort that became known as the emancipation oak.
They sure didn't teach us about people like her in history class, but hopefully they do today.
A map of Jefferson Township in Arlington where blacks and whites lived together showed the political gerrymandering done to create voting districts segregated by race. The crazy configurations of the districts makes it obvious what they were trying to do (and getting away with).
Another thing I learned was that for a very long time, black churches had been required to have a white minister, something that only began to change with emancipation.
One thing the exhibit made clear was that Virginia has little to be proud of when it comes to how we assimilated former slaves into society as the old guard fought full citizenship, education opportunities and political participation. Ours was a commonwealth slow as a snail to accept change.
Afterwards, enjoying a salad at the Discovery Cafe, I overheard a tour group going through the exhibit, the group's leader explaining in summary all the things I'd spent the last hour absorbing.
Any way people can get the information is fine, because learning Virginia's past can only help us going forward. Transformation is a slow process, Virginia.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Can't Be Sporty
The only thing about taking vacation is post-vacation.
I'm not talking about adjusting to the three-hour time difference, although it hasn't been easy. I went to bed at midnight last night only to discover that my body thought it was 9:00 Portland time. Let's just say by the time I finally fell asleep, it was well after 3 a.m. and I'd done nothing fun to show for that time.
I've got no problem with late nights, but I expect escapades in trade.
I'm not even talking about the inevitable unpacking, laundry, plant watering and grocery shopping required after you've been away from home all but one of the last ten days.
No, the biggest adjustment is shifting out of vacation mode and back into real life. For me, that means running errands, finally answering work e-mails and diving back into my social calendar.
It also means catching up on over a week's worth of Washington Posts left by my intrepid delivery guy who continues to make a stop here even when I've notified him I'm out of town. Unlike the rest of the world, when I go on vacation, I stop paying attention to the larger world to focus on fun.
Sure, now that I'm back, I see that Greece is in deep doo-doo, read the gruesome details of the latest North Carolina shark attack and learned that it's now okay to take pictures on White House tours, long verboten. With any luck, I'll get to today's newspaper before going to bed tonight.
But what I also needed was friends and the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 offered me that. I got barely a block away when I first saw lightening and turned around and walked home for an umbrella before proceeding. Turns out I didn't need it, but the sidewalks were wet by the time I got out, so it did happen even if I didn't see it.
The first friend I ran into shared the latest on the house she and her partner are rehabbing slowly but surely. Boards have been removed from windows so glass and caulking can make them usable. The hydrangea I'd given her for her birthday had been planted and is blooming.
They'd collected a wood-burning stove and claw foot tub from her grandmother's house, all the more impressive because the tub will be an outdoor tub, which may be the coolest thing I've heard of in a while. Sure, I've got my own claw foot tub but it's in that most mundane of places, the bathroom.
Jameson, the organizer of the event and always the supremely serene type, was tonight a bit keyed up because it had been one mishap after another preparing for tonight.
First he hadn't been able to locate tonight's feature, "Say Ah-h!" because it was in storage in northern Virginia. Attempting to download it, his computer had been infected with a virus. Then Gallery 5's projector was on the fritz. Somehow, he'd sorted all this out and while we were now seeing another film, at least he hadn't had to cancel.
It was the first time I'd seen the teacher/music fan who'd just spent five weeks in Europe, bouncing around between Germany, Romania (Transylvania, natch), Austria and Italy. A devoted metal-head, I wasn't at all surprised to hear about the multi-day music festival he'd attended (we compared notes on Strand of Oaks since I'd seen them here while he'd seen them there).
But I couldn't have been more surprised to hear that he and his main squeeze had taken a four-hour "Sound of Music" bicycle tour in Salzburg. The funny part was that he'd never even seen the movie until deciding to book the tour, so he'd watched it just before going abroad. He got to see it all - the von Trapp mansion, the abbey and cemetery, the town - except the mountain where Maria sings to the hills. Seems that hill is in Berlin, not Salzburg. Who knew?
Tonight's crowd for the music and film was smaller than usual, probably because of the holiday weekend or even the impending rain, so I had no problem scoring a front row seat.
Instead of one film, we were seeing a bunch of animated shorts from 1907-11, created by Frenchman Emile Cohl, whom Jameson said was the first to use pen and ink drawings for animation. The earliest were white figures on a black background (meaning negatives), eventually giving way to black figures on a white background.
Providing tonight's soundtrack were DJ Harrison for the first set and DJ Ohbliv for the second, both hidden behind the movie screen. Their seamless mashups of song snippets were an ideal match for the fast-moving action in shorts such as "Affair of the Heart" with characters with hearts for heads and faces, "Art's Infancy" and "Mr. Crack" based on an operetta about Baron Munchausen.
More people arrived and a few left during the break, while I ran into a guy I'd met a few years ago and hadn't seen at all in the past year. I'm always surprised when people remember me after so much time.
The last half of the program was later work by Cohl, much of it foreshadowing the work of the surrealist and avant garde film makers of coming decades. More plot driven, they also featured much more of a mix of live action and drawn animation.
Mothers-in-law seemed to be a recurring theme, always drawn as hideous old hags with bad teeth and menacing eyes. "Let's Be Sporty" began with a figure trying to ride a horse, then drive an automobile, ride a bike and ice skate. "Nothing beats walking!" it seemed to conclude, but, walking was bested by jumping, a movement not easily captured at this stage of animation.
When the show ended, Ohbliv kept playing and Jameson queried the group, "One more?" which got him a rousing affirmative from the crowd in the room.
"The Mind of a Cafe Worker" began with a table of men drinking in a restaurant while the tired server slumped in a nearby chair (at least he wasn't on his cell phone). Once he fell asleep and began dreaming, it was about wine...and beer...and absinthe, fanciful bottles showering him in alcohol, so happy dreams. He awoke only because his patrons were squirting seltzer water bottles at him, laughing at him as the crowd laughed at them.
Classic silent films about walking and absinthe, two things I know a little about. Not a bad way to ease back into my Richmond life.
I'm not talking about adjusting to the three-hour time difference, although it hasn't been easy. I went to bed at midnight last night only to discover that my body thought it was 9:00 Portland time. Let's just say by the time I finally fell asleep, it was well after 3 a.m. and I'd done nothing fun to show for that time.
I've got no problem with late nights, but I expect escapades in trade.
I'm not even talking about the inevitable unpacking, laundry, plant watering and grocery shopping required after you've been away from home all but one of the last ten days.
No, the biggest adjustment is shifting out of vacation mode and back into real life. For me, that means running errands, finally answering work e-mails and diving back into my social calendar.
It also means catching up on over a week's worth of Washington Posts left by my intrepid delivery guy who continues to make a stop here even when I've notified him I'm out of town. Unlike the rest of the world, when I go on vacation, I stop paying attention to the larger world to focus on fun.
Sure, now that I'm back, I see that Greece is in deep doo-doo, read the gruesome details of the latest North Carolina shark attack and learned that it's now okay to take pictures on White House tours, long verboten. With any luck, I'll get to today's newspaper before going to bed tonight.
But what I also needed was friends and the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 offered me that. I got barely a block away when I first saw lightening and turned around and walked home for an umbrella before proceeding. Turns out I didn't need it, but the sidewalks were wet by the time I got out, so it did happen even if I didn't see it.
The first friend I ran into shared the latest on the house she and her partner are rehabbing slowly but surely. Boards have been removed from windows so glass and caulking can make them usable. The hydrangea I'd given her for her birthday had been planted and is blooming.
They'd collected a wood-burning stove and claw foot tub from her grandmother's house, all the more impressive because the tub will be an outdoor tub, which may be the coolest thing I've heard of in a while. Sure, I've got my own claw foot tub but it's in that most mundane of places, the bathroom.
Jameson, the organizer of the event and always the supremely serene type, was tonight a bit keyed up because it had been one mishap after another preparing for tonight.
First he hadn't been able to locate tonight's feature, "Say Ah-h!" because it was in storage in northern Virginia. Attempting to download it, his computer had been infected with a virus. Then Gallery 5's projector was on the fritz. Somehow, he'd sorted all this out and while we were now seeing another film, at least he hadn't had to cancel.
It was the first time I'd seen the teacher/music fan who'd just spent five weeks in Europe, bouncing around between Germany, Romania (Transylvania, natch), Austria and Italy. A devoted metal-head, I wasn't at all surprised to hear about the multi-day music festival he'd attended (we compared notes on Strand of Oaks since I'd seen them here while he'd seen them there).
But I couldn't have been more surprised to hear that he and his main squeeze had taken a four-hour "Sound of Music" bicycle tour in Salzburg. The funny part was that he'd never even seen the movie until deciding to book the tour, so he'd watched it just before going abroad. He got to see it all - the von Trapp mansion, the abbey and cemetery, the town - except the mountain where Maria sings to the hills. Seems that hill is in Berlin, not Salzburg. Who knew?
Tonight's crowd for the music and film was smaller than usual, probably because of the holiday weekend or even the impending rain, so I had no problem scoring a front row seat.
Instead of one film, we were seeing a bunch of animated shorts from 1907-11, created by Frenchman Emile Cohl, whom Jameson said was the first to use pen and ink drawings for animation. The earliest were white figures on a black background (meaning negatives), eventually giving way to black figures on a white background.
Providing tonight's soundtrack were DJ Harrison for the first set and DJ Ohbliv for the second, both hidden behind the movie screen. Their seamless mashups of song snippets were an ideal match for the fast-moving action in shorts such as "Affair of the Heart" with characters with hearts for heads and faces, "Art's Infancy" and "Mr. Crack" based on an operetta about Baron Munchausen.
More people arrived and a few left during the break, while I ran into a guy I'd met a few years ago and hadn't seen at all in the past year. I'm always surprised when people remember me after so much time.
The last half of the program was later work by Cohl, much of it foreshadowing the work of the surrealist and avant garde film makers of coming decades. More plot driven, they also featured much more of a mix of live action and drawn animation.
Mothers-in-law seemed to be a recurring theme, always drawn as hideous old hags with bad teeth and menacing eyes. "Let's Be Sporty" began with a figure trying to ride a horse, then drive an automobile, ride a bike and ice skate. "Nothing beats walking!" it seemed to conclude, but, walking was bested by jumping, a movement not easily captured at this stage of animation.
When the show ended, Ohbliv kept playing and Jameson queried the group, "One more?" which got him a rousing affirmative from the crowd in the room.
"The Mind of a Cafe Worker" began with a table of men drinking in a restaurant while the tired server slumped in a nearby chair (at least he wasn't on his cell phone). Once he fell asleep and began dreaming, it was about wine...and beer...and absinthe, fanciful bottles showering him in alcohol, so happy dreams. He awoke only because his patrons were squirting seltzer water bottles at him, laughing at him as the crowd laughed at them.
Classic silent films about walking and absinthe, two things I know a little about. Not a bad way to ease back into my Richmond life.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Saluting the American State
It took going to the beach to get me into my jean jacket.
When packing for this trip, I'd taken into consideration the fact that Portland was trapped under a stagnant air mass that was causing an unprecedented heat wave. Not so much in temperature (apparently they hit over 100 degrees every summer), but in duration.
So after packing a bunch of cute summer dresses and a few lightweight, crocheted cover-ups, I'd felt ready to sweat with the hipsters. Then, at the proverbial eleventh hour, I'd tossed in my jean jacket, you know, just in case.
How was I to know that the one and only place I'd need it all week was at the beach?
For our last full day in Oregon, we abandoned wine country to head to the coast along with thousands of Oregonians who hit the highways for the holiday weekend.
Fortunately, they were interesting routes that took us past a field of colorful tee-pees, a house fronted by a totem pole with an elk's head on the top and several one-lane bridges that required oncoming drivers to wait their turn. There was even a fitting holiday sign proclaiming, "God Bless the USA! Ribs * Shortcake!"
When we left the Willamette Valley, the temperature was just over 90 and the further west we headed, the further the temperature plummeted until we hit 63 degrees and I had to pull the jean jacket out of the trunk. It sure wasn't feeling like any Fourth of July celebration I'd ever had.
Arriving at Pacifica Beach, home of the dory fleet (and a host of warning signs, including one for "sneaker waves," whatever they might be. Sneaky waves that don't announce themeselves, perhaps?), we were greeted (symbolically) by a huge rock sitting just beyond the breakers, an imposing formation that screamed "west coast beach" much the way the cars on the beach and the people huddled in sweatshirts and jackets tucked in between cars for a wind break did.
Only the youngest children played at water's edge while their parents stayed warm between the rows of trucks and SUVs. When we came across three kids buried up to their necks in sand, we assumed it was for warmth. Walking down the wide beach, to our left was a huge tidal pool, in some places almost four feet deep, and far more people were playing in its considerably warmer water.
Usually I'm on the Outer Banks for this holiday week and after years of being down there, we know to expect an influx of day trippers, many in holiday-appropriate red, white and blue beach garb. Not so much in Oregon.
But what they lack in patriotic beachwear, they more than make up for in pedestrian friendliness. We'd been impressed in Portland with the way drivers stopped for pedestrians at every crosswalk, even when they had the light, but I was bowled over to see people slowing down on 45 mph roads to allow people to cross the road. As a daily walker, that's a battle I fight every day, so it was impressive to see such respect for those on foot.
Our second beach was Cannon Beach, a place with more of a resort feel, catering to people on vacation with some cash. Haystack Rock is the big photographic draw, so we obliged before taking another beach stroll.
We stopped when we saw a sign for "true oceanfront dining," although the deck was full so we took a table near a window with a view of the beach and ocean (and two screaming toddlers at the next table, but that's a different rant). With a bottle of Argyle Brut, a Dungeness crab cocktail and a cheese plate, we focused on the view not the clamor.
During the drive back to Portland, I researched dinner options and made reservations at Aviary, a pan-Asian place that had come highly recommended. Tucked into what appeared to be an office building, the sleek restaurant had a half dozen tables outside but not one was occupied.
Asking to dine al fresco, the hostess showed surprise but obliged. As one of our severs later told us, "When I saw you sitting outside I figured you weren't from Oregon." The same temperature in Richmond would all but guarantee that every patio in town would be mobbed.
Almost everyone who left the restaurant and walked by our table commented on how nice it was outside now. Their point was that when they'd arrived, it had been hot as Hades and no one would consider eating in such heat.
Whatever. When yet another person walked out making that comment, she looked to me to reassure herself. "It was ungodly hot out here," she lamented. When I asked if she was from Oregon, she said yes, paused, bit her tongue and walked on. No defense, huh?
Our meal wound up being one of the best of the week with creatively conceived dishes boasting the freshest tasting ingredients and exquisite presentation.
Beet and asparagus salad sounds pretty civilian, but this one came encased in paper-thin slices of beet wrapped around frisee, chunks of beet and spears of asparagus, all encircled by a dressing of yogurt and za'atar.
Just as pretty was a prawn salad covered in a spicy berbere crisp with lemon anchovy emulsion, paper thin slices of grape and cukes.
Dungeness crab chawanmushi was a Japanese egg custard dish, silken on the tongue, and adorned with sea urchin, Asian pear, snap peas and truffle vinaigrette. Obscenely decadent, I couldn't even finish it all.
Carrying over our Douglas Fir theme from the distillery a few days before, we also had NY strip smoked over Douglas Fir atop a plate-sized potato puree made mostly of butter and cream and taken over the top with bone marrow custard.
By the time I ordered what our server called chocolate pudding, there were only a few tables left inside, so we'd had visits from multiple servers eager to talk to us east coast types. One told us how much she enjoyed outsiders because all too often everyone she meets is from "here."
My pudding turned out to be a chocolate pot de creme with fruit compote (honestly, fruit is so plentiful here that we'd be strolling down the street and could just pull different varieties of cherries off trees as we walked along), bourbon ice cream and verbena leaves. Did I mention the ridiculously large size of the portion?
As we were downing that, one of the servers came out and sat down at a nearby table. I had a sense that he needed a break from the dining room and when another server came out to ask if he was okay, his response was, "Elitist vegan pricks!"
I could almost have guessed which group he was talking about, but I'm betting Oregon restaurants have to deal with a fair amount of picky eater pricks.
One thing they never have to deal with is being very far away from a coffee shop. To this non-coffee drinker, it's ludicrous, but the ubiquity of them ensures that if you need a latte between when you park your car and when you walk into the garden store/office building/boutique nearby, it's mere steps to get it.
Hell, we saw coffee shacks (pop-ups?) set up in parking lots of other stores. Apparently Portland has more caffeine sources than Seattle. And, no, we didn't bother with the Portland mecca that is VooDoo Doughnuts after being told by a Richmond to Portland transplant that the doughnuts are better at home.
So, then, my quest to investigate how Richmond-like Portland really is has come to an end, so it's necessarily time for me to draw some questionable conclusions.
Portland, like Richmond, seems to have stellar dining and music scenes. They can't touch us tattoo for tattoo, although I saw a fair amount of piercings and ear plugs. Flannel and plaid shirts abound, and not in an ironic way, but are they thrift finds like they would undoubtedly be in Richmond? Hard to say.
Our server one evening had on a t-shirt that read, "Oregon...the American state!" When I asked what that meant, she had no idea, she'd just liked the picture on the shirt when she found it thrifting.
Mostly, everyone seems more than happy with life as an Oregonian, radiating sunshine, lollipops and rainbows with every interaction we had with them. Even so, everyone mentioned the two months of solid rain, escalating rents (the bartender at Ned Ludd marveled at my RVA rent), the hunkering down everyone does during the gray winters, and how you just adjust to those parts of life here.
Do you? My question to each person who presented less-than-ideal aspects of Portland was, and you live here why? Because they like the other parts.
Do they seem categorically happier than Richmonders? I don't think so. We may not have the fresh-faced, lumber-sexual thing going for us, but when we go to the beach in July, we most definitely do not need a jean jacket.
And when it comes to t-shirts, if any state qualifies to be labeled "The American State," shouldn't it be the one granted statehood in 1788 (ahem, Virginia) and not the one barely sneaking in before the Civil War (Oregon in 1859)?
Okay, Oregon, I'll take your long days, pedestrian-friendliness and abundant gardens and raise you history, southern charm and tattoos. This populist omnivore Pollyanna would also happily return...for a visit.
When packing for this trip, I'd taken into consideration the fact that Portland was trapped under a stagnant air mass that was causing an unprecedented heat wave. Not so much in temperature (apparently they hit over 100 degrees every summer), but in duration.
So after packing a bunch of cute summer dresses and a few lightweight, crocheted cover-ups, I'd felt ready to sweat with the hipsters. Then, at the proverbial eleventh hour, I'd tossed in my jean jacket, you know, just in case.
How was I to know that the one and only place I'd need it all week was at the beach?
For our last full day in Oregon, we abandoned wine country to head to the coast along with thousands of Oregonians who hit the highways for the holiday weekend.
Fortunately, they were interesting routes that took us past a field of colorful tee-pees, a house fronted by a totem pole with an elk's head on the top and several one-lane bridges that required oncoming drivers to wait their turn. There was even a fitting holiday sign proclaiming, "God Bless the USA! Ribs * Shortcake!"
When we left the Willamette Valley, the temperature was just over 90 and the further west we headed, the further the temperature plummeted until we hit 63 degrees and I had to pull the jean jacket out of the trunk. It sure wasn't feeling like any Fourth of July celebration I'd ever had.
Arriving at Pacifica Beach, home of the dory fleet (and a host of warning signs, including one for "sneaker waves," whatever they might be. Sneaky waves that don't announce themeselves, perhaps?), we were greeted (symbolically) by a huge rock sitting just beyond the breakers, an imposing formation that screamed "west coast beach" much the way the cars on the beach and the people huddled in sweatshirts and jackets tucked in between cars for a wind break did.
Only the youngest children played at water's edge while their parents stayed warm between the rows of trucks and SUVs. When we came across three kids buried up to their necks in sand, we assumed it was for warmth. Walking down the wide beach, to our left was a huge tidal pool, in some places almost four feet deep, and far more people were playing in its considerably warmer water.
Usually I'm on the Outer Banks for this holiday week and after years of being down there, we know to expect an influx of day trippers, many in holiday-appropriate red, white and blue beach garb. Not so much in Oregon.
But what they lack in patriotic beachwear, they more than make up for in pedestrian friendliness. We'd been impressed in Portland with the way drivers stopped for pedestrians at every crosswalk, even when they had the light, but I was bowled over to see people slowing down on 45 mph roads to allow people to cross the road. As a daily walker, that's a battle I fight every day, so it was impressive to see such respect for those on foot.
Our second beach was Cannon Beach, a place with more of a resort feel, catering to people on vacation with some cash. Haystack Rock is the big photographic draw, so we obliged before taking another beach stroll.
We stopped when we saw a sign for "true oceanfront dining," although the deck was full so we took a table near a window with a view of the beach and ocean (and two screaming toddlers at the next table, but that's a different rant). With a bottle of Argyle Brut, a Dungeness crab cocktail and a cheese plate, we focused on the view not the clamor.
During the drive back to Portland, I researched dinner options and made reservations at Aviary, a pan-Asian place that had come highly recommended. Tucked into what appeared to be an office building, the sleek restaurant had a half dozen tables outside but not one was occupied.
Asking to dine al fresco, the hostess showed surprise but obliged. As one of our severs later told us, "When I saw you sitting outside I figured you weren't from Oregon." The same temperature in Richmond would all but guarantee that every patio in town would be mobbed.
Almost everyone who left the restaurant and walked by our table commented on how nice it was outside now. Their point was that when they'd arrived, it had been hot as Hades and no one would consider eating in such heat.
Whatever. When yet another person walked out making that comment, she looked to me to reassure herself. "It was ungodly hot out here," she lamented. When I asked if she was from Oregon, she said yes, paused, bit her tongue and walked on. No defense, huh?
Our meal wound up being one of the best of the week with creatively conceived dishes boasting the freshest tasting ingredients and exquisite presentation.
Beet and asparagus salad sounds pretty civilian, but this one came encased in paper-thin slices of beet wrapped around frisee, chunks of beet and spears of asparagus, all encircled by a dressing of yogurt and za'atar.
Just as pretty was a prawn salad covered in a spicy berbere crisp with lemon anchovy emulsion, paper thin slices of grape and cukes.
Dungeness crab chawanmushi was a Japanese egg custard dish, silken on the tongue, and adorned with sea urchin, Asian pear, snap peas and truffle vinaigrette. Obscenely decadent, I couldn't even finish it all.
Carrying over our Douglas Fir theme from the distillery a few days before, we also had NY strip smoked over Douglas Fir atop a plate-sized potato puree made mostly of butter and cream and taken over the top with bone marrow custard.
By the time I ordered what our server called chocolate pudding, there were only a few tables left inside, so we'd had visits from multiple servers eager to talk to us east coast types. One told us how much she enjoyed outsiders because all too often everyone she meets is from "here."
My pudding turned out to be a chocolate pot de creme with fruit compote (honestly, fruit is so plentiful here that we'd be strolling down the street and could just pull different varieties of cherries off trees as we walked along), bourbon ice cream and verbena leaves. Did I mention the ridiculously large size of the portion?
As we were downing that, one of the servers came out and sat down at a nearby table. I had a sense that he needed a break from the dining room and when another server came out to ask if he was okay, his response was, "Elitist vegan pricks!"
I could almost have guessed which group he was talking about, but I'm betting Oregon restaurants have to deal with a fair amount of picky eater pricks.
One thing they never have to deal with is being very far away from a coffee shop. To this non-coffee drinker, it's ludicrous, but the ubiquity of them ensures that if you need a latte between when you park your car and when you walk into the garden store/office building/boutique nearby, it's mere steps to get it.
Hell, we saw coffee shacks (pop-ups?) set up in parking lots of other stores. Apparently Portland has more caffeine sources than Seattle. And, no, we didn't bother with the Portland mecca that is VooDoo Doughnuts after being told by a Richmond to Portland transplant that the doughnuts are better at home.
So, then, my quest to investigate how Richmond-like Portland really is has come to an end, so it's necessarily time for me to draw some questionable conclusions.
Portland, like Richmond, seems to have stellar dining and music scenes. They can't touch us tattoo for tattoo, although I saw a fair amount of piercings and ear plugs. Flannel and plaid shirts abound, and not in an ironic way, but are they thrift finds like they would undoubtedly be in Richmond? Hard to say.
Our server one evening had on a t-shirt that read, "Oregon...the American state!" When I asked what that meant, she had no idea, she'd just liked the picture on the shirt when she found it thrifting.
Mostly, everyone seems more than happy with life as an Oregonian, radiating sunshine, lollipops and rainbows with every interaction we had with them. Even so, everyone mentioned the two months of solid rain, escalating rents (the bartender at Ned Ludd marveled at my RVA rent), the hunkering down everyone does during the gray winters, and how you just adjust to those parts of life here.
Do you? My question to each person who presented less-than-ideal aspects of Portland was, and you live here why? Because they like the other parts.
Do they seem categorically happier than Richmonders? I don't think so. We may not have the fresh-faced, lumber-sexual thing going for us, but when we go to the beach in July, we most definitely do not need a jean jacket.
And when it comes to t-shirts, if any state qualifies to be labeled "The American State," shouldn't it be the one granted statehood in 1788 (ahem, Virginia) and not the one barely sneaking in before the Civil War (Oregon in 1859)?
Okay, Oregon, I'll take your long days, pedestrian-friendliness and abundant gardens and raise you history, southern charm and tattoos. This populist omnivore Pollyanna would also happily return...for a visit.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
On Oregon Time
This is the hottest part of the day and it takes some getting used to.
Forget that mid-afternoon east coast heat thing, here heat reigns supreme from 5 on, a fact I need to remind my brain daily. Several people have confirmed it to us.
Out on a brief morning walk (which took me by a side street gun shop, what the hell, Oregon?), I passed a guy wearing a Lamb of God t-shirt. Instead of saying good morning, I said I was from Richmond, Virginia. I got a delighted grin and laughter in return..
But I can't be out walking and making commentary on locals all day, because we had wine to taste. Today's first stop was St. Innocent, where a funny and charming winemaker named Mark regaled us with all kinds of stories.
The name comes from a relative whose middle name was Innocent, a fact he kept hidden because of some big St. Innocent Day massacre (see how historically educational travel can be?) which gave the name a negative connotation for years.
Like many winemakers out here, he liked to brag about his highest elevation vineyards, but I was also struck by his vocabulary for describing wine, which knew no limits. Best description of a wine heard all day: "It's complex. It's an intellectual orgasm in your mouth."
When it was time to leave, we asked for a lunch recommendation and he supplied one. "You can plug it into your GPS or I could draw you a map," he offered. Of course I took him up on the map drawing, watching as he made wavy lines for the river and misspelled "corthouse."
I had him sign it and it's my favorite souvenir of the trip so far.
But he was right on about Kitchen on Court, a Belgian chef-driven spot in Salem with hand-cut burgers that alone were worth the trip. Around us, young legislative aid types took stock of each other and asked questions like, "Will you be at my party this weekend?"
At Left Coast Winery, we met Luke, a much younger winemaker, who piled us into his truck for a vineyard tour to show off his "babies."
Even more fun were the owners, a delightful couple, both of whom took to me like a fat kid to cake. She used to work in publishing, so we talked Richard Brautigan's "The Pill versus the Springjhll Mining Disaster," how she'd met Ferlinghetti and why Leonard Cohen currently yours the coast ("Suzanne is an amazing song still").
Her husband, a taciturn man with a wry wit and piercing blue eyes, made sure my glass stayed filled and smiled at me a lot.
It was coming back through the shank of the early evening, meaning the hottest part of the day, that I once again had to recalibrate my brain to deal with the endless sunshine and heat.
Where exactly are these gray Oregon skies we've been brainwashed to expect?
While I got a disco nap, my partner in crime went to a nearby tasting room to gather intel, returning with explicit instructions from a local to find the 411 and try their steamed clams.
He was right, the enormous bowl of fat clams was outstanding, as was my seafood saute with shrimp, clams and halibut in a broth of butter and white wine. The little restaurant was a gem with terrific food, ridiculously low prices on food and wine and an affable server who was in no rush.
Nor are we, given it's vacation. We closed out the evening at a local billiards bar of which we'd been warned not to go in there after 6:00. On walking in, we found a guy wrestling another in his underwear. Outside, a couple sobbed in each other's arms. The people-watching was extraordinary, the drinks cheap. We got front row seats to it all.
Today began at the Elizabeth Chambers tasting room a few blocks away. We'd missed our appointment yesterday, so today we came bearing locally baked cookies to make up for it.
Our pourer was an Oregon come-here who'd fallen hard for the land of mossy rooves and gray skies. She spoke of keeping Oregon's wine scene small, extolling the pleasures of working in a tiny boutique winery after serving time in one of the big boys.
She was the best kind of advertisement for the pleasures of Oregon's laid back, groovy winemaking scene. Here, everyone is on "Oregon time," it seems.
At Sass Winery, we got to meet Jerry and Jerry, the father and son team who make a limited supply of wines in a building that would fit inside some other wineries' stock rooms.
On the white board calendar was a notation for today, "Tasting 1:30." that referred to us. Pulling fresh bottles down from the stacks of wine in cartons, he poured his wines for us in the middle of his work space.
Sass won my heart for being the real deal, by far the smallest and simplest of all the wine outfits we visited. Jerry the elder cracked me up with his definition of most winemakers: "Boring people with big egos."
By the way, he's the winemaker, too.
He led us back to where barrels of wine sat aging, extracting tastes from various vineyards to demonstrate differences in locations, clones and vintages.
It was funny because his son Jerry had left for lunch not long after we'd arrived. When he returned, he put classical music on the sound system and immediately got to work. Father Jerry grinned at us. "Thanks for being here or it would have been hip hop at 80 or 89 decibels. Can you stay?"
Alas, no, it was time to fuel up and his lunch recommendation was Acme, a diner-like place where we had Old Bay-spiced Oregon shrimp cakes (only 2800 miles to eat Old Bay, go figure) and then carbed up to classic rock.
We'd passed Mel's Ice cream every day since we got to wine country and today I'd been promised a visit. The place claimed to be only 30 years old but had the patina of dirt and cutesies that seemed to indicate a much older tenure in the space.
Waiting for our ice creams to come out we noticed a glass wall with bars on the side and, sure enough, there was a live monkey inside. Grated, he was half hidden ina towel as if to stay out of sight of gawking tourists, but definitely live. Why Alf's is home to wildlife, we have no idea. Must be an Oregon thing.
Like this crazy evening heat that's got me carrying an umbrella to walk down sunny streets. Going to dinner at 9:00 in full daylight. By the time I'm finally adjusted to the Oregonian way, it'll be time to go home.
Pity. Next trip out this way, I intend to carry a pink parasol.
Forget that mid-afternoon east coast heat thing, here heat reigns supreme from 5 on, a fact I need to remind my brain daily. Several people have confirmed it to us.
Out on a brief morning walk (which took me by a side street gun shop, what the hell, Oregon?), I passed a guy wearing a Lamb of God t-shirt. Instead of saying good morning, I said I was from Richmond, Virginia. I got a delighted grin and laughter in return..
But I can't be out walking and making commentary on locals all day, because we had wine to taste. Today's first stop was St. Innocent, where a funny and charming winemaker named Mark regaled us with all kinds of stories.
The name comes from a relative whose middle name was Innocent, a fact he kept hidden because of some big St. Innocent Day massacre (see how historically educational travel can be?) which gave the name a negative connotation for years.
Like many winemakers out here, he liked to brag about his highest elevation vineyards, but I was also struck by his vocabulary for describing wine, which knew no limits. Best description of a wine heard all day: "It's complex. It's an intellectual orgasm in your mouth."
When it was time to leave, we asked for a lunch recommendation and he supplied one. "You can plug it into your GPS or I could draw you a map," he offered. Of course I took him up on the map drawing, watching as he made wavy lines for the river and misspelled "corthouse."
I had him sign it and it's my favorite souvenir of the trip so far.
But he was right on about Kitchen on Court, a Belgian chef-driven spot in Salem with hand-cut burgers that alone were worth the trip. Around us, young legislative aid types took stock of each other and asked questions like, "Will you be at my party this weekend?"
At Left Coast Winery, we met Luke, a much younger winemaker, who piled us into his truck for a vineyard tour to show off his "babies."
Even more fun were the owners, a delightful couple, both of whom took to me like a fat kid to cake. She used to work in publishing, so we talked Richard Brautigan's "The Pill versus the Springjhll Mining Disaster," how she'd met Ferlinghetti and why Leonard Cohen currently yours the coast ("Suzanne is an amazing song still").
Her husband, a taciturn man with a wry wit and piercing blue eyes, made sure my glass stayed filled and smiled at me a lot.
It was coming back through the shank of the early evening, meaning the hottest part of the day, that I once again had to recalibrate my brain to deal with the endless sunshine and heat.
Where exactly are these gray Oregon skies we've been brainwashed to expect?
While I got a disco nap, my partner in crime went to a nearby tasting room to gather intel, returning with explicit instructions from a local to find the 411 and try their steamed clams.
He was right, the enormous bowl of fat clams was outstanding, as was my seafood saute with shrimp, clams and halibut in a broth of butter and white wine. The little restaurant was a gem with terrific food, ridiculously low prices on food and wine and an affable server who was in no rush.
Nor are we, given it's vacation. We closed out the evening at a local billiards bar of which we'd been warned not to go in there after 6:00. On walking in, we found a guy wrestling another in his underwear. Outside, a couple sobbed in each other's arms. The people-watching was extraordinary, the drinks cheap. We got front row seats to it all.
Today began at the Elizabeth Chambers tasting room a few blocks away. We'd missed our appointment yesterday, so today we came bearing locally baked cookies to make up for it.
Our pourer was an Oregon come-here who'd fallen hard for the land of mossy rooves and gray skies. She spoke of keeping Oregon's wine scene small, extolling the pleasures of working in a tiny boutique winery after serving time in one of the big boys.
She was the best kind of advertisement for the pleasures of Oregon's laid back, groovy winemaking scene. Here, everyone is on "Oregon time," it seems.
At Sass Winery, we got to meet Jerry and Jerry, the father and son team who make a limited supply of wines in a building that would fit inside some other wineries' stock rooms.
On the white board calendar was a notation for today, "Tasting 1:30." that referred to us. Pulling fresh bottles down from the stacks of wine in cartons, he poured his wines for us in the middle of his work space.
Sass won my heart for being the real deal, by far the smallest and simplest of all the wine outfits we visited. Jerry the elder cracked me up with his definition of most winemakers: "Boring people with big egos."
By the way, he's the winemaker, too.
He led us back to where barrels of wine sat aging, extracting tastes from various vineyards to demonstrate differences in locations, clones and vintages.
It was funny because his son Jerry had left for lunch not long after we'd arrived. When he returned, he put classical music on the sound system and immediately got to work. Father Jerry grinned at us. "Thanks for being here or it would have been hip hop at 80 or 89 decibels. Can you stay?"
Alas, no, it was time to fuel up and his lunch recommendation was Acme, a diner-like place where we had Old Bay-spiced Oregon shrimp cakes (only 2800 miles to eat Old Bay, go figure) and then carbed up to classic rock.
We'd passed Mel's Ice cream every day since we got to wine country and today I'd been promised a visit. The place claimed to be only 30 years old but had the patina of dirt and cutesies that seemed to indicate a much older tenure in the space.
Waiting for our ice creams to come out we noticed a glass wall with bars on the side and, sure enough, there was a live monkey inside. Grated, he was half hidden ina towel as if to stay out of sight of gawking tourists, but definitely live. Why Alf's is home to wildlife, we have no idea. Must be an Oregon thing.
Like this crazy evening heat that's got me carrying an umbrella to walk down sunny streets. Going to dinner at 9:00 in full daylight. By the time I'm finally adjusted to the Oregonian way, it'll be time to go home.
Pity. Next trip out this way, I intend to carry a pink parasol.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Leaping Seconds
Portland's in the rear view mirror and the Willamette Valley was in our sights.
You can't very well be a wine lover and come to Oregon without heading to the Willamette, dammit. Nor can you go to an 11 a.m. winery tour without breakfast in your belly.
Fortunately, we spotted the Babica Hen Cafe in Dundee promising local, passionate and from scratch, all pretty much standard in this state. Yeast waffles were as light as advertised but it was the blueberry jam (and butter, lots of butter) that made the waffle. Okay and the thick-cut local bacon.
We were greeted at Domaine Serene by a knowledgeable man whose first question was music to my ears: "Breakfast Rose?" Don't mind if I do sip a lovely Rose of Pinot Noir while you talk about tanks and stamp collections (his, not mine).
Carrying water while we sipped wine, he toured us through the high-priced set-up which included five stories of tank rooms, bottling facilities, production rooms and a separate "mad scientists" office where top secret tasting and blending decisions were made.
My girl parts were gratified to hear that some of the mad scientists were of the female persuasion.
Our guide took particular delight in getting me to identify and say "bung hole" once we arrived in a barrel room, admitting that he usually picks on a mild-mannered woman in a tour group (we were two, so he was limited to me) and has her say it for the pleasure of hearing her say something she doesn't intend to.
Bung hole, bung hole, there I said it repeatedly.
Wines aside, the highlights were the life sized sculpture of a woolly mammoth and discovering a tiny bird resting on the floor of a porch in the sun. He not only allowed me to walk around him but photograph him repeatedly.
But I can't really say winery (or wines) aside because this place was incredible with various ages of vineyards surrounding the family estate and tasting room, all with extensive gardens everywhere.
I'll give Oregon that, they're no slackers in the garden department. Roses, lilies, true geraniums, balloon flowers and daisies seem to be in every plantable plot.
Ditto Sokol Blosser, with its rough hewn pine tasting room and porches spanning both sides. After tasting through their offerings, we bought glasses of "Evolution" Sparkling and took them to a shady porch to sip while marveling at the vista of vineyards and solar collectors, mountains in the background.
Our lunch destination had come by way of a suggestion from the woman who'd tasted us through at Clear Creek Distillery, who'd insisted we stop at Red Hills Market, a pizza/sandwich joint, beer/wine shop and specialty market.
We got there after 2, but so did lots of other wine tourists, including the adorable older guy in front of me in line who made a strong case for trying the chocolate-covered macaroons. First there was a sandwich of Italian salami, arugula and Provolone on a crusty roll with a Crater Lake root beer, enjoyed while taking in the hustle and bustle of the hip little store and its non-stop parade of all ages of hungry people.
The amusing guy who'd toured us through the first winery had boasted of once making it to 12 wineries in one day, a personal best. Yes, he admitted that it had been necessary to have his girlfriend collect him at the end of the day, but, still. Twelve?
Our goal was three, the final one being Argyle, known for their bubbles and, at least according to staff and the letters on the wall, a popular choice at White House dinners for some years now.
One of us chose the bubbles tasting (hello, have you met me?) and the other the Pinot Noir tasting, making for quite the contrast as we tasted the offerings of both. The tasting room was small and quaint and looked all but closed behind a construction fence because the new and improved tasting room out back is about to open in a month.
So we'll always have Argyle version 1.0 as a fond memory.
A short drive put us in McMinville where the quirky Hotel Oregon welcomed us with music show posters framed on the walls, named rooms (we're in 418, the Wine Pioneers room, meaning four sketches of of pioneering Oregon winemakers drawn on the wall along with quotes from them on another) and a rooftop bar.
After dinner at a local Mexican joint with highly dramatic Mexican music playing, we climbed five flights to the roof only to find three levels of decking and a superb view of the sun going down behind the mountains.
Impressive as a good West coast sunset is, the absolute coolest part for this east coast girl is the amount of daylight. Even at 10 p.m., the sky is still a medium blue and stars are just showing themselves.
Tonight was the big night where Jupiter and Venus were converging, so we admired that, eventually learning from a nearby guest that it was Regulus hovering just above the bright convergence of the two planets.
We'd quasi-met the man with the superior astronomy app when he'd first shown up because I'd been struck by the Washington Redskins jersey he'd been wearing. In Oregon. Forgetting societal niceties, I'd unabashedly asked him where he was from when I'd seen that shirt.
Answer: Grandpa had grown up in D.C. and this guy had spent two years in North Carolina. Ah, that explains that.
The rooftop proved to be a lovely place to sip tequila and admire the night sky and the bar's kitschy outdoor light fixtures, all of which seemed to pay homage to the Jetsons. That's not as surprising at it seems because McMinnville hosts an annual UFO Festival every year.
I know this because not only does the hotel boast old posters about it, but we also saw a "No parking" sign from the UFO festival laying on the ground, a testament to the concessions made for Martians and the like.
Tonight, fireworks went off a few blocks away as we sipped on the deck, a reminder that June is all but gone and July just over one of the mountains.
No humidity, such late daylight and today's Leap Second. I like the Willamette, dammit.
You can't very well be a wine lover and come to Oregon without heading to the Willamette, dammit. Nor can you go to an 11 a.m. winery tour without breakfast in your belly.
Fortunately, we spotted the Babica Hen Cafe in Dundee promising local, passionate and from scratch, all pretty much standard in this state. Yeast waffles were as light as advertised but it was the blueberry jam (and butter, lots of butter) that made the waffle. Okay and the thick-cut local bacon.
We were greeted at Domaine Serene by a knowledgeable man whose first question was music to my ears: "Breakfast Rose?" Don't mind if I do sip a lovely Rose of Pinot Noir while you talk about tanks and stamp collections (his, not mine).
Carrying water while we sipped wine, he toured us through the high-priced set-up which included five stories of tank rooms, bottling facilities, production rooms and a separate "mad scientists" office where top secret tasting and blending decisions were made.
My girl parts were gratified to hear that some of the mad scientists were of the female persuasion.
Our guide took particular delight in getting me to identify and say "bung hole" once we arrived in a barrel room, admitting that he usually picks on a mild-mannered woman in a tour group (we were two, so he was limited to me) and has her say it for the pleasure of hearing her say something she doesn't intend to.
Bung hole, bung hole, there I said it repeatedly.
Wines aside, the highlights were the life sized sculpture of a woolly mammoth and discovering a tiny bird resting on the floor of a porch in the sun. He not only allowed me to walk around him but photograph him repeatedly.
But I can't really say winery (or wines) aside because this place was incredible with various ages of vineyards surrounding the family estate and tasting room, all with extensive gardens everywhere.
I'll give Oregon that, they're no slackers in the garden department. Roses, lilies, true geraniums, balloon flowers and daisies seem to be in every plantable plot.
Ditto Sokol Blosser, with its rough hewn pine tasting room and porches spanning both sides. After tasting through their offerings, we bought glasses of "Evolution" Sparkling and took them to a shady porch to sip while marveling at the vista of vineyards and solar collectors, mountains in the background.
Our lunch destination had come by way of a suggestion from the woman who'd tasted us through at Clear Creek Distillery, who'd insisted we stop at Red Hills Market, a pizza/sandwich joint, beer/wine shop and specialty market.
We got there after 2, but so did lots of other wine tourists, including the adorable older guy in front of me in line who made a strong case for trying the chocolate-covered macaroons. First there was a sandwich of Italian salami, arugula and Provolone on a crusty roll with a Crater Lake root beer, enjoyed while taking in the hustle and bustle of the hip little store and its non-stop parade of all ages of hungry people.
The amusing guy who'd toured us through the first winery had boasted of once making it to 12 wineries in one day, a personal best. Yes, he admitted that it had been necessary to have his girlfriend collect him at the end of the day, but, still. Twelve?
Our goal was three, the final one being Argyle, known for their bubbles and, at least according to staff and the letters on the wall, a popular choice at White House dinners for some years now.
One of us chose the bubbles tasting (hello, have you met me?) and the other the Pinot Noir tasting, making for quite the contrast as we tasted the offerings of both. The tasting room was small and quaint and looked all but closed behind a construction fence because the new and improved tasting room out back is about to open in a month.
So we'll always have Argyle version 1.0 as a fond memory.
A short drive put us in McMinville where the quirky Hotel Oregon welcomed us with music show posters framed on the walls, named rooms (we're in 418, the Wine Pioneers room, meaning four sketches of of pioneering Oregon winemakers drawn on the wall along with quotes from them on another) and a rooftop bar.
After dinner at a local Mexican joint with highly dramatic Mexican music playing, we climbed five flights to the roof only to find three levels of decking and a superb view of the sun going down behind the mountains.
Impressive as a good West coast sunset is, the absolute coolest part for this east coast girl is the amount of daylight. Even at 10 p.m., the sky is still a medium blue and stars are just showing themselves.
Tonight was the big night where Jupiter and Venus were converging, so we admired that, eventually learning from a nearby guest that it was Regulus hovering just above the bright convergence of the two planets.
We'd quasi-met the man with the superior astronomy app when he'd first shown up because I'd been struck by the Washington Redskins jersey he'd been wearing. In Oregon. Forgetting societal niceties, I'd unabashedly asked him where he was from when I'd seen that shirt.
Answer: Grandpa had grown up in D.C. and this guy had spent two years in North Carolina. Ah, that explains that.
The rooftop proved to be a lovely place to sip tequila and admire the night sky and the bar's kitschy outdoor light fixtures, all of which seemed to pay homage to the Jetsons. That's not as surprising at it seems because McMinnville hosts an annual UFO Festival every year.
I know this because not only does the hotel boast old posters about it, but we also saw a "No parking" sign from the UFO festival laying on the ground, a testament to the concessions made for Martians and the like.
Tonight, fireworks went off a few blocks away as we sipped on the deck, a reminder that June is all but gone and July just over one of the mountains.
No humidity, such late daylight and today's Leap Second. I like the Willamette, dammit.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Sunnyside Lit Up
Conclusion so far: Portland is only somewhat like Richmond.
Zillions of restaurants, so come meal time we have our pick. Last night we ate at Ned Ludd, a "craft kitchen" where everything, and I mean everything, is cooked in a wood-burning fireplace that dominates the dining room.
Axes and cut wood greeted us at the door. No kidding. Beer was poured into Mason jars, if you can believe that.
The low-tech cooking method was only part of the reason I chose it. The other is because it's named after the guy who resisted technology during the industrial revolution, causing those who turn their back on it to be called Luddites.
For the record, I am a proud Luddite, amazing Portlandia types by telling them I have (gasp!) no cell phone.
We couldn't resist drinking local with Love and Squalor Rose (of Gewurztraminer, no less), a barely salmon pink Rose made all the more desirable for the mere 60 cases produced, the kind of thing that would never make it to the east coast.
After charcuterie, whole trout, cabbage and a chocolate chip cookie cooked in that brick oven (delivered with a glass of milk for dunking), we headed to Mississippi Studios to see a show.
The venue was cool with Oriental rugs over concrete floors and a seated balcony which we bypassed for the floor. On the bill was The Family Crest, a San Francisco band I'd seen on NPR's Tiny Desk concerts series last year.
The septet was so full of youthful enthusiasm and classical talent - violin, trombone, drums, bass, guitar, cello, piano/flute - and their orchestral pop infected the crowd like pot brownies, causing them to dance and sway with the music. We heard new material, Tiny Desk repeats and a cover of a Yeah, Yeah, Yeah song, "Maps." Standout evening and it was a frickin' Sunday
At breakfast this morning, it was bagel sandwiches and the Archies singing, "Sugar, Sugar," a song so notable the woman next to us felt compelled to comment about it.
Bumpersticker seen today:
Dance.
Grow things.
Try not to be a dick.
This is what Portlandia aspires to, not that I'm judging.
We made two trips, one successful, one not, to Clear Creek Distillery for a tasting of liqueurs, grappas, brandy and even a whiskey. When I chose to taste the pale green Eau de Vie of Douglas Fir, our taster commented, "You'll definitely be tasting Christmas tree for the next hour.
If it's possible to drink a Christmas tree, this was it. I have to admit, I kind of liked it.
The being a tourist part has been oh-so nature-centered today, with visits to the Japanese garden and Rose Test Garden, the former a breathtaking study in contemplation, water and repose and the latter a riot of colors and fragrances.
I can't agree with the People's Choice, though, because a licorice-scented rose just doesn't do it for me.
After lunch at Broder - because why come to Portland if you're not going to eat Swedish food? - a transplanted Portlandia-ite suggested the Space Room, easily the darkest dive bar I've ever been to, followed by the Sapphire Hotel Bar, a swankier stop with club chairs and no Fleetwood Mac videos playing.
Since there's nothing like spending an afternoon on a Sunnyside (the name of the neighborhood) porch, we spent hours doing just that, talking about the recent nude bike ride and why not living together is the best thing a devoted couple can do.
Over dinner at Irving Street Kitchen, we saw a server spill a purple drink on a guest's white dress, a woman refuse to eat her fried chicken because it was too spicy and a couple discussing the oceanography classes they'd both taken (what are the chances?), all the while enjoying a an exquisite chilled sweet corn soup, the most perfectly cooked halibut a mouth could hope for and meatballs with Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and gravy.
Best of all, daylight here lasts until almost 10:00, making for evenings that stretch out much longer than at home. Tonight, eating outside on the patio, a practically full moon kept us company as we absorbed more Portlandia goings-on.
Yet to dance, growing things are everywhere and, for the most part, people have been anything but dick-like. Portland and its pines have been fun.
Also, note to Richmonders: drinking Christmas trees is under-rated.
Zillions of restaurants, so come meal time we have our pick. Last night we ate at Ned Ludd, a "craft kitchen" where everything, and I mean everything, is cooked in a wood-burning fireplace that dominates the dining room.
Axes and cut wood greeted us at the door. No kidding. Beer was poured into Mason jars, if you can believe that.
The low-tech cooking method was only part of the reason I chose it. The other is because it's named after the guy who resisted technology during the industrial revolution, causing those who turn their back on it to be called Luddites.
For the record, I am a proud Luddite, amazing Portlandia types by telling them I have (gasp!) no cell phone.
We couldn't resist drinking local with Love and Squalor Rose (of Gewurztraminer, no less), a barely salmon pink Rose made all the more desirable for the mere 60 cases produced, the kind of thing that would never make it to the east coast.
After charcuterie, whole trout, cabbage and a chocolate chip cookie cooked in that brick oven (delivered with a glass of milk for dunking), we headed to Mississippi Studios to see a show.
The venue was cool with Oriental rugs over concrete floors and a seated balcony which we bypassed for the floor. On the bill was The Family Crest, a San Francisco band I'd seen on NPR's Tiny Desk concerts series last year.
The septet was so full of youthful enthusiasm and classical talent - violin, trombone, drums, bass, guitar, cello, piano/flute - and their orchestral pop infected the crowd like pot brownies, causing them to dance and sway with the music. We heard new material, Tiny Desk repeats and a cover of a Yeah, Yeah, Yeah song, "Maps." Standout evening and it was a frickin' Sunday
At breakfast this morning, it was bagel sandwiches and the Archies singing, "Sugar, Sugar," a song so notable the woman next to us felt compelled to comment about it.
Bumpersticker seen today:
Dance.
Grow things.
Try not to be a dick.
This is what Portlandia aspires to, not that I'm judging.
We made two trips, one successful, one not, to Clear Creek Distillery for a tasting of liqueurs, grappas, brandy and even a whiskey. When I chose to taste the pale green Eau de Vie of Douglas Fir, our taster commented, "You'll definitely be tasting Christmas tree for the next hour.
If it's possible to drink a Christmas tree, this was it. I have to admit, I kind of liked it.
The being a tourist part has been oh-so nature-centered today, with visits to the Japanese garden and Rose Test Garden, the former a breathtaking study in contemplation, water and repose and the latter a riot of colors and fragrances.
I can't agree with the People's Choice, though, because a licorice-scented rose just doesn't do it for me.
After lunch at Broder - because why come to Portland if you're not going to eat Swedish food? - a transplanted Portlandia-ite suggested the Space Room, easily the darkest dive bar I've ever been to, followed by the Sapphire Hotel Bar, a swankier stop with club chairs and no Fleetwood Mac videos playing.
Since there's nothing like spending an afternoon on a Sunnyside (the name of the neighborhood) porch, we spent hours doing just that, talking about the recent nude bike ride and why not living together is the best thing a devoted couple can do.
Over dinner at Irving Street Kitchen, we saw a server spill a purple drink on a guest's white dress, a woman refuse to eat her fried chicken because it was too spicy and a couple discussing the oceanography classes they'd both taken (what are the chances?), all the while enjoying a an exquisite chilled sweet corn soup, the most perfectly cooked halibut a mouth could hope for and meatballs with Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and gravy.
Best of all, daylight here lasts until almost 10:00, making for evenings that stretch out much longer than at home. Tonight, eating outside on the patio, a practically full moon kept us company as we absorbed more Portlandia goings-on.
Yet to dance, growing things are everywhere and, for the most part, people have been anything but dick-like. Portland and its pines have been fun.
Also, note to Richmonders: drinking Christmas trees is under-rated.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Hilltop Flyer
Portland's giving me a hell of a view.
Our Air B 'n B digs are in a posh house that's perched at the top of Nob Hill in what's called Hillside because it is. Sort of an Arts and Crafts-style house - dark wood floors and window frames, four or five levels and unusually-shaped windows everywhere - it's got a view only swells could afford.
From the balcony off the music room (black grand piano) unfolds a panorama encompassing the bridge, city and more pine trees than I've ever seen in one place. They're so ubiquitous that when we were downtown earlier, I spotted the pointed tops of pines between high rise buildings.
One reason I was eager to come to Portland is because of years of hearing how similar it is to Richmond, meaning I expected beards, tattoos and skinny jeans. Check, check and check.
What I didn't anticipate was how seriously they take their Portlandia status. An ad for chewing tobacco touted, "Portland only does local," meaning, I guess, that even dip aficionados can expect chaw from these here hills.
My newest past time is reading people's chests because apparently, they wear their thoughts. To wit, "Suck, Feattle." I didn't even know what that meant at first. "Beach, please?" is no doubt a nod to Portland's current heatwave, which is wilting locals used to far more temperate summers. "No pity in the Rose City" is, we're guessing, a sports reference since there was a soccer game today with many people sporting team scarves.
While I knew in advance that it's called the City of Roses, after two walkabouts, it's easy to see why. Enormous rose bushes are in bloom everywhere, evident even last night when we walked to dinner in the dark because it seems that Portland, or at least Hillside, eschews street lights. It's dark in these here neighborhoods.
Last night's dinner at Papa Haydn's featured a savvy server, Argyle Brut to celebrate our arrival and a savory bread pudding with roasted corn, onions, chives and a blackberry compote to die for.
The local Argyle is notable because at brunch today at Rose & Raven, there was a bottle of it on the bar and written on it was, "Thanks for participating in bubbles week." Wouldn't it be something to think that Richmond might take a page from Portland and institute a bubbles week with featured sparklings all over town? A girl can dream, can't she?
Our brunch sparkler was Monmousseau Brut Rose, which went well with my farmer's market quiche, bacon and salad, savored in a LEEDS-certified former carriage house with great charm. So far, everyone's been friendly and oh-so helpful about making suggestions for the visiting Richmond contingent.
I'm not going to lie, the walk back up Hillside from town is not for the faint of heart or out-of-shape, but I love the advantage it gives me in eating and drinking at will. Add in that around every corner is a new view, interesting architecture and lush gardens and it's a recipe for walking. Today we encountered a huge sculpture of a duck (goose?), made entirely of metal objects and parts such as baking pans, car grills and spatulas.
Their downtown was about as deserted as Richmond's on a Sunday, but that didn't stop us from walking through parks (both the one originally designated for men and the one for women...we mustn't mix our sexes in the park, my dear) and over to the Portland Art Museum.
Richmond's VMFA wins this one hands down. Despite work from Fragonard, Boucher, Delacroix, Corbet, Rousseau and Boudin, it was a bit thin, at least from what we saw.
Everyone insisted we needed to visit Powell's Book Store and let me tell you what. Powell's is paralyzing. Walking into a book store that spans a block and multiple floors and even a book devotee such as myself is immobilized. I contented myself with browsing the Portland table before crying uncle and leaving.
Climbing the hill to our temporary home, I spotted many windows open and fans oscillating just inside. Oregonians are clearly withering under the heat, which by Richmond standards is negligible, as is the humidity.
A girl on a bike struggled to carry a box fan still in the box as she pedaled. Earlier we'd passed a sign for the "skate route," with a skateboarder symbol.
Work it, Portland. You're like Richmond on steroids with less ink.
Our Air B 'n B digs are in a posh house that's perched at the top of Nob Hill in what's called Hillside because it is. Sort of an Arts and Crafts-style house - dark wood floors and window frames, four or five levels and unusually-shaped windows everywhere - it's got a view only swells could afford.
From the balcony off the music room (black grand piano) unfolds a panorama encompassing the bridge, city and more pine trees than I've ever seen in one place. They're so ubiquitous that when we were downtown earlier, I spotted the pointed tops of pines between high rise buildings.
One reason I was eager to come to Portland is because of years of hearing how similar it is to Richmond, meaning I expected beards, tattoos and skinny jeans. Check, check and check.
What I didn't anticipate was how seriously they take their Portlandia status. An ad for chewing tobacco touted, "Portland only does local," meaning, I guess, that even dip aficionados can expect chaw from these here hills.
My newest past time is reading people's chests because apparently, they wear their thoughts. To wit, "Suck, Feattle." I didn't even know what that meant at first. "Beach, please?" is no doubt a nod to Portland's current heatwave, which is wilting locals used to far more temperate summers. "No pity in the Rose City" is, we're guessing, a sports reference since there was a soccer game today with many people sporting team scarves.
While I knew in advance that it's called the City of Roses, after two walkabouts, it's easy to see why. Enormous rose bushes are in bloom everywhere, evident even last night when we walked to dinner in the dark because it seems that Portland, or at least Hillside, eschews street lights. It's dark in these here neighborhoods.
Last night's dinner at Papa Haydn's featured a savvy server, Argyle Brut to celebrate our arrival and a savory bread pudding with roasted corn, onions, chives and a blackberry compote to die for.
The local Argyle is notable because at brunch today at Rose & Raven, there was a bottle of it on the bar and written on it was, "Thanks for participating in bubbles week." Wouldn't it be something to think that Richmond might take a page from Portland and institute a bubbles week with featured sparklings all over town? A girl can dream, can't she?
Our brunch sparkler was Monmousseau Brut Rose, which went well with my farmer's market quiche, bacon and salad, savored in a LEEDS-certified former carriage house with great charm. So far, everyone's been friendly and oh-so helpful about making suggestions for the visiting Richmond contingent.
I'm not going to lie, the walk back up Hillside from town is not for the faint of heart or out-of-shape, but I love the advantage it gives me in eating and drinking at will. Add in that around every corner is a new view, interesting architecture and lush gardens and it's a recipe for walking. Today we encountered a huge sculpture of a duck (goose?), made entirely of metal objects and parts such as baking pans, car grills and spatulas.
Their downtown was about as deserted as Richmond's on a Sunday, but that didn't stop us from walking through parks (both the one originally designated for men and the one for women...we mustn't mix our sexes in the park, my dear) and over to the Portland Art Museum.
Richmond's VMFA wins this one hands down. Despite work from Fragonard, Boucher, Delacroix, Corbet, Rousseau and Boudin, it was a bit thin, at least from what we saw.
Everyone insisted we needed to visit Powell's Book Store and let me tell you what. Powell's is paralyzing. Walking into a book store that spans a block and multiple floors and even a book devotee such as myself is immobilized. I contented myself with browsing the Portland table before crying uncle and leaving.
Climbing the hill to our temporary home, I spotted many windows open and fans oscillating just inside. Oregonians are clearly withering under the heat, which by Richmond standards is negligible, as is the humidity.
A girl on a bike struggled to carry a box fan still in the box as she pedaled. Earlier we'd passed a sign for the "skate route," with a skateboarder symbol.
Work it, Portland. You're like Richmond on steroids with less ink.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Nothin' Like a Dame
Where better to go after a positively exhausting week than Bali Ha'i?
Despite the fact that my train wasn't getting in until almost 6:30 and despite that it was late and arrived closer to 7, I managed to get home, unpack, get cleaned up and present myself at the November Theater to meet my date for Virginia Repertory's opening night performance of "South Pacific."
Only a cock-eyed optimist would even attempt such a thing.
On the way over, I ran into a favorite server and his adorable beagle, both recently moved to Jackson Ward. He shared the newcomer's perspective (loves the vibe and touch of grit) and I the more long time resident's (nine years) view, all while scratching those velvet ears (the beagle's, not Michael's).
Opening night meant not only a gold medallion on our programs, but lots of familiar faces - the gallerist and his perky wife, the dancer I hadn't seen in years, and more actors, directors and theater people than should probably be in one place at any given time (you know, in case something happens).
My date was the perfect one because, somehow, some way, he'd never once in his middle-aged life seen "South Pacific." I shouldn't be surprised; I took him to see "Mame" last year and he'd mentioned then it was his first live musical.
Yes, I had myself an enchanted evening virgin.
The last time I'd seen this play live, it had been at the Landmark and no less a magnificent voice than Robert Goulet had played Emile, the handsome French planter. Fabulous as that touring production had been (just hearing him live had been a thrill), it wasn't like seeing talent I knew in classic roles.
I can't convey how satisfying it was to see the multi-talented Matt Shofner as one of the seabees singing "Nothin' Like a Dame." Now that's acting. Just as impressive was Audra Honaker with her impish demeanor and beautiful voice as one of the nurses. Nicole Oberleitner oozed sass and sex whether she was front and center or off to the side striking a pose.
And speaking of the nurses, during the "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" number, the women wore fabulous '40s-style bathing suits that were the talk of the ladies' room during intermission.
My only observation was that there weren't many '40s-era bodies with hips and curves to go along with those era-appropriate costumes. Let's face it, women's figures just aren't what they used to be.
Ditto wardrobes. In the remember when category, one of the nurse's lines alluded to the fact that the Navy only allowed them to bring two evening gowns overseas with them. How many women today even own one? I do have one long dress but I'm not certain it would qualify as an evening gown.
Waiting in line for the ladies room gave me a chance to check out the framed newspaper articles from the Richmond Times Dispatch, Chicago Tribune and Honolulu State Bulletin hanging in the hallway, all of them actual copies from the war years. Overheard in line: "My nephew is in Wilco. Have you heard of them?" and soon after, "Well, yes, but Paul McCartney's still playing live and he's in his '70s."
So he's not younger than Springtime. Still, I heard it was a terrific show.
As my companion pointed out, it would have also been nice to have some maps hanging there, too, for a geography lesson to go along with the history lesson to clarify all these islands' locations in the play.
I was happy to hear that my date was very much enjoying the play, although still adjusting somewhat to the notion of a musical and actors singing so much of the plot. "It's such a great story!" he raved, admitting he was completely engrossed in the saga as it unfolded.
He was lucky to be seeing such a fine production. Both leads, Branch Fields and Stacey Cabel, were spot-on as the lovers from different sides of the world. Her Arkansas accent came and went occasionally but his French one never wavered and his bass voice was the kind that does things to a woman. It didn't hurt the appeal that the sets were so evocative of the South Seas with bamboo screens, palm trees and the illusion of water and sand on the island.
Because he's recently out of a relationship, my date admitted that half the time lately, he's been trying to avoid romantic entertainment. The other half, he's been seeking it out. "I'm just too much of a romantic," he said with a shrug, explaining why he was enjoying this so much.
Join the club, honey bun. From "A Wonderful Guy" to "This Nearly Was Mine," a person inclined to romance could pretty much melt into her seat the entire time.
Let's just say it was some enchanted evening.
Despite the fact that my train wasn't getting in until almost 6:30 and despite that it was late and arrived closer to 7, I managed to get home, unpack, get cleaned up and present myself at the November Theater to meet my date for Virginia Repertory's opening night performance of "South Pacific."
Only a cock-eyed optimist would even attempt such a thing.
On the way over, I ran into a favorite server and his adorable beagle, both recently moved to Jackson Ward. He shared the newcomer's perspective (loves the vibe and touch of grit) and I the more long time resident's (nine years) view, all while scratching those velvet ears (the beagle's, not Michael's).
Opening night meant not only a gold medallion on our programs, but lots of familiar faces - the gallerist and his perky wife, the dancer I hadn't seen in years, and more actors, directors and theater people than should probably be in one place at any given time (you know, in case something happens).
My date was the perfect one because, somehow, some way, he'd never once in his middle-aged life seen "South Pacific." I shouldn't be surprised; I took him to see "Mame" last year and he'd mentioned then it was his first live musical.
Yes, I had myself an enchanted evening virgin.
The last time I'd seen this play live, it had been at the Landmark and no less a magnificent voice than Robert Goulet had played Emile, the handsome French planter. Fabulous as that touring production had been (just hearing him live had been a thrill), it wasn't like seeing talent I knew in classic roles.
I can't convey how satisfying it was to see the multi-talented Matt Shofner as one of the seabees singing "Nothin' Like a Dame." Now that's acting. Just as impressive was Audra Honaker with her impish demeanor and beautiful voice as one of the nurses. Nicole Oberleitner oozed sass and sex whether she was front and center or off to the side striking a pose.
And speaking of the nurses, during the "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" number, the women wore fabulous '40s-style bathing suits that were the talk of the ladies' room during intermission.
My only observation was that there weren't many '40s-era bodies with hips and curves to go along with those era-appropriate costumes. Let's face it, women's figures just aren't what they used to be.
Ditto wardrobes. In the remember when category, one of the nurse's lines alluded to the fact that the Navy only allowed them to bring two evening gowns overseas with them. How many women today even own one? I do have one long dress but I'm not certain it would qualify as an evening gown.
Waiting in line for the ladies room gave me a chance to check out the framed newspaper articles from the Richmond Times Dispatch, Chicago Tribune and Honolulu State Bulletin hanging in the hallway, all of them actual copies from the war years. Overheard in line: "My nephew is in Wilco. Have you heard of them?" and soon after, "Well, yes, but Paul McCartney's still playing live and he's in his '70s."
So he's not younger than Springtime. Still, I heard it was a terrific show.
As my companion pointed out, it would have also been nice to have some maps hanging there, too, for a geography lesson to go along with the history lesson to clarify all these islands' locations in the play.
I was happy to hear that my date was very much enjoying the play, although still adjusting somewhat to the notion of a musical and actors singing so much of the plot. "It's such a great story!" he raved, admitting he was completely engrossed in the saga as it unfolded.
He was lucky to be seeing such a fine production. Both leads, Branch Fields and Stacey Cabel, were spot-on as the lovers from different sides of the world. Her Arkansas accent came and went occasionally but his French one never wavered and his bass voice was the kind that does things to a woman. It didn't hurt the appeal that the sets were so evocative of the South Seas with bamboo screens, palm trees and the illusion of water and sand on the island.
Because he's recently out of a relationship, my date admitted that half the time lately, he's been trying to avoid romantic entertainment. The other half, he's been seeking it out. "I'm just too much of a romantic," he said with a shrug, explaining why he was enjoying this so much.
Join the club, honey bun. From "A Wonderful Guy" to "This Nearly Was Mine," a person inclined to romance could pretty much melt into her seat the entire time.
Let's just say it was some enchanted evening.
Friday, June 26, 2015
On the Peninsula
Ah, the pleasures of walking a new neighborhood.
I'm in Annapolis visiting a friend who lives in Eastport, which she tells me is a peninsula moments before I leave on a walk this morning. While it's not my first visit here, it is my first time being told this nugget of information.
I set out with directions and the caveat that since water surrounds us on three sides, I can't really screw this up. Sure enough, mere blocks in, I look down a cross street and see blue water and masts bobbing. When the street I'm on dead ends, it's at the water and my view includes at least a dozen small sailboats in a cluster. Sailing camp, perhaps?
The neighborhood is a charming mix of architecture styles - cottages, bungalows, town houses, ranchers- and eras. The dated ranchers look straight out of the '60s and the town homes have the boring design and white plastic fences that scream 21st century.
What charms me are the historical marker signs that clue me in to Eastport's history.
I admire the oldest house (1876) because, like my parents' house, it has had many lives, including as a grocery store and currently as a B & B. Built by a German immigrant, the house stayed in the family for 72 years before selling out.
Another gem is a row of town houses built by the owner of Annapolis Glassworks to house his employees. Given the decidedly English stucco look of them, I'm hardly surprised that the man was English. In fact, he chose the name Eastport for the area because it was the name of the town he came from in England.
What I'm noticing as I walk is how very beach-like it feels around here. Clearly, many of the houses were originally built as weekend getaway places. Some even have signs with the house's name mounted on them: Shore Thing, Dog View. Kayaks and water playthings dot many yards.
Yards are small here and most are filled with fabulous perennial gardens which appear to be about a month behind Richmond because today lilies and honeysuckle are in bloom and both are way past their prime at home.
I went for a second walk this evening before we left for dinner and this time I pass an enormous farmhouse that once was the centerpiece of the 'hood. Now it's (sadly) divided into apartments.
Once again at the water, I find a tiny street-end park where a man is throwing a ball for his tireless dog who swims out to fetch while we chat, the sound of lapping water is the only other sound.
Just ahead of me when I get back to the street where my friend lives is a guy carrying a fishing rod and swinging a bucket as he sings out loud. My feeling is he's had a good day fishing.
Dinner is at Cantler's for crabs and we choose an outside table beside the river (creek?) for the view. We manage to polish off three extra large crabs each before the wind kicks up and droplets of rain begin to fall.
No problem, we're under a canopy. But when thunder and lightening start, the staff requests we move inside. Reluctantly, I agree because I am totally loving eating crabs outside in a thunderstorm.
The crowd of regulars at the bar welcome us in as we schlep our remaining crabs and drinks inside to finish out the evening in over-air conditioned discomfort. Man, I hate being cold in summer, but now that it's raining cats and dogs, what choice do we have?
The trade off is the quirky bunch we chat with: Phil, who has a boat maintenance business catering to the carriage trade (as in, what recession?), Mike, whose career working for a Canadian furniture company took him to the drug-ridden cities of South and Central America, and Bob.
Bob was interesting right off the bat because his drink was full of slices of English cucumber brought from his own garden, but also because after he retired, he fished for a living. "Just me, my rod and a boat," he said.
When he told me he once caught 828 pounds of rockfish in two days and two hours, I was impressed. "That's why I told you, so you'd be impressed." Well done, sir.
Coming home through downtown Annapolis, I spot a guy stretched out on the brick wall in front of the Naval Academy, couples hand in hand down by the dock. It's a gorgeous night now that the torrential rain has given way to cool air and frogs croaking.
Yellow flags fly here saying, "Maritime Republic of Eastport. We like it this way." As it stands right now, I totally agree.
I'm in Annapolis visiting a friend who lives in Eastport, which she tells me is a peninsula moments before I leave on a walk this morning. While it's not my first visit here, it is my first time being told this nugget of information.
I set out with directions and the caveat that since water surrounds us on three sides, I can't really screw this up. Sure enough, mere blocks in, I look down a cross street and see blue water and masts bobbing. When the street I'm on dead ends, it's at the water and my view includes at least a dozen small sailboats in a cluster. Sailing camp, perhaps?
The neighborhood is a charming mix of architecture styles - cottages, bungalows, town houses, ranchers- and eras. The dated ranchers look straight out of the '60s and the town homes have the boring design and white plastic fences that scream 21st century.
What charms me are the historical marker signs that clue me in to Eastport's history.
I admire the oldest house (1876) because, like my parents' house, it has had many lives, including as a grocery store and currently as a B & B. Built by a German immigrant, the house stayed in the family for 72 years before selling out.
Another gem is a row of town houses built by the owner of Annapolis Glassworks to house his employees. Given the decidedly English stucco look of them, I'm hardly surprised that the man was English. In fact, he chose the name Eastport for the area because it was the name of the town he came from in England.
What I'm noticing as I walk is how very beach-like it feels around here. Clearly, many of the houses were originally built as weekend getaway places. Some even have signs with the house's name mounted on them: Shore Thing, Dog View. Kayaks and water playthings dot many yards.
Yards are small here and most are filled with fabulous perennial gardens which appear to be about a month behind Richmond because today lilies and honeysuckle are in bloom and both are way past their prime at home.
I went for a second walk this evening before we left for dinner and this time I pass an enormous farmhouse that once was the centerpiece of the 'hood. Now it's (sadly) divided into apartments.
Once again at the water, I find a tiny street-end park where a man is throwing a ball for his tireless dog who swims out to fetch while we chat, the sound of lapping water is the only other sound.
Just ahead of me when I get back to the street where my friend lives is a guy carrying a fishing rod and swinging a bucket as he sings out loud. My feeling is he's had a good day fishing.
Dinner is at Cantler's for crabs and we choose an outside table beside the river (creek?) for the view. We manage to polish off three extra large crabs each before the wind kicks up and droplets of rain begin to fall.
No problem, we're under a canopy. But when thunder and lightening start, the staff requests we move inside. Reluctantly, I agree because I am totally loving eating crabs outside in a thunderstorm.
The crowd of regulars at the bar welcome us in as we schlep our remaining crabs and drinks inside to finish out the evening in over-air conditioned discomfort. Man, I hate being cold in summer, but now that it's raining cats and dogs, what choice do we have?
The trade off is the quirky bunch we chat with: Phil, who has a boat maintenance business catering to the carriage trade (as in, what recession?), Mike, whose career working for a Canadian furniture company took him to the drug-ridden cities of South and Central America, and Bob.
Bob was interesting right off the bat because his drink was full of slices of English cucumber brought from his own garden, but also because after he retired, he fished for a living. "Just me, my rod and a boat," he said.
When he told me he once caught 828 pounds of rockfish in two days and two hours, I was impressed. "That's why I told you, so you'd be impressed." Well done, sir.
Coming home through downtown Annapolis, I spot a guy stretched out on the brick wall in front of the Naval Academy, couples hand in hand down by the dock. It's a gorgeous night now that the torrential rain has given way to cool air and frogs croaking.
Yellow flags fly here saying, "Maritime Republic of Eastport. We like it this way." As it stands right now, I totally agree.
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