cool living room ideas images I found:
Skyline Drive (7) - Overlook
Image by D.Clow - Maryland
Friday
Entry One
Flew out of work, the fleet flight of Friday before a holiday weekend. Everyone cracks a smile upon stepping out of the concrete and glass coffin of the corporate work week. The motorcycle is quickly gassed and loaded, I leave Washington DC at three-thirty, vowing not to check the time for the rest of the adventure. Adventure, the American adventure of the open road is what I seek. The road, my cameras, and escape.
Right turn off of 15th St. NW and I’m motoring past the Washington Monument and the White House. Harleys and clones are already lining the Mall for the annual Memorial remembrance that is Rolling Thunder. I’m soon over the bridge and on I-66 west. I plan on avoiding major highways when at all possible. Preferring scenic byways to drab highways. 66 is a necessary evil to flee the DC metro area as quickly as possible. At the start, 66 is a good quick run, for awhile anyway. Loads of Rolling Thunder riders are heading in 66 eastbound.
I keep the ubiquitous two fingers down to the side salute to fellow bikers out for extended stretches of time. In my experience, HD guys return the acknowledgement about 30-40% of the time. No big deal, some animosity exist though between different bike cultures. Motor-ism two-wheel stereotypes. However with the Rolling Thunder guys there is a noticeable increase in response, perhaps due to no longer just one biker acknowledging another, but a patriotic sharing of support and remembrance for those left behind, POW-MIA.
Traffic worsens further out 66 and I come up on a full HD dresser. Screaming Eagle back patch worked in with POW-MIA covers his vest and is topped by a “Run for the Wall” patch. I keep back a pace and we adopt the natural offset positioning of multiple riders.
After some 66 backup, stop-and-go, we strike up a staccato conversation in the pauses of the traffic flow. Where you been, where you going, see the rain coming? I tell him I’m headed out to the mountains, Skyline Drive and West Virginia. He says he’s just in from there recently, was in DC for Rolling Thunder for the day and will be coming back in on Sunday again. His license plate is obscured by luggage, so I’m unsure of his port of origin.
Later on we part ways and my thoughts turn. Of my parents friends only my step-dad was drafted for Vietnam. Luckily, for us, he only went as far as Ft. Hood, TX, and came back with some good stories about army life and venturing into Mexico (at least the ones he’s shared with me). I think about all the life he’s lived since then, all his experiences and joys. Thinking about what all those who didn’t return gave up, lost, when they didn’t come home. The loss felt by those who loved them, families that have a name on the Wall.
Rain is sprinkling before Manassas. Enough to cool you off but not enough to get you worried yet, at least for a bit. Whooooo. Then come the big drops. I head off the ramp to gear up with the rain paraphernalia under the gas station pavilion. Finally get it all on and get strapped back up and out pops the sun and the rain stops. Too funny. Now I have wet clothes on under the raingear. Rain gear now keeping the wind out that would dry me. I motor on as more rain is promised on the horizon.
This brings up a point about rain. People always ask, “What do you do when it rains and your on the motorcycle”. I reply simply, “I get wet”. Duh. Rain riding has never bothered me. On the straight highways it’s no big deal. Just give more cushion to the cars in front of you. Drive like grandma on the exit ramps.
My turning point is finally reached. Off of 66 west and onto 647, Crest Hill Rd. at The Plains, VA. Crest Hill Road is my first slice of motorcycle heaven to be had this weekend. I’m delighted to find that the squiggly line I traced out on the map when planning this trip has translated so well in reality. The road is still wet from the passing rain clouds, and I give a small rabbit and then a chipmunk a near death experience. My first of many animal crossings this weekend. The road is fantastic. A mixture of hilltop road and tree lined canopies that create forest tunnels. Speed limit is 45mph, 55-60 feels comfortable on most parts. Keeping an eye out for a hilltop barn to photograph that I’ve seen in my minds eye, lit by the sun breaking through the clouds and backed by the mountain vista. No luck on any of the barns actual placement to fit the mental picture I have framed.
Crest Hill Road and Fodderstack Rd is a long stretch. I take shots of a church and other buildings along Zachary Taylor Highway. Fodderstack gives more of the same as Crest Hill, just a narrower road. The asphalt is of my favorite variety, freshly laid. Washington, VA is a tiny town of historic bed and breakfasts. Local wineries appear to be an attraction here too. Right after Washington the rain returns while I’m in route to Sperryville. Then it really starts to come down, a full on summer thunderstorm. Visibility is down. Road and parking lots soon resemble rivers. Rain drops of the monster variety explode on the pavement, and you know it hurts when they hit you.
I quick soaking circuit of Sperryville confirms there are no local hotels. I duck into a barn shaped restaurant to wait it out. My drenched gear takes on bar stool and I occupy another. There’s a few flying pigs about. The bartender get me a hefeweizen, and recommends the angus burger. Locally raised and grass fed, we exchange jokes about my passing the burgers relatives on the way in.
Don’t freak about the beer. I have a one only rule when riding. It was followed by a meal (best burger of the weekend!), several coffees, and this bar top journal entry.
Somewhere along Crest Hill road I decided to keep the cell off for the weekend. In addition no tv, newspapers, internet, or e-mail sound like a good idea. Of course I now am studiously avoid eye contact with the two beautiful plasma’s above the bar.
Entry Two
Hazel River Inn, Culpepper, VA, has the coolest street side seating in town.
The downpour let up at the Shady Farms bar in Sperryville and due to the deficiency in local lodging I quiz the bartender for options. Over the other side of the mountain, the opposite side of Skyline Dr via 211 is Luray with lots of motels, but I want to save the mountain for the morning. The waitress suggest Culpepper, there being a Holiday Inn etc.
Stepping outside the sun has broke through the clouds again. Enough for some shots of Shady Farms Restaurant and a bridge. Heading down 522, the Sperryville Pike, I keep an eye out for photo ops to catch the next morning as I’ll be rerouting back through. Following the mantra of Dale Borgeson about tour riding in the US, I aim to avoid large chain establishments, whether they are restaurants or hotels, and explore the mom-and-pop local variety businesses. I have a dive-ish roadside motel in mind, Culpepper comes through with the Sleepy Hollow Hotel.
Before check in I ride through downtown historic Culpepper. It’s a cool place. The Shady Farm bartender had recommended the Culpepper Thai restaurant. I see it but don’t visit, still full from the meal earlier. Cameron Street Coffee looks like a great place, located in an old warehouse. Unfortunately their closed for the night.
Shower and changed, room 102 at the Sleepy Hollow Hotel. I hop back on the bike, refreshed and dry and ride through the warm night air back downtown. The coffee at the Hazel River Inn comes with a sweet fudge confection on the side. The peach and blackberry cobbler with vanilla sauce is divine.
The reconfigured plan for this getaway is to shed. Shed worries about the job, career, housing, and relationships. My motorcycle is therapeutic. It’s 600cc’s of Zoloft on two wheels. The road lifts my spirits. This wasn’t supposed to be a solo run, and there are stretches of road where I feel the emptiness behind me.
The cobbler is finished and I can hear the sound of a band doing their sound check. The banging of the drum requires investigation.
Entry Three
I found Brown Bag Special in the cellar pub of the same restaurant I was in. On my way to the door the noise of the sound check floated up the stairs and directed my feet downward. Brown Bag Special opened the set, appropriately enough, with “I drink alone”. The ol’ man, Big Money, would have loved it. Drink alone started off a Big Money Blues trifecta to include “The Breeze” and “Mustang Sally”. Then they made the mistake a lot of bands make that have a great lead guitar player. They let him sing. The lead guitarist karaoke sucked his way through a Tom Petty hit. He was so off key in his singing it made you appreciate the guitar solo’s all the more for the relief they provided. Thankfully the regular singer soon resumed his duties and the night went on. More good stuff from the band.
Freebird
Folsom Prison Blues
Cheap Sun Glasses
“can’t you see, can’t you see, what that woman, what she’s done to me”
Off to bed now at the Sleepy Hollow Hotel with the ghost and shades of dead hookers and overdoses past.
150 miles today.
Saturday
Entry Four
Morning breaks on the Sleepy Hollow Hotel, a hot shower and I’m back on the bike. A quick stop downtown to shoot the Hazel Inn, then it’s back on the Sperryville Pike. More stops to capture some sights seen yesterday. Mr. & Mrs. Pump. The open mouth caricatures are an accurate representation of the current gas cost and the pumps eating your wallet.
I keep telling my daughter that her first car, college car, will be a hybrid. She thinks they are ugly. The bike isn’t so bad, averaging around 40mpg. At about 180 miles on the tripometer I start to look for a refill, although I’ve pushed it to 211 miles before.
A quick left in Sperryville on 211 and up into the mountain, Blue Ridge Mountains and Skyline Drive. Heading up the mountain I get the first bite of the twisties I’ve been craving. The fee at the gate to Skyline Drive is well worth the price. Great scenery and fantastic views. The only drawback is the 35mph speed limit that is well enforced by the park rangers.
I shoot some self-portraits at Pollock Knob overlook. They’re funny in that with all the scrambling and hurrying to be the camera timer, then trying to effect a relaxed pose. I’ve also broke out my old friend this trip, the Lubitel 166, a medium format, 120mm film, twin lens camera. I’m like Jay-Z with this camera, I have to get it in one take. There is no digital review after the click for instant gratification. As a fellow photographer it’s “Point, Push, and Pray”. I’ll be interested to see the results. Not that I’ve left digital behind. Carrying both cameras, I’m an analog/digital double threat.
After the self-portraits and some dead tree shots I’m about to pack back on the bike and leave when I meet the preacher and his wife. He offers to shoot me with my camera and I return the favor with theirs. Conversation flows and in a ‘small world’ moment it turns out that he works for same Hazel family that owns the restaurant I was at last night for his Monday thru Friday job. I get a friendly “God bless” and I’m heading south on Skyline Drive. I make several more stops and break out the cameras again at Big Meadow.
There is a gnarly dead tree in the middle of the meadow. It has burn damage at the base, either the result of some wild fire or perhaps a controlled burn done to maintain the field. I spot and shoot a few deer, they probably won’t turn out as they’re to far away for my lens on the D100. I shoot a bunch of shots of the tree with the D100 and then totally switch processes with the Lubitel. The picture setup with the Lubitel takes about a minute-and-a-half. Manual zoom, i.e., walking back and forth to get the framing I want. Light meter reading. Then dealing with the reversed optics of the look-down box camera. It is fun though, to switch it up, change the pace and the dynamics. Just one click though, hope I caught it.
It’s a long but enjoyable ride to the south end of Skyline Drive. Unless you really like slow cruising I would suggest picking which third of Skyline Drive you’d like include in your trip and leave the rest. I drop off the mountain and into Waynesboro. Finding Mad Anthony’s coffee shop for a late breakfast. I overhear that it’s around noon. The Italian Roast coffee is good, in fact, it would prove to be the best coffee of the trip.
One of the pleasures of traveling by motorcycle is that it’s an easy conversation starter. People ask you where your coming from, where you’re heading, ask about your bike, tell you’re about their bike or the one they wish they had. One of the peculiarities of these conversations is that if the person even remotely knows of anyone that has died on a motorcycle, they will be sure to share this fact along with details. These stories usually involve a deer, a car pulling out, or someone taking a corner to fast. The conversation goes something like this:
Stranger“nice bike”
You“thanks”
Stranger“my cousin Bob had a friend that hit a deer and died on his bike”
Short silence.
You“yeah, deer are dangerous, got to be careful”
I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ve held variations on this conversation many times. Luckily this isn’t the conversation I have with the owner of Mad Anthony’s. He’s a former sailboat instructor who now finds the same release and head clearing on his motorcycle that he used to get from his sailboat.
This brings to mind the same wave – don’t way dynamic that occurs between sail boaters and power boaters, very similar to the sportbike & HD crowd.
The proprietor is a coffee guru, we discuss roasting (my Italian roast was just roasted Wednesday this week). We talk about the good and the evil of Starbucks. We’re both in agreement that they over roast their regular coffee, but I think their foo foo drinks are tasty. He has in his shop both the Bodum press and the Bodum vacuum coffee pot that I got my mom for x-mas. A shameless plug here, the Bodum vacuum coffee pot makes the best home coffee ever. It’s also an entertaining crowd pleaser, no joke.
Leaving Waynesboro the plan was 340 northward to 33, then into Harrisonburg, VA (home of the Valley Mall and JMU). 340 proved to be boring so I jumped on 256, Port Republic Road, for a better ride to Harrisonburg. I don’t know if the coffee wore off or if I was just worn out. I pull over at Westover Park, pick out a spot of grass, and take a good nap in the sun.
I had my motorcycle bug handed down to me by my step-dad. My kindergarten year of school we moved right at the end of the school year. Rather than switch schools at this inopportune time my Dad stuck me on the back of his Honda and rode me to school and back again for the last month or two. Even earlier than that I have a great photo of me in 1973-4 sitting on his chopper with him. Me in a diaper and him with his long hippy hair. The wild side of the Reverend indeed.
Refreshed from my nap it’s back on 33 westbound. Heading out of the Shenandoah Valley and Rockingham County is more glorious twisty roads and the George Washington National Forest. GW is a beautiful tree canopy lined road with a river off to one side. Franklin, WV is the destination, a return to the Star Hotel.
I stayed at the Star a few years prior when they first re-opened the historic Star Hotel. The owner, Steve Miller, is a great guy, friendly and conversational. I told him I’d be back again, but it’s been a few more years than I thought. Late lunch at the Star is pesto grilled chicken on ciabatta bread with roasted red peppers. Not the type of fare one might associate with West Virginia, but people have misperceptions about everywhere. Steve promises a prime rib later at dinner tonight to die for.
So that there is no misunderstanding, in as much as the Sleepy Hollow Hotel was a dive, the Star Hotel is a dream.
Dump the gear in the room back on the bike for some roaming around. I head back to explore a river road I passed on the way in, Rock Gap. It’s a gravel affair and I follow it back a little ways. Photo some river shots. Down further there is a large cliff face with some college aged kids de-gearing after a day of climbing. I’ll try to stop back in tomorrow and shoot some climbing action, as well as some fly fishing.
I pick up a bottle of Barefoot Wine, Cabernet Sauvignon, and drop it off with Steve at the Star to keep for later. I’ll enjoy that bottle later tonight from the 3rd floor front porch. South out of town I head, into some very secondary roads. I shoot an old decrepit cabin that would be right up Bobby Sargent’s alley. I put it in the metal folder for a possible future model shoot location, along with the river spots I’ve seen.
There are a couple more stops on this little ride. Once for what appears to be a feral chicken, and then for middle of the road stare down with a young doe. She’s camera shy though and is off before I can get a shot. Sportbike probably isn’t the best conveyance for nature photography. The pavement stops and gravel begins, I motor on. Rick & I once spent a full day just about on gravel roads, crisscrossing the back country around Cumberland, MD. So I’m comfortable with the less than ideal riding surface. A few miles on the road dead ends at a pair of chicken houses (source of the feral chicken’s ancestors perhaps?) and I turn around and survey the valley I’ve just ridden through. I have to stop the bike and soak in the scene. A picturesque farm is nestled in the corner of the valley, up against the hills. I meet some inquisitive cows, along with the farmer and his wife.
It seems that when you are in WV and you pass a sign that says “snow removal ends here” that the already suspect road conditions are going to quickly deteriorate and will soon resemble somewhat more of a logging road. I motor on through some back country, no houses, no farms, just mountains, steep roadside cliffs, and wicked gravel switchback curves. The part that gives you the willies are the downhill corners where the road grade is slanted to the outside of the curve and to the drop below. Yikes!
I creep along where a four wheeler would be much more functional. Although I still hit it a bit in the straights. Pavement arrives again and I’m unsure of my exact location. I follow the chicken farmers directions and soon discover myself back in Brandywine, intersecting the same stretch of 33 I rode on my way into Franklin.
Back at the Star Hotel it’s a shower and fresh clothes before heading down for dinner. Downstairs I find the prime rib to be as good as promised.
Entry Five
How beautifully staged is this. Barefoot on the 3rd floor patio, wine to ease the back and the ache in the knee.
205 miles today, the last 30 after check in, just to explore.
Sunday
Entry Six
Out early in the morning. I find no climbers at Rock Gap, unsure of the hours they keep. Out of Franklin on 33 west, looking for another squiggly line I had seen on a map. Bland Hill Road name is a misnomer. A single lane country road winding through German Valley. I got a few shots of German Valley from the 33 overlook before turning on Bland Hill. Now I find myself in the same location I had shot from above.
The road cuts through some open pasture land and I meet some cows standing in the road after rounding one bend. They’re pleasant enough, if in no particular hurry to cross, and don’t mind posing for a shot or two before meandering on. People talk about the danger of hitting a deer, a cow would really ruin your day! Off of Bland Hill and on down into the valley. I come up on the rock formation I had seen from the overlook previously. It’s not Seneca Rocks, but a formation of the same ilk. I get some more photos, then onto German Valley Road. I’m still staying at the Star, there is no real destination today. It’s relaxing to stop as much as I like.
German Valley Road puts me back on 33 west and not long after I’m ordering breakfast at the Valley View Restaurant. Dale Borgeson warns of places that advertise home cooking, but that’s about all you see in these parts. There are a fair number of cars here and that’s usually a good since the food will be alright. Hell, even the Army could make a good breakfast. It all works out and it’s a hell of a deal, for toast, two eggs, hash browns, bacon, and coffee.
From 33 I hit 28 and turn off on Smoke Hole Road, just because it’s there and looks interesting. Boy, what a find it is. Combining the curvy one lane country road with nice wide smooth pavement (gravel free in the corners). It’s great. Smoke Hole Road turns out to run from 28 across the Seneca Rocks National Forest to 220 on the other side. Going west-to-east it starts out all curves and hills, then ends by winding along the south branch of the Potomac. There are lots of fly fishermen here enjoying the catch-and-release section of the river.
Up 220 to Petersburg, I run into some Ducati guys at the gas station. We swap riding info and I’m soon on 42 north towards Mayville. Hanging a left when I see a sign for Dolly Sods. I’m back on secondary roads and I soon pass another prophetic ‘no snow removal’ signs. It’s gravel the rest of the way up the mountain til it breaks out on top at Dolly Sod.
I’m real happy with today’s roads, as both Smoke Hole Road and Dolly Sods were unplanned ‘discovered adventures’. I do some rock scrabbling at Dolly Sod and enjoy the cliff top views. A fellow tourist snaps a shot for me an I hike out well past the distance that the casual tourist and families go. Shot some more shots of the rock formations with both the digital and film camera. Do some more self-portraits. I then sit down to relax in the sun with the cliff side breeze steadily blowing and update this journal.
Entry Seven
Well, fellow traveler, if you’ve made it this far I am duly impressed. I thank you for your perseverance. The rest of the day was spent riding without incident. Just more fantastic roads. You don’t have to be an explore on par with Lewis & Clark to find great rides in West Virginia. Just be curious in nature and unafraid to leave the beaten path. Drop off the numbered roads and take the route less traveled. Soon you’ll be in your own undiscovered country. Blah blah blah.
Out of Dolly Sod and I find myself on 32. Rough calculations put the dirt road travel around 25 miles for the day. While we are on stats, here’s today’s animal road count:
1 rooster
1 dead fox
2 cows
8 chipmunks
7 alive
1 dead
3 dead possums
1 squirrel
1 dead blob (undistinguishable)
No fearsome deer
1 dog
I guided myself today by a rather non-descript map put out by mountainhighlands.com
Leaving Dolly Sod on 32 puts me in Dry Fork and back on familiar 33 west to Elkins. I cruise around Elkins on the off chance I’ll run into a guy I know named Dallas. Now all you need to know about Dallas is the following:
I don’t know his last name
I once gave him a hair cut with dog grooming clippers
I know he works at a bike shop making choppers
You figure the odds of me finding him, near zero.
If your curious it wasn’t the first time I cut hair, albeit the first time using dog shears. In Korea I cut in the latrine for a cut or for a 6 pack. Everything was barter in the Army. We had a cook that would make you a great custom birthday cake for a case of beer or feed you food out of the back of the chow hall at 3am when you staggered in drunk from the ville for the promise of a future round to be bought. Korea stories could fill another journal.
Anyway, out of Elkins and south to Beverly. Scott, if your reading this you were on my mind as I went through town, never forgive, never forget.
So far I’ve only tried to write about the positive food experiences of the trip without throwing anyplace under the bus. C&J in Beverly however, served only barely functional burgers and the vanilla shake was of the worst chemical prefab variety. There are some things that I am stuck on, good vanilla ice cream is one. The others that I’m picky about are beer, whiskey, steak, cheese-steak, and coffee. It’s just so disappointing when something you usually enjoy turns out to be sub par.
After C&J it’s 250 east to 28, which heads back towards Seneca Rocks and Franklin. It’s a good haul through the Monongahela National Forest. A road of the scenic variety, with good twisties up the mountain and through the scenery. These type road have become quite a common occurrence here in WV. Back in Seneca Rocks and 33 east into Franklin. I never shoot Seneca Rocks, the light is never right, number one can tell you how I get about my light.
The Star’s restaurant is closed on Sunday, dagger, so I shower and head into Franklin by foot. About Franklin, WV. It’s a nice little town, quiet and sleepy. No bars other than the VFW that I could see. Everybody I’ve met and spoken too has be pleasant, friendly and conversational, both here in Franklin and elsewhere in WV. I’m sure there are a variety of characters much as anywhere, this is just my observation from the tourist level.
Following last night precedent I grab another vino from the Shell station. The Star being closed is a dilemma; I’m in need of a cork screw (having borrowed the restaurants the night before). I wander back down to the hotel, wine in hand, and past the hotel just a bit til I meet an old man sitting out front. I explain my situation, wine without access, and he says he’ll sell me a corkscrew. He goes in the house, shortly to return with the necessary implement in hand. I figure I have it for -4 or maybe rent it for a one time use for . That proves unnecessary however, he says just to take it, and keep it for any future need.
The sole booking for the hotel tonight, I’m like a wraith as I glide through the halls. On the front porch with my bottle of vino in hand. I have some cheap cigars I also picked up and there’s nothing to do but kick back and watch the sunset.
It’s been a great trip. Somewhat lonesome at times. The lack of someone to talk to surely let to the length of this journal. It was a trip to getaway, to reflect. There was no great revelation or anything, just time to get to know yourself. The road gives you time to think. I know who I am and I like being me. I know what’s missing.
I’m resolved to take more bike trips in the future. It’s definitely my preferred way to travel and vacation. Motorcycling is the way to go.
Tomorrow I have my route generally planned out, more scenic byways for a winding route home.
Miles today, 240.
Monday
Entry Seven
Just a short postscript. 20 miles east of Washington DC, on 66, the chain popped off the bike. It’s never easy.
Nathan Myhrvold
Image by Renée S. Suen
Below, the full interview with Dr. Nathan Myhrvold (from Nov 21, 2011):
Unless you’ve been hiding under some kind of rock, you’ve probably heard of Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Cooking, the stunning six-volume, 2,400-page, 50-pound*, 5 cookbook that came out early this year. Nathan Myhrvold, whose team of 30 spent three-and-a-half years** in a 20,000 square foot lab (complete with a high speed camera and a machine shop) working on the tome, was in town this week to speak to about 250 food and science nerds at an event hosted by The Cookbook Store at the Isabel Bader Theatre. A staggering polymath, Myhrvold had already acquired a pair of master’s (economics and geophysics) and a Princeton Ph.D. (theoretical and mathematical physics) by age 23, before working with Stephen Hawking at Cambridge, holding the Chief Technology Officer job at Microsoft, running a patent empire called Intellectual Ventures and dabbling in photography, paleontology and, of course, cutting-edge food. We sat with Myhrvold over breakfast to talk about the surprising success of Modernist Cuisine and what the future holds for the project.
RS: Some say that the Modernist Cuisine is the cookbook of all cookbooks. Others say it’s like an encyclopedia. Then there are those that look at it as a coffee table book because it’s so visually appealing.
NM: If you’ve got a small apartment, you can use it as the coffee table! [Laughs]
RS: How would you classify the set?
NM: The book was designed to be all those things – everyone can take from it what they want. If you go into a kitchen store, there’s tones of fancy knifes, copper pots, and those things that people buy – some use them as professional tools; some people use them as a status symbol, haha; some people love food and all aspects of it. The book has all the capabilities of those things.
Most people are passionate and curious about cooking, regardless of who you are, then the pictures or the information may be enough. I say passionate and curious because if you are more utilitarian in your goal – a journalist in the UK had said “the top selling cookbook in the UK is Jaime Oliver’s 30 minute meals” – that’s very different. It’s a fine book, but if all you want is to cook a meal in 30 minutes, then go buy his book or a hundred other books like that. That’s a very mission oriented view of cooking. If you’re on a mission, then people already service that, but my book is about satisfying passion and curiosity in a broad way. It’s not about 30 minute meals... there are things in the book that can be used for 30 minute meals and if you wanted a 30 minute meal comparison between Jaime Oliver and our book, we’d be happy to rise to the occasion. But there are also recipes in the book that take a hundred hours [laughs].
If you’re task oriented (what’s the quickest way to cook a 30 minute meal), then I say, buy his book. But if you’re curious how things work, then that’s a different thing.
In terms of whether you need other cook books? Well I have other cookbooks.
This book is designed to be based on 21st century cuisine. It is a broad survey of how traditional cooking methods actually work. So we take (not every single method but) all the principal methods of Western cooking, and many principal methods of Asian or other styled cooking, in the context of 21st century cuisine. Every modern technique we can find. We’re not saying that traditional techniques go away; there’s just no reason to reprint them, lots of other people have done so. Most cases there is an improvement. That was our primer – to be the basic foundation for 21st century cuisine but only in the context of everything else that has happened.
RS: What was the inspiration and motivation behind the massive project?
NM: The book is so different from traditional cookbooks, if you can get by its cost, one thing that cookbooks are about is that it’s simplified. Ask any chef who’s written a cookbook, the cookbook editors are sort of relentless about making in laymen’s term. People ask if they can do every recipe at home, and I say no. I don’t understand why that’s a good goal, at least in my mind, for this book because we’re trying to explain how cooking works. It’s the fundamental question: would you like to hear the real story or would you like to hear the dumbed-down story?
There are a lot of people who would like to know the real story. The fact is that 25% of the recipes in the book – forget about it – you’re not going to do it. To read about them and learn about them at the same time as other chefs do. Another one of the goals of our book is that everyone who reads it will learn something, even if you’re Ferran Adria or Heston Blumenthal or the best chef in the world – someone’s going to learn something they never knew before.
I think it’s kind of cool, if Thomas Keller learns something from the book and you learn it the same time that he is. It flies in the face of the idea that everything has to be dumbed-down because it’s so different than conventional wisdom. Today I get a lot of journalists saying that this is really for the professional cook – that’s a paternalistic view. It’s not for everybody. If you look online you’ll find thousands of people who are not professions but are cooking from it, sharing their experiences on a blog... any market is not uniform. It’s interesting and complicated.
Another inspiration for the book was the sous vide thread on eGullet that started in 2004 and a lot of people checked in from all walks of life. One of the guys, Bryan Zupon was a Junior at Duke University and he was cooking sous vide in his dorm room, in part because he figured out it was a sort of loop hole that they didn’t allow hot plates but you could use a water bath. This is the spirit of all these people sharing on eGullet.
RS: Given the somewhat niche appeal of the subject, the fact that it’s being reprinted a second time, has the reception for the cookbook surprised you?
NM: There’s two ways you can design a product, broadly speaking: you can go do market research. Most big companies do that – they do focus groups and surveys. It’s probably the way most products are designed and tested. That’s not what we did. The other way you can come up with a design is if you do what you want, and God I hope someone will buy it. That’s the way art is made and great restaurants are made. Appealing to committees and asking people what they want gives you a limited view of things. Having your own vision, like novels that are successful or non-fiction journalism, are pursued by people who have their own idea. So that’s what we did. We had this vision.
Once we had it done and we could show [publishers] what we had done, then it was more concrete vs. “I’m going to cut cans in half, take pictures... they’ll ask what famous photographer are you using? Oh I’m going to do it myself and a guy I found on Craigslist.” I’ll just sound like a creepy person. But after we had it [done], a couple publishers were very interested... but one wanted to print 2000 [copies]. I was like we’re done. It might be a smart number to print, but I was so deep into it that I couldn’t just sell 2000 copies worldwide. That’s just too little. Of course, so far we’ve sold 25,000 and hoping for 30,000 this year, and that’s just in English. There’s still French, German and Spanish. Over time, we hope to sell really a lot... because you want impact. People cook to have other people eat it. If you hire the best chef in Toronto, say “we’re going to give you double your salary but as soon as you finish every one of your dishes we’re going to put it down the garbage disposal,” they wouldn’t want to do it. It wouldn’t be fun. So we wrote these books to have impact. So we hope that people would buy it. Some are going to say “why is it so expensive? Why couldn’t we use shitty paper?” We were making a quality product. Quality actually matters. There’s great rustic, peasant style food all over the world, but there’s also something wonderful about food that’s been refined and elevated. For the same reason it’s wonderful that the world has a Per Se or French Laundry or a Fat Duck. We thought, we should have a really quality book. We’re not going to skimp on the paper and printing – the cost difference was really small – maybe you’d save , but so what? It’s not a lot.
If you bought the same number of pounds of cookbooks, if you tried to replicate the same content for traditional cooking, you’d buy more than 0. It would cost you much more money than my book. And it wouldn’t be as cohesive because this was done by one team. We had no idea if it would work, but it seems like it has.
RS: So would you say that real potential can’t be realized until you try, and that you can’t let limitations restrict yourself?
NM: That’s one of the main reasons I did the book. I realized that this could be my contribution to cooking. Maybe in a parallel universe, I became a chef instead of working in Microsoft, going into physics and all the other things I did. If I started a restaurant at this stage in my life – for Seattle to have one more great restaurant, that would be nice – but it wouldn’t have the impact on people. I’d have more impact in i.e. Toronto with this book than if I say had a restaurant in Seattle. I’m not complaining about restaurants, but the ability for someone to find investors, to find space, to create a restaurant, although it’s difficult, people can do that. But a cookbook like this that has all the properties it has and covers all the techniques... who’s going to do that? Big publishing companies are incredibly conservative. Maybe they’re right to be conservative, but in this case, I love food and I love this kind of food, I knew how hard it was to learn this kind of cooking because I was learning it myself and it required lots of research, asking chefs around the world, a lot of experimentation... if I could pull all of this together to make a definitive book, coalesce all the information in one place, it would be hugely valuable. For the chef who would never get a stage at El Bulli or The Fat Duck a huge opportunity. That’s what I hope to be my contribution to food.
RS: Do you find any of the chefs resisting this because now you’ve explained how to do many of these once mysterious techniques?
NM: In general I’ve found most of the Modernist chefs are incredibly helpful. If you ask Ferran [Adria] how to do something, he’ll tell you, but he doesn’t have to explain to everyone what he’s doing. And even in his wonderful cookbook, he didn’t have the page count to go into tutorials. Some of the chefs don’t have the patience, because doing all those step by step things; they’re on to the next cool thing. That’s fair enough, that’s what they’re supposed to do. If you went to a great fashion designer and asked them, teach me how to sew [laughs]... It’s wasn’t a question of people hording ideas (maybe there’s a few people who do hoard ideas but that wasn’t the big phenomenon).
RS: Could it be that this is part of the culture of this movement/cuisine/technique? Where in the past with more traditional methods much of those techniques are guarded or protected vs. now it’s all about sharing knowledge to help advance things?
NM: Cooking still has an interesting structure. The medieval guilds were all about apprenticeships; you learned by turning at 13-year old to a master who treated him a little better than a slave and then they grew until they became the master, where upon they started abusing apprentices. That was the way most professions were. There are professional chef schools, but many of the greatest chefs are self taught which is fine; there’s still a whole idea of apprentices working their way up which is great so long as there’s a certain amount of shared information.
There’s a lot more than gimmicks and tricks; there’s a fundamental basis to the way you do things. Now that we know a way to describe modern cooking, it’s understanding what effects you’re trying to achieve with the food and then understand how to get them. Traditional techniques are sentimental and contradictory. Take roast chicken: crispy skin, moist flesh. Traditional cooking typically tries to make a compromise. Sentimental philosophy of Modernist cuisine is that you cook the inside one way and the outside another way. It’s all about the idea of control – another big idea in Modernist cuisine – you can be in control. The idea that it’s all mystical, that it requires vast amounts of human skill
RS: In working on the MC , what was the biggest myth you debunked?
NM: We found a bunch of errors in food safety – there’s a whole chapter on that. One example is eggs cooked to order should be brought to 145-degrees for 1-second. That does nothing. It’s sort of a cosmetic regulation. There’s a regulation for fish: 145-degrees for 1-second which overcooks the fish. If they said 145-degrees for 12-minutes, it would have some sense to it, but for 1-second it means nothing.
Duck confit is one that some chefs say, if you cook duck in fat, it will create this unique flavour. That’s a fraud. I figured that out because I was trying to understand how the fat can actually penetrate into the meat because fat molecules are large and they won’t go through the membrane. Firstly, what people call fat is actually fatty tissue. Most of what people object to is that it’s rubbery – that’s the collagen matrix that holds the fat; you have to render it to get the fat. Duck fat melts at 14-degrees Centigrade, so how come you have to cook it so hard? It’s not the fat; it’s that the lipids are enclosed in collagen and the collagen needs to be broken down because the lipids are trapped. It’s that collagen that gives rubbery duck skin. I realized the fat couldn’t possibly penetrate the meat so how does it create a unique flavour and texture? And the confit nature of the meat isn’t just at the surface, it goes all the way in. So it had to be a fraud.
We did a taste test, and we either cooked it traditional, sous vide or steamed it. As long as the time and temperature are the same, in a blind taste test, we couldn’t tell the difference. When I tell some chefs this, they almost get angry and don’t agree with it. But I say look, it’s not about agreeing, try it. If you can try in a blind taste test, maybe you can taste things I can’t taste, but no one in our group could taste it.
One of the essences of science is to know this idea that hypotheses can be disproven. And chefs have to understand that there are a lot hypotheses that people take for granted. Some of its correct but a lot isn’t.
RS: What’s your next cookbook project?
NM: Well in terms of a project that’s a little smaller than a giant multi-year, multi-volume extravaganza again. We did one of those, and I’m sure I’ll do another one again at some point, but the books that will come next will be a smaller thing – single topic book. And I can see a list of many single topic books. Imagine if I was doing another volume to Modernist Cuisine? It is a lot of ways to make that next volume by taking a specific topic. But I would also like to see the pastry and desserts so hopefully. One thing that was special about Modernist Cuisine is that we did take this topic approach and we didn’t have any compromises, we wanted to cover everything out there. So we have to find areas that are worthy of our attention; approach different ethnic cuisines or a technique in more specialized form. So there’s a lot of different ways that you could slice it. So we’ll see what happens.
RS: One thing I’ve found interesting is that chefs who have been reticent to use the label “molecular gastronomy” are now suddenly happy to talk about “modern cuisine.” Thoughts?
NM: Well molecular gastronomy is a terrible name. We discuss the history of it in the book. Chefs hate it. The ironic thing is that Hervé This, who’s this French food scientist – he would tell you he’s the father of molecular gastronomy – he feels strongly that that term shouldn’t be used to describe restaurant cuisine, but used for science.
RS: I believe he now refers to it as Note by Note?
NM: The latest thing he’s excited about is called Note by Note cuisine, which I’m not sure I fully understand. It seems to be like if you start using a slang term... it’s possible to be widely used because not anybody knows precisely what it means because they use it in context. I haven’t seen any precise definition of it. Is seems to be about isolating specific characteristics of ingredients and then having a sequence of these things in a menu which is analogous to playing notes of music. That’s my interpretation from the little I’ve seen, and Max, my co-author who reads French better than I do, said that seems to be kind of what he does.
Anyway, Hervé doesn’t want to call it molecular gastronomy; the chefs don’t want to call it molecular gastronomy. Molecular sounds very off-putting to people. If you take a scientific perspective of course everything is molecules and it’s not molecular biology. If there’s a reason to call it molecular biology – because that’s the study of unique molecules of life – and it’s molecules that that you’re concerned with, and there’s no sense that that’s true here. Historically molecular gastronomy was invented as a cool name for a conference. Hervé recently sent an email out to people that he was thrilled that this cuisine was being called modernist. Heston Blumenthal wrote a piece saying the same thing: that as far as he’s concerned, molecular is dead, it’s now modernist. I think modernist has a significant improvement over molecular: first, it’s more encompassing and broader. So what we mean by modern is that people cooking a wide range of styles, it’s not a single style. It includes people who cook foods that are deliberately different; the differentness is part of the point. If you go to Alinea, Moto or El Bulli part of the entire creative point is for it to be new and surprising. Just like artists that do that. There are people who use surprise as part of the experience. There are also a lot of chefs that don’t cook that way but modern techniques are still part of their cuisine. Modern art encompasses a wide range of different artistic styles. Modern art includes Jackson Pollock, the French Impressionists, Chuck Close doing photorealism and everything in between. In the same way modernist is a term for cooking, or a style of cuisine that is meant to be all encompassing.
RS: Do you eat out or cook more?
NM: Well it’s different. For starters, Seattle there are a lot of great restaurants, but there’s not a lot of great modernist restaurants. So when I travel, I like trying to experience other things that I don’t get at home. So great restaurants, ethnic restaurants and other takes on food are also nice to try. So when it’s places like Chicago, it’s places like Alinea, Moto and places like that but also Hot Doug’s and the French fries in duck fat are great. Ha ha ha.
RS: Have you tried horse fat fries? (Not there. I had to make it myself – it was terrible with having to render down the fat itself that had to be sourced, but...)
NM: Use a pressure cooker.
RS: Now I know.
NM: It’s great. What we do with rendering fat is use a pressure cooker and to use Mason jars to hold the fat with an inch of water under.
RS: What is your favourite cuisine? Restaurant? Do you find that having demystified the cooking process through the MC that you are less easily impressed?
NM: It’s not hard to go out to eat. The funny thing is that knowing how I would do it doesn’t mean I know how they would do it. There’s a tendency to over think things “oh yes, they must have done this and this and this and this cuz that’s how I’d do it.” But no actually.
In terms of harder to be impressed. You know those optical illusions? The lines... I don’t know if you know the trick? One of the lines looks longer? You can say we know, but the perception is very hard wired. The food is great, tastes great and it doesn’t really matter knowing how it’s made – it doesn’t affect how you experience it. Once you’ve had lots of great food and you know what it can taste like if it’s no overcooked you become more picky about how it’s overcooked – which is also pretty easy to forgive in a certain context. But it’s about being more aware.
RS: Comments on your dining experiences in Toronto?
NM: When I’m in a different city, I would eat with a local guide because usually when you come to a city, there’s a set of places that the concierge will tell you is the best restaurant in town. There are places that a guide like Zagat will tell you, then there’s a place that a foodie will take you. There is some overlap but not very much.
In Singapore there’s something called makansutra. The name is a sort of take on kamasutra: makan means eating (??) in a local language. And this crazy guy writes all about street food, a guy named Seto, and when I’m in Singapore, he takes me around. You go to like 30 places and at each one you order only one dish. It’s things from all across south east Asia and all the things that are unique there. So if there’s a Seto in every town, that would fantastic, but of course there isn’t.
Unfortunately didn’t have much of a chance [to explore Toronto]. I did have pre-arranged dinners at Splendido and Campagnolo, which was fine, but I ate at one Indian restaurant while I was here called Utsav. We asked one of the concierges, who’s an Indian woman, where to go for lunch. It was very good actually. Typical Indian dishes but we also didn’t want to walk. It was good. I love all food basically.
But sure, I’d love to come back to Toronto and explore a bit.
RS: You have such varied interests that take up your time. How much of it do you use to focus on food and MC?
NM: I’m interested in a lot of things. I try to do it to the best of my abilities.
In the case of paleontology, I write a number of articles on paleontology. Every few years I do one, it’s not very constant. And my contribution to paleontology is smaller, it’s a contribution but it’s not “Oh my god, I’m the world’s best paleontologist.” But it’s fun. And I’m going to keep doing it. My company - development and also inventing – and one of the things we try is to try to invent things that are solutions to problems. We might fail. We have a philosophy that it’s good for us to try to do those things. Again, you can tell me that the world doesn’t work or we shouldn’t be doing it that way.
The cookbook has been interesting because cooking has been something that, up until now, if you interviewed me about all my other things “oh yes, he’s also a really good cook, he once won a barbecue contest...” people would be like oh that’s an interesting little hobby. It’s not like it is a contribution that was important towards cooking, I mean, up until the book. The book was trying to be something that was very important. My relative contribution to cooking may well exceed my relative contribution to paleontology, whatever that means.
RS: They’re all significant contributions, but given all that you’ve accomplished and projects you’ve lined up for the future, what is it that you hope will be your legacy?
NM: Warren Buffet was asked when he was gone what he said was: god that guy was old. [laughs] So the legacy, I’m not at the stage in my life where I can worry about that. I’m hoping that I have a lot more years walking out of here [laughs].
It’s a funny question, because in paleontology, my paleontology friends will say “he done a few interesting things” and I’ll have some little legacy in paleontology but currently it will be little; maybe I’ll come up with something bigger later on. In physics and in other interests of mine, in those areas, yes in some of them, if you interviewed them after I was gone they’d say: “too bad he wasted his time in all that other stuff. Maybe he would be a successful guy if he didn’t waste all his time on all this other crap.” It’s funny because my friends in each area don’t quite understand why I would waste my time from their perspective. Lots of chef friends can’t quite understand why I don’t open a restaurant, because to them that is the best thing you can possibly do. So what’s up with that? They say “surely this book is how you were going to introduce your new restaurant.” Well, not so much. So within cooking I’m hoping the book has an impact. People write to be read; people cook to be eaten. So I really hope the book has a big impact. If it has a big impact, it would help a whole generation of cooks – at home and professionally – will help them get access to techniques that they couldn’t get otherwise. If you interview me 10 years from now, we’ll be able to say, “here’s the restaurants and the trends that have been influenced from the creation of this book.” I hope that there’ll be other books by that date, that I won’t be totally done, but if I was done today, I would hope that this book will be a good contribution, that people would have found it really useful. That’s as much as you could hope for.
RS: Thank you for sharing about the whole process of this project. It’s exciting to see the final product but I can’t imagine how hard those 5 years were when you were working through the trials and tribulations.
NM: There was a lot of work. There are things that don’t go how you’d like; there are those things that turn out really well. It was a great project. It’s terrific to see it now actually accepted by people.
RS: Are you thinking of any more translations of MC?
NM: Two languages: Chinese and Russian. If you look at what countries will hold the most high end restaurants – Canada is not going to quadruple its high end restaurants, you couldn’t. The number of high end restaurants will remain relatively constant (maybe they’ll grow at a few percent per year, but the population is flat and it’s already wealthy/successful country. The same is true for the United States or Europe. China, will have more high end restaurants – like how the United States went from in the 19th century it went from an agricultural country and the wild west and everything else into this urbanized industrial country – and that’s what’s happening in China. If you want to be influential... Plus China has this interesting combination of [having] rich culinary traditions of its own and everybody loves variety. So there will be more French restaurants developing , more sushi... If you lived in Shanghai or Beijing today, or Hong Kong – Hong Kong’s had a western economy for a while – so it’s got great restaurants of every variety. They’re actually selling the books in English in China through our printer. For the very rich people in China it doesn’t matter the books are in English. It’s also not a big influence on the culinary world. The challenge there is finding a way to get it translated in a cost effective way. If you told me that when we translate it to Chinese and I’ll never make any money on it, I’d still do it just because it’ll be a cool thing to do. It actually has many of the same properties that I said about China: it’s another unique situation where they’re growing more of a restaurant culture and growing more of an open society. Spanish is great, because not only do you get Spain but you get all of Latin America. So if you look at parts of the world that are more influential, the parts of the world that are developing are only part of the story. If you look back 20 or 30 years from now, it’s the parts of the world that are growing fast, they will go from having no culinary traditions to high end cuisine – that’s where you’ll have the most influence.
RS: And can we use the metaphor that “they’re really hungry for it” appropriately here?
NM: [Laughs]
RS: Thank you so much for your time.
* Random fact: Although both editions are printed on high quality paper, edition one used paper from Japan and weighed a mere 48-pounds. However, in wake of the tsunami earlier this year, the paper was no longer available and an equally high quality source, but slightly heavier product, from China was used. The ink alone weighs 4-pounds.
** Mhyrvold worked on the project for two years alone before having a team.
DSC_4005.JPG
Image by Rich Gibson
The pantheon at an oblique angle.
11/20/2004 When in Rome! Heather and Rich fly to Rome and have fun on their first day.
It is 11:30 pm local time, and oh but we've been footsore and on the way. It all started a couple of day ago, Thursday for us, when we left home about 6:40 pm with Maddy and Spencer. I officially finished the book by writing two chapter intros. I later got on line and learned that Schuyler planned to do intros for ch1 and ch6, and write the 'how gps works' section for ch5. This meant that I am, officially, at least until QC (quality control) comes back, done with the book.
Wow.
And we drove to Dad's and the kids were rambunctious until we opened up our new CD's for Harry Potter and the Prisonar of Azkaban...we listened to the first CD and that quieted them right down!
And we had a dinner at Dad and Judy's and then up to my Mom's, where we chatted a bit...then bed. And the 5:15 am alarm. It didn't feel all that bad, surprisingly.
The flight to NY went well. I watched the incredibly stupid, but still amusing, movie Anchor Man, heather geeked on our itinery. Then I did a bit, then geeked with my GPS.
Note to self...GPS is cool, and this whole idea of narrative of place is cool, but really, taking GPS tracks in Rome doesn't work that well. I think it is best supplemented with voice recordings of places and later geocoding to a map.
hmmm. I try and create meaning by automatically/quasi automatically parsing track logs of less meaningful trips or segments of trips-down I5 to go lobster diving, for example, but perhaps it is the meaning in the trip that is more important. The GPS is a tool for helping to look at that, but I think I can post process intermittent track points, coupled with memory and photos and voice recordings, to get a better sense of trip.
Anyway...the leg to NY went very quickly. Then we were stuck on the tarmac for a bit while our gate was cleared for us. Eeeks...I had to pee!
Then we actually were in a bit of a rush to make our connection...we got there before the 'we are closing the door on your ass' stage, but not much!
I felt a bit ick for a bit, but once I took an ibuprofen, got rid of my heart burn and had some dinner i was okay. We took sleeping pills when we took off. I took another one after dinner, and then forced myself to try to sleep.
It didn't feel as though it were working-almost as though the sleeping pill made weary but not asleep...odd feeling. But I guess I slepped. Heather woke me when they served breakfast. I did not wake easily, and I went back to sleep a couple of times. I was seeing double for part of the time.
Poor Heather says she only slept about 2 hours.
But we arrived, and waltzed through customs and onto the train. Amazing! About 10 euros apiece and we had a nice train ride with two Italian women and an italian man...we didn't really talk, but, oh well.
Into the train station, and a bit of trouble getting oriented to find our hotel. Now it is easy, but the first time was not so easy.
And then somehow it got later and we figured out the metro to go to the vatican. I was pissy about wanting to eat, and we had trouble with that-the place Heather wanted for us wasn't open until 12:30. We had okay ham and cheese sandwiches and excellent olives from a deli, ate in the plazza (?) by the gellatti milleneum.
Then we went up to the vatican. We had missed the vatican museum, sadly, but we perservered and toured Saint Peters. Heather and I were seperated at this point. I hooked up with a free tour guide and learned lots of great stuff.
Heather called when I was about to learn how to become a Swiss Guard. I accidentally hung up on her, and then couldn't figure out how to call her back, but I guessed she'd be in the front, and she was. She was pooped! But gamely lead me through the tombs of the popes. That is neat...it is so non-cave like...and yet, there is plenty of room for more of them :-)
Well we hiked back to the metro, metroe'd back to the train station and walked back to the hotel and took a 2ish hour nap...it was about 3:00 when we started this 'nap' thing.
Well we woke and did like the Romans, and then got ourselves out of the hotel. We took the 40 bus out and walked down to campo di fiori and did Rick Steve's 'Nighttime rome' walk...
We had dinner in the Piazza Navona at the 'Tre Scalini' cafe/Mokarabina coffee bar. We had drinks an appetizer and a primi-ie, we shared 1 appetizer and 1 primi, and a desert, shared, and it cost a bit. Later we saw what looked like better food for much less money. live and learn. I loved the pantheon (only the outside, as it was closed) and saw where kids had set up to camp at the pantheon, etc.
We got minorly scammed at the Trevi fountain over some flowers that were 'given' to us...and when I didnt' pay enough for them the guy took 2 of three back! ack. I was not too annoyed-I mean, I should know better, right?
And I took pictures and we made our way back to the hotel.
tags: italy heather rich rome
DSC_3931.JPG
Image by Rich Gibson
The Pieta
11/20/2004 When in Rome! Heather and Rich fly to Rome and have fun on their first day.
It is 11:30 pm local time, and oh but we've been footsore and on the way. It all started a couple of day ago, Thursday for us, when we left home about 6:40 pm with Maddy and Spencer. I officially finished the book by writing two chapter intros. I later got on line and learned that Schuyler planned to do intros for ch1 and ch6, and write the 'how gps works' section for ch5. This meant that I am, officially, at least until QC (quality control) comes back, done with the book.
Wow.
And we drove to Dad's and the kids were rambunctious until we opened up our new CD's for Harry Potter and the Prisonar of Azkaban...we listened to the first CD and that quieted them right down!
And we had a dinner at Dad and Judy's and then up to my Mom's, where we chatted a bit...then bed. And the 5:15 am alarm. It didn't feel all that bad, surprisingly.
The flight to NY went well. I watched the incredibly stupid, but still amusing, movie Anchor Man, heather geeked on our itinery. Then I did a bit, then geeked with my GPS.
Note to self...GPS is cool, and this whole idea of narrative of place is cool, but really, taking GPS tracks in Rome doesn't work that well. I think it is best supplemented with voice recordings of places and later geocoding to a map.
hmmm. I try and create meaning by automatically/quasi automatically parsing track logs of less meaningful trips or segments of trips-down I5 to go lobster diving, for example, but perhaps it is the meaning in the trip that is more important. The GPS is a tool for helping to look at that, but I think I can post process intermittent track points, coupled with memory and photos and voice recordings, to get a better sense of trip.
Anyway...the leg to NY went very quickly. Then we were stuck on the tarmac for a bit while our gate was cleared for us. Eeeks...I had to pee!
Then we actually were in a bit of a rush to make our connection...we got there before the 'we are closing the door on your ass' stage, but not much!
I felt a bit ick for a bit, but once I took an ibuprofen, got rid of my heart burn and had some dinner i was okay. We took sleeping pills when we took off. I took another one after dinner, and then forced myself to try to sleep.
It didn't feel as though it were working-almost as though the sleeping pill made weary but not asleep...odd feeling. But I guess I slepped. Heather woke me when they served breakfast. I did not wake easily, and I went back to sleep a couple of times. I was seeing double for part of the time.
Poor Heather says she only slept about 2 hours.
But we arrived, and waltzed through customs and onto the train. Amazing! About 10 euros apiece and we had a nice train ride with two Italian women and an italian man...we didn't really talk, but, oh well.
Into the train station, and a bit of trouble getting oriented to find our hotel. Now it is easy, but the first time was not so easy.
And then somehow it got later and we figured out the metro to go to the vatican. I was pissy about wanting to eat, and we had trouble with that-the place Heather wanted for us wasn't open until 12:30. We had okay ham and cheese sandwiches and excellent olives from a deli, ate in the plazza (?) by the gellatti milleneum.
Then we went up to the vatican. We had missed the vatican museum, sadly, but we perservered and toured Saint Peters. Heather and I were seperated at this point. I hooked up with a free tour guide and learned lots of great stuff.
Heather called when I was about to learn how to become a Swiss Guard. I accidentally hung up on her, and then couldn't figure out how to call her back, but I guessed she'd be in the front, and she was. She was pooped! But gamely lead me through the tombs of the popes. That is neat...it is so non-cave like...and yet, there is plenty of room for more of them :-)
Well we hiked back to the metro, metroe'd back to the train station and walked back to the hotel and took a 2ish hour nap...it was about 3:00 when we started this 'nap' thing.
Well we woke and did like the Romans, and then got ourselves out of the hotel. We took the 40 bus out and walked down to campo di fiori and did Rick Steve's 'Nighttime rome' walk...
We had dinner in the Piazza Navona at the 'Tre Scalini' cafe/Mokarabina coffee bar. We had drinks an appetizer and a primi-ie, we shared 1 appetizer and 1 primi, and a desert, shared, and it cost a bit. Later we saw what looked like better food for much less money. live and learn. I loved the pantheon (only the outside, as it was closed) and saw where kids had set up to camp at the pantheon, etc.
We got minorly scammed at the Trevi fountain over some flowers that were 'given' to us...and when I didnt' pay enough for them the guy took 2 of three back! ack. I was not too annoyed-I mean, I should know better, right?
And I took pictures and we made our way back to the hotel.
tags: italy heather rich rome
Chicken, Ham and Leek Pie, with Mash
Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
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