Getting on My Soapbox

The theme of Monday’s reading is “On the Soapbox.” We will all be reading opinion pieces. I have two that I am trying to choose between, both about gay marriage. The one I like best is a little outdated now, so what I have to decide is which is more feasible: updating the old one, or improving the new one. I think I’m going to go with editing the newer one. That will give me something to work on this afternoon.

Another Reading?

It never rains but it pours on my public appearance calendar.

The woman who organizes the Ferry Building events invited me to do a reading next Monday, forgetting that she’d already signed me up for the August reading. We both agreed that two months of Nicole might be a lot, so right now I’m penciled in as an alternate. If she can’t get a full schedule of readers, I get to go on.

If this does happen, I’ll be reading at 5:30 on July 14 at the Book Passage Ferry Building store. I will let you know as soon as I do!

Book Passage Reading

I decided which story I’m going to read at the Book Passage event. It’s the one about Taiwan. Of all the travel stories I have that would be appropriate for the event, that’s the one that’s gotten the least exposure so far, so that’s the one I’m going to go with.

Mark Your Calendars

I believe I’ve said before in this space that I’m not an enthusiastic speaker. I’m okay once I’m at the podium; I’m just terrified of the idea. As a consequence, my public appearances as an adult have been very limited.

But, rock stars have to support their new material, and so do writers. (See, there’s something else I have in common with Mick Jagger.) So I decided it was time to take advantage of an opportunity offered by a writers’ group that I’m part of. Every month, this group (Left Coast Writers) hosts a bookstore reading. Any member can volunteer to present, but I’ve never had the courage.

Yesterday, however, the group met and I allowed myself to be talked into signing up for August by one of the other members. August’s theme is travel writing, so if I don’t do it then, I may never.

The event is August 11 from 5:30 to 7:30 at Book Passage bookstore in the Ferry Building in San Francisco. There will be several other readers, but I don’t know yet how many or which number I am.

If anyone’s worried about this, I think the two-hour time frame includes drinks at the Wine Merchant afterward—I’ve never known one of these readings to take anywhere close to two hours. Book Passage is an excellent bookstore and I encourage everyone to stop by if only to patronize a clean, well-lighted, and independent place for books. (The San Francisco branch is small, but they can order anything for you.)

When to Buy?

It used to be that buying airplane tickets was a little bit of a gamble. You never knew if you were buying at the right time. You might commit to buying a ticket and the next day the price might drop significantly. Or it might go up. It all seemed very random and it was hard to decide when to make the purchase.

Lately all the advice I’ve been getting says to buy now, because prices will only go up. And over the weekend, I had an experience that suggested very dramatically that this is true.

My family is planning a getaway to a lake near Oshkosh, Wisconsin at the end of July. On Saturday, my sister and I had a pow-wow on the phone, each of us in front of our own computer, in order to book plane tickets to Milwaukee. We looked at airfares for various dates and times on several different web sites. Finally, we decided on a particular American Airlines itinerary, which Hilary found on Orbitz and I saw on Travelocity for exactly the same price. We went through the booking process together, picking seats that were next to each other.

When we got to the end of the process, we double-checked with each other and then we both clicked our purchase buttons at what must have been almost exactly the same time.

I instantly got a confirmation that my purchase had gone through. Hilary, though, got a message saying that one or more of her flights was no longer available. When we tried to start the booking over again, neither site offered that exact itinerary as an option. After a few minutes, the flights reappeared—for several hundred dollars more than I had just paid. We hoped this was a fluke, and that prices would come back down after a few hours, but so far, no luck.

I am aware that two people sitting next to each other on a plane can pay wildly different prices for those two seats, but I never realized this could happen when they’re booked seconds apart. In retrospect, I see now that we should have been using one computer to purchase both the tickets at once. But if we’d taken the extra time for one of us to drive to the other’s house, who knows what would have happened to prices during that hour?

Like I said, it’s a gamble.

Happy Fourth of July

Pipi and I like to be ahead of things, so we already saw fireworks, last night at the Marin County Fair.

This frees us from the annual Bay Area ritual of packing into a crowded public place and standing in the damp chill while watching muted color flashes going off in the fog. I’m relieved that I won’t feel obligated to do that this year in order to say I saw fireworks on the fourth. It feels, well, freeing.

The weather was good in Marin. Joan Jett played a set right before the fireworks show, and what’s more American than rock ’n’ roll? Pretty much only hot dogs and corn on the cob, which is what’s on the menu for at least two meals tomorrow.

Happy Fourth, everybody!

Marketing Pays Off?

A few days ago, I had a rare nibble of interest from the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle. He wrote back to me in response to an article I’d sent him about the Great Wall of China. He said he already had an article lined up, but that he would see if he could incorporate any of my work into the China issue. I haven’t heard anything since then, and I’m not holding my breath, but it’s more encouraging than anything I’ve ever heard from him before, so I’m cautiously optimistic.

Introducing Glenview

The original idea behind my walking project was to get to know parts of Oakland that I knew very little about. I’m definitely still interested in that, but right now, I’m taking a little bit of a break by exploring the Glenview neighborhood. This area is not far from where I live, so I do know it a little already.

Glenview has the distinction of being the last neighborhood I will be able to walk to. Any other unexplored neighborhoods are far enough away that by the time I walk to them, that will be my exercise for the day. So soon I will be in the odd position of always having to drive to take a walk.

Not too soon, I hope. I’m afraid that driving to exercise will make me irreformably Californian.

I’ll Come Back Later

Another thing the guard told me is that the whole eastern side of the base is going to be bulldozed, and that a car dealership plaza will be constructed in the area that is already torn up and covered in gravel. So one day I probably will be able to walk around the old Army base again. It just won’t look anything like it does now.

Not-So-Warm Welcome

Here’s the funny thing, though: Actually, you’re not particularly welcome. In fact, I got kicked off recently.

The guard was nice enough. I think he was just surprised to see a walker meandering between the warehouses. He wanted to know if I’d “come off a truck.” I wondered for a second if he thought I was part of a human smuggling operation, but I think he just wondered if I were a truck driver, because those are about the only people around the base during the day.

The guard politely informed me that the base is private property, and I politely offered to leave, since I was done for the day anyway.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t entirely done with the base. There are still a few streets I haven’t been on yet. One doesn’t seem to exist anymore—it’s under a parking lot now. A couple more may not exist—if they do, they’re buried under a mountain of construction-site debris, and in any case are in the private area. Two more short streets are outside the area marked “private,” but they seem to lead to a truck loading zone and you have to go past a guard post to get to them. I don’t think I’ll be walking on them, either. I did say I wouldn’t trespass, so I appear to be done with the Oakland Army Base, and with it, West Oakland in general. I’ll miss the area, even the base, which was a little desolate, but full of history.

Phase III

So far no results yet from my marketing blitz, but I didn’t really expect anything to happen so quickly.

My next step is to try to pitch some story ideas to magazines I’ve worked with in the past. This might be where some previously unpublished pieces finally find a home, although it will take a little work to get them into magazine shape. That should keep me busy for a while.

Not Taking No for an Answer

Phase II will involve trying anew to get articles published. I keep lists of every publication I’ve offered every piece to, and periodically I go back over those lists and try to think of papers that might be a better fit. Today I tried sending some China articles to various newspapers. I can’t believe no one’s taken my Great Wall of China article. If they don’t want it this summer, they never will, so I was pretty aggressive about sending it around. Some editors may not be seeing the Great Wall piece for the first time, but my feeling is that if you don’t ask me to cut it out, I can keep offering it. (And I will keep this up as long as editors persist in ignoring submissions completely.) As always, we’ll see how my campaign goes.

Getting Resourceful

Part of writing is marketing, and on Friday I went on a big marketing push. I’m trying to find homes for pieces I’ve already written and that either never got published or still seem to have some life in them.

Phase I of this push involved me unloading a number of stories on the Travelers’ Tales web site. They offer a number of avenues for allowing travel pieces to see the light of day. They publish anthologies, which is the real goal, and they also post stories on the Travelers’ Tales web site, which would be nice, too. In addition, they run a contest every year called the Solas awards. Awards are given in a lot of different categories, including Women’s Travel, Bad Trip, Travel and Food, and the intriguing Animal Encounter category. I’m not holding my breath, mostly because the awards aren’t announced until spring, but I remain hopeful.

The Rest of the Story

There was a whole scene that got cut out of my Taiwan story. Karen said she edited it this way specifically so that I could publish that part elsewhere, which was a nice consideration. I do intend to try to get an audience for it somehow. I’ll start with you.

This section starts at the end of our hike along the train tracks, and describes dinner at a sort of bed & breakfast (well, bed & dinner) establishment Sarah and I stumbled into. I remember that I was a little apprehensive going into the situation—what if I couldn’t talk to anyone? What if the food was weird? What if I committed a faux pas? Pretty quickly, though, we relaxed and stopped worrying so much, and that’s when the fun began. I didn’t get all the conversation, and in fact, the food was a little weird. But it was, as they say, all good. Well, not the maple gelatin, but everything else, once I’d let go of my need to understand and anticipate every little thing, was great. It’s one of my favorite memories from that summer.

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We finally decided to turn around when we got to a dark and forbidding tunnel full of imaginary snakes and spiders. The hike back to town was uneventful, with no train wrecks and no further epiphanies.

We’d heard through the backpacking grapevine that the town’s railway workers were eager to supplement their income by renting out rooms to tourists, and this turned out to be true. For the equivalent of $12, we were invited to have dinner and spend the night at the home of a boyishly jovial conductor named Mr. Gao. He was no taller than either of us, and was still wearing his uniform, with a hat that fell over his eyes and sleeves that hung down to his knuckles. If he had been on the train that had almost run down (or at least bumped) a couple of Americans earlier that afternoon, he kept it to himself.

We just had time to wash up before dinner. As I was taking off my muddy shoes, I overheard Mr. Gao in the bathroom explaining a quirk of the plumbing to Sarah. “Thanks,” I heard her say in Chinese, “I’ll tell my peng you.” Peng you. Friend. She’d called me her friend. A jolt of happiness made me smile, and for the second time that day, I had the feeling something important had changed in my life.

There were about 10 people at the dinner table. We spoke a pidgin of Mandarin sprinkled liberally with English. I picked up that the others were railway employees who came and went with the waxing and waning of tourist crowds. I wasn’t sure I understood who lived in the house and who didn’t, but it didn’t matter. The sunny Mr. Gao made us all feel like we belonged, heaping our rice bowls with more and more food. He brought dish after dish out of the kitchen, bok choi with garlic following shrimp and mayonnaise chased by chicken, stir-fried squash, and bamboo made with local shoots so stupefyingly tender and nutty that Mr. Gao said that he forgot his name whenever he ate them. A few of the offerings did challenge my teenaged palate, like the brown jelly that looked like consommé but tasted like Aunt Jemima pancake syrup. (I slid my portion into Sarah’s bowl when Mr. Gao made one of his many trips into the kitchen.)

I wondered aloud what some of the more exotic items were, and each time I asked, Mr. Gao jumped up from the table, bounded downstairs, and returned a few minutes later with a dot-matrix printout describing the dish in English. When one slip came back with the single word “tripe,” I decided to stop asking. I never found out what the next item was, a fibrous, tasteless, branched thing that looked like a diagram of human bronchial tubes. (Years later, when someone happened to ask me what the weirdest food was I’d ever eaten, this was the first thing that popped into my head.)

I can’t say that everything in my life became clear that day. I couldn’t identify half the things in my stuffed belly, for one thing. I never learned the names of all my dining companions. I hardly understood the obsession with China that had made me want to study in Beijing, and nobody really had a clear picture of the massacre in Tiananmen Square that had re-routed me to the island formerly known as Formosa.

So it’s true that I was still, in many ways, the same baffled teenager who had gotten on a bus with a near stranger that morning. I still barely knew where I was or how I got there. But for the first time in my life, I had some idea of where I was going.

Read All About it at Readerville

My story is live now on the Readerville front page. You can click here to see it.

I can tell that this was an interesting editing exercise for Karen Templer, the wonderful woman who runs the site. It was an interesting exercise in editing for me when I wrote it. I could tell it was going long before I was very far into the story, and I had to stop and ask myself how I was going to deal with that. Usually the answer to a piece meandering into the 2500+ word territory is to cut mercilessly. Occasionally, though, the thing to do is to let it happen, making sure you take the time to treat each element of the story before moving on to another part of the narrative.

I chose the latter approach for this essay. I’m not saying it was the right decision; I’m just saying it was what I chose. As a consequence, the story did turn out longer than Karen wanted (i.e. longer than normal people will give an online story). So she cut some parts out. I don’t blame her. Something had to go, and you probably won’t even notice. (I once left all the sugar out of a dessert recipe by mistake and nobody noticed. It’s amazing what you can do without when you have to.) I’m just saying, if you are left wondering how I got full from a dinner I never mentioned eating, or what exactly I overheard Sarah say, the answers were once there.

Of course, you probably you never would have asked. It can be hard when you write something to tell what’s important and what isn’t. That’s what editors are for.

Readerville to the Rescue

Several months ago I went to an event where I saw a speaker who runs a web site called Readerville. It’s a site by and for literary people, dedicated to the idea that people still read for pleasure. I hadn’t heard of the site before, but I loved the idea and tried to think what I could send them.

I did think of something, and today I’ve been working with the editor to prepare a piece for publication. It’s a long story about a summer I spent in Taiwan when I was in college. It’s too long—and took place too long ago—to be published in most conventional venues. I still have hope that the full-length piece will appear in an anthology someday. But soon—maybe as soon as tomorrow—a mercifully abridged version will appear online. I’ll post a link when it’s live.

Taking the Scenic Route

Several years ago, Pipi and I flew Southwest Airlines from Oakland to New Orleans. It was cheap, but it also took all day, the itinerary involved three stops, and a drunk lady in party seating spoiled a big part of the book I was reading. After the second stop in the state of Texas alone, I vowed never to fly Southwest cross-country again.

That vow held for almost 10 years, but recently, temped by a low fare on the ultra convenient Oakland-Harford route, I broke down and decided to give it another try. The web site promised just one stop each way, which I find acceptable on that route, so I thought it might not be so bad.

And it wasn’t too bad heading east, where I really did have just one stop, in Nashville.

On the way home, I was expecting a stop in Baltimore. The leg between Baltimore and Oakland, however, turned into a frustrating lesson on the difference between a non-stop and a direct flight

Instead of proceeding non-stop from Baltimore to Oakland, the plane traveled directly—we touched down in Chicago, where I didn’t have to get off the plane, but I did have to sit in my seat for an entire deplaning/cleaning/boarding cycle before we were airborne again. I know that’s not so bad, but I found it annoying because I hadn’t been aware of the Chicago stop until I got to the airport in Hartford.

The moral is study your itinerary carefully. When Southwest tells you that you only have to change planes once, that doesn’t mean you’re only stopping once. They don’t actually use the words “non-stop” or “direct,” so you can get tripped up even if you do know the difference between the two terms.

No Place Like Home Part III

I alluded recently to a Mary Chapin Carpenter song where she says that she’d never really seen her hometown until she’d spent some time away. I’m sure some of you are way ahead of me and knew right away that I had the artist wrong. The song I’m thinking of is San Diego Serenade, which is a song written by Tom Waits and recorded by a number of artists. The version I’m thinking of is in fact by Nanci Griffith.

Nanci Griffith and Mary Chapin Carpenter aren’t really all that similar, and you’re probably wondering how I could mix them up. I’m pretty sure it’s because I keep both of their catalogs in the same box in my head labeled “Songs by Women I Like to Pretend Are Not Really Country Artists.” Lucinda Williams, Linda Ronstadt, and Emmylou Harris have their music in there, too. Iris Dement would like me to put her in this box, but so far I’ve resisted. Michelle Shocked and the Indigo Girls are afraid they’re going to start appearing there. Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies doesn’t really want to be in the box of denial, but as long as she continues to sing songs with titles like Murder in the Trailer Park, she leaves me little choice. The women of the Waifs, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t mind if I put their songs in the box, as long as it meant someone from America was paying attention. My point is, it’s a big bin, and I can see how the contents have shifted over time.

The reason I bring it up at all, really, is just to say that I know what Nanci Griffith means when she sings about distance making things clearer. Almost every time I’m home I notice something that seemed perfectly normal when I lived there, but which after years on the West Coast, has started to look odd. Or at least noteworthy.

This time it was brick. Everything in Northampton that isn’t wood and isn’t made of huge blocks of stone is made of brick--unreinforced masonry brick with no X-shaped retrofitting braces in sight. I love that look—brick, clapboard, and brownstone are God’s construction materials as far as I’m concerned. I just realize now that the architecture is strikingly different from what I’m slowly getting used to in California. Aren’t people in Massachusetts worried about earthquakes? (Hint: no.)

Here is a link to some pictures I took when I was home. (I’m back in California now.)

There’s No Place Like Home Part II

A few weeks ago, Pipi and I were driving through Oakland on Interstate 580, when I spotted a bumper sticker that I was pretty sure referred to my hometown. “Look,” I squealed, “Hamp!”

“What did you say?” Pipi asked me in a tone that said, “I’m trying to work with you, but this conversation has not gotten off to a promising start.”

“Hamp, HAMP,” I repeated, as if volume were the only problem; as if everyone in California knew that old-time Northampton guys refer to the town as “Hamp.”

“How are you spelling this?” Pipi finally asked, and I realized that along with my Northampton pride, I’d also experienced an upwelling of my Northampton accent. This twang, which has more in common with upstate New York and even the upper Midwest than it does with Boston, has a Cockney-like disdain for internal consonants. (Remember the nursery rhyme about the three little kittens? In my childhood, they were called “kih-ins,” and they’d lost their mih-ins.) The accent also strangles “A”s to within an inch of their lives. My “Hamp” apparently came out more like “Heeamp,” confusing Pipi, who’s never known me to be much of a rope-maker.

This kind of misunderstanding doesn’t usually happen when I’m visiting Massachusetts, and that’s one thing I love about it. I don’t have to watch my vowels. No one asks me to repeat myself if I mention a tag (yard) sale, or gets shrill if I utter the phrase “packie store.” (It’s short for “package,” and means a place to buy a six-pack of beer.)

In Massachusetts, I order a grinder and I get a hot sandwich, not a blank look. People here speak my language. And like me, they’re prone to pronouncing it “leeanguage” if they’re not policing themselves.

It may not always sound nice, but it feels like home.

There’s No Place Like Home

Regular readers may have noticed that my postings have gotten slightly sporadic. That’s because I’ve been traveling. I’m currently in Northampton, MA. This, as most of you know--because 99% of you are related to me--is my hometown.

Mary Chapin Carpenter has a line in one of her songs about how she never saw her hometown until she’d been away too long. I feel a little like that right now. I’ll try and see if I can explain what I mean by that another time. I will also try to post some more pictures so that the two of you who’ve never been here can see my hometown, too.

But now I have to reacquaint myself with one of the city’s drinking establishments. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. I will be back in Oakland Tuesday night, and real life will resume then.

A Note to My Kiwi Friends

I hope none of my New Zealand readers are offended by my enthusiasm for a possible trip to Australia. Oz would be a new place for me, and I’m always excited for new experiences.

Please note, though, that as much as I talk about wanting to go to Australia, I haven’t managed to get myself there yet. Whereas I did actually make the effort to get to New Zealand once—and would go back in a heartbeat. (Well, that and if a round-trip ticket fell out of the sky.)

Too Long

Yesterday I had the unusual but not unprecedented experience of hearing about a story I submitted a long time ago. The Dallas Morning News told me they liked an article I wrote in December on Japan, but said that it was too long for their current format. Taking them at their word, I shortened it and sent it back. And in another six months, I’ll let you know what they think of the new version.

Bridalveil Falls

The waterfall in this picture is called Bridalveil Falls. It does look somewhat lace-like when the wind blows the spray around, but a park ranger also told us that there is a legend stating that if you can stare at the falls for a full minute without blinking, you’ll be married within a year.

One of the members of our party—a wonderful Australian woman named Michelle who has been dating Pipi’s brother Eddie for a few years—confessed to me later that she’d tried this trick, but hadn’t been able to pull it off.

In the end it didn’t matter, though: On Sunday, Eddie and Michelle slipped away from the group for a private hike. When Eddie found just the right spot in the woods, he got down on one knee and popped the question.

Eddie and Michelle were absolutely giddy the whole rest of the weekend. I thought Michelle would hyperventilate when they made the announcement, and already several hours had passed. They’re happy, and I’m very happy for them.

But I confess that some of this happiness is for myself, too. This development means that Pipi is about to have an Australian sister in law. Which means that I practically have an Australian sister-in-law. Which is just about the coolest thing imaginable. Better yet, the wedding may take place in Australia. I’m so excited for that I can’t stand it. Hopefully more details will follow soon.

Fogged In

As I mentioned yesterday, my Frommer’s guide said that 95% of visitors to Yosemite never leave the valley. Having finally been to the park, I realize that’s not as sad as it sounds. The valley is a big place, and it’s where the big sights are, including Half Dome, El Capitan, and Yosemite Falls. It’s also where most of the dining and non-camping lodging options in the park are located.

Still, I don’t like the idea of acting like 95% of any group, so Pipi and I made an effort to head off the beaten path at least once. On Monday, we learned that the road to the Glacier Point lookout had just opened, so we drove up there, feeling virtuous for having gotten wind of this bit of news.

The drive was beautiful, and I don’t regret taking it. The road climbs over 3,000 feet through the woods, with spectacular views. There was a lot of snow by the side of the road, which I enjoyed seeing as well.

Once we got to the top, though, at an elevation of 7,2000 feet, we couldn’t see a thing. Glacier Point was smack in the middle of a cloud, which is its own kind of charming, but left the famous view of the valley almost entirely to the imagination. Every few minutes the wind would blow some of the thicker mist out of the way, and we could catch an eerie glimpse of mountains across the way, or get a flash of the valley floor. I really don’t regret the trip. The atmospheric fog added something to the landscape that you wouldn’t get on a brilliantly clear day. It was just one of those experiences where you have to adjust your expectations.

Yosemite Valley

We are back from a long weekend at Yosemite National Park. The park is every bit as beautiful as I hoped, though it did look slightly different from what I imagined. For one thing, it’s in color. All those Ansel Adams photographs I’ve seen seemed to suggest otherwise.

Also, the weather wasn’t great. It was cool with occasional drizzle and constant mist. That might not sound nice, but it gave the park the look of a Chinese landscape painting, which I really liked. It was a great weekend, full of family and good food. Some really nice things happened and although, like 95% of park visitors, I barely left the Valley, I feel like I had a good introduction to the park.

Here are some more photos.

Welcome to Summer

I’m finding it hard to believe that it’s Memorial Day weekend already, but it is. Pipi and I are leaving in the morning for Yosemite National Park. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never been there before, but I am looking forward to it a lot. We’ll be back Tuesday, so I may miss a day or two blogging. Photos when we return.

Happy long weekend, everyone!

A New Record

I got rejected by Curve Magazine yesterday in what may be record time—I didn’t clock it, but no more than five minutes could have passed between my sending the email and getting a rejection from an editor. (She said she read it and liked it…..)

Still, it’s better in some ways than being left hanging. At least now I know for sure it’s okay to start looking for other outlets.

Overcoming Inertia

On Friday I was tempted to clean up my Thursday gay marriage blog posting and send it out for publication.

But I was also tempted to take a walk, go pick up a book I ordered in San Francisco, and/or watch Ellen DeGeneres announce her engagement to Portia DiRossi on TV.

Early in the afternoon I got a sweet email from my father, who had seen the posting and urged me to try to get it published. This made me realize that I needed to wait until Friday evening for my weekend to begin just like everyone else. I spent the afternoon polishing the piece, giving it a real introduction and tightening up the writing. (And correcting a misspelling Pipi found. That was embarrassing.) I sent it to the San Francisco Chronicle, the Christian Science Monitor, and the Advocate.

That may seem like an unlikely lineup ("One of these things is not like the other….”), but the Christian Science Monitor did publish me once before. They run an essay every day, and their web site says they welcome differing points of view, so I took them at their word.

The Christian Science Monitor got back to me very quickly. The editor said the piece was a little too topical for the Home Forum. I don’t think she meant this euphemistically because she offered to personally forward it to the Op-Ed person—which she did. I got a similar response from the Chronicle—my story is now with the Insight section editor there.

No word yet from either of these new editors, or from the Advocate. As always, I will keep you posted. And I’ll keep trying other publications as well.

Another Unusual Souvenir

These are the dyed scales of a fish called the gar. A gar is a scary-looking primordial armored fish that can grow up to nine feet long. A website I found describes them as “America’s toughest sport fish for one hundred million years.” Not only do they put up a ferocious fight in the water, but once you get a gar in your boat, it’s said that the only sure way to keep it from thrashing and attacking with its sharp teeth is to shoot it.

I realize that sounds apocryphal—people really discharge firearms inside their own boats?—but Pipi and I did get the guy who sold us these scales to confirm it. Possibly this story of indestructibility is a rural myth winkingly passed along to impressionable Yankee girls. I don’t know. In the spirit of good fun I’m going to choose to believe it, but you don’t have to.

In any case, as if Louisiana didn’t have enough trouble with alligators and poisonous snakes, the swamps are full of these gilled dinosaurs. There are, however, those who appreciate them. There is a lot to admire about the gar’s longevity, its brute strength, and the fish’s importance to the Native American tribes of Louisiana. The gar are sort of the bison of the bayou—not only is the meat edible, but other parts are salvaged as well. Scales like these, for instance, were used as small arrowheads.

I am pretty sure the guy was joking, though, when he said the pastel colors are an old Indian tradition.

Big Nerd in the Big Easy

Here’s a souvenir of New Orleans that not everyone would bother seeking out: A silver dollar minted in the Crescent City.

There are only a few cities in the country where it’s possible to bring home locally made money. Denver and Philadelphia are the only places where it’s easy—regular-issue coins are still minted there, so you can find souvenirs in your change. In San Francisco, you can buy a current proof set for not too much more than face value, and in West Point, you can purchase a modern commemorative coin that won’t be too expensive.

But New Orleans is harder. That mint shut down in 1909, so any coins made there are collectors’ items. Luckily, they’re not all that rare. This coin caught my eye in a shop window on Royal Street in the French Quarter. There was a whole box of them set out as bait for people like me.

There are several other cities that have extinct mints: Carson City, Nevada; Charlotte, North Carolina; and Dahlonega, Georgia. One day I will get to these places and complete my complete my compulsive coin-collecting tour of the United States.

(New Orleans mint mark is an O, found between and a little bit above the letters "D" and "O" in "Dollar.")

Main Line Clubs

Here is a photo of a member of yet another New Orleans social group. (Pipi swears she saw a billboard advertising a fraternity while we were there—New Orleans takes its clubs very seriously.) I originally assumed this guy was a slightly less flamboyant Mardi Gras Indian, but he’s not. He’s part of a “main line” club called the Original C.T.C. steppers.

The term “main line” originally referred to the core group of participants in a parade—the family of the deceased at a funeral, for example. There would be a second line, too; this would be made up of people who weren’t quite as close to the deceased. The second line often got pretty big as the parade went on attracting spectators from the neighborhood, but the main line was the main attraction.

Now the term usually refers to musical social aid & pleasure clubs. A few mainline clubs were scheduled to march during Jazz Fest and I was lucky enough to catch this performance of the Original C.T.C. Steppers, a relatively new group. Without even understanding the tradition, I became a temporary second liner as I scampered along with a large group of other photographers, trying to get a shot of this colorfully dressed man.

Not Strictly Related, But….

….Since it’s all I’ve been able to think about, I’m going to write about today’s big news: The California State Supreme Court just legalized gay marriage.

Early this afternoon I went to City Hall in San Francisco, hoping to crash what I expected to be a big party. My first thought when I arrived there was, “How cute; all the broadcasters in the city came down to get hitched to their partners.” Because the first thing I noticed was a huge number of news trucks parked around Civic Center Plaza. There were generators and cables all over the sidewalk, and unhappy men lugging cameras around looking for something to film. (It’s 96 degrees in San Francisco today.) Everywhere there was a puddle of shade there was a miserable looking TV reporter in a dark suit drinking water and trying not to have a makeup meltdown before his or her next stand-up spot.

What I didn’t see much of were gay couples celebrating. The scene was nothing like what I expected, which was something along the lines of the sea of tuxedoes and white dresses paired with Doc Martins I saw on the news several years ago after the mayor of San Francisco briefly declared gay marriage legal, but before the courts annulled every last one.

I realized, however, that this lack of exuberance somehow mirrored my own mood. If you had asked me a few weeks, even a few days ago, how I would feel if gay marriage were legalized, I would have guessed that I’d be ecstatic. But today, I feel strangely subdued, and it’s not just the heat.

I feel like I did when the Rex Sox won the World Series in 2004--another thing I never thought would happen in my lifetime. During the playoffs four years ago, it was incredibly exciting to think the cursed Sox actually had a chance to have something good happen to them, and when they beat the Yankees in the league championship series, I was thrilled.

But when the last out of the anticlimactic World Series was safely in Mientkiewicz’s glove, I didn’t feel euphoria. I just felt relief that they hadn’t blown the play, a routine toss to first base eerily reminiscent of the Bill Buckner between-the-legs error that doomed the Red Sox in 1986.

The plays were so similar in everything but outcome that I got mad all over again. I was happy that my team had finally gotten what in my mind they richly deserved. But I also had a fresh bout of righteous anger over having had this prize dangled in front of me once before, only to have it yanked away.

And that’s how I feel today. Relieved that no cringe-inducing gaffe occurred; that the state Supreme Court didn’t mess up. And a little angry. That old voice from 2004 is again whispering in my ear, “This is nice, but shouldn’t it have happened a long time ago?”

I’ll get over it and find my way to gratitude. I’m already on the way. Heading home from City Hall, I ran into an acquaintance who had just gotten an appointment to marry her partner. She will probably always remember today as the day she got engaged (or at least set a date), and she was radiating sunlight. It was good to see someone be a bigger person than I and go straight to the joyful part of the ruling.

I’m sure I’ll be getting a slew of wedding invitations in the coming weeks from friends rushing to the altar ahead of any possible November referendum. These weddings will be especially joyous occasions for not having had the spontaneity planned out of them over the course of months, and because they will, against all odds, result in actual marriage certificates for people who never thought they’d hold a real one in their hands. All this will also help bring me around to a purer form of happiness

I do understand that it’s a beautiful thing that gays and lesbians are finally being offered places at the table—especially if that table is the head table at a wedding banquet. But forgive me if I have to take a moment to feel indignant about the years we had to sit with the kids and the weird drunk uncles no one likes. That kind of slight takes a little time to get over.

Probably I’ll feel more gracious when the heat breaks.

Mardi Gras Indians

Here’s a tradition we just don’t have in the Bay Area: In New Orleans, people dress up as Indians and parade around in feathered outfits.

Not just anyone does this, though. These so-called Mardi-Gras Indians are exclusively African-American. My understanding is that these parades take place with the blessing of the Native American community, because the outfits are adopted in recognition of the fact that both blacks and Indians were treated as second-class citizens in New Orleans, excluded from white traditions like Mardi Gras krewes. It’s also said that the southern African-American collective memory has not forgotten that escaped slaves often were sheltered by Native American tribes, though why this gratitude would be expressed in feathers is not entirely clear. As with a lot of New Orleans legends and traditions, the truth is almost certainly lost to time.

Today Mardi Gras Indian groups are social clubs whose organization mirrors mostly white krewes. Krewes are ruled by kings and queens and named after Greek mythological figures; Mardi Gras Indian tribes have chiefs and are named after local landmarks. At Mardi Gras, tribes dress in colorful, feathery, beaded outfits that weigh 50 pounds and chase each other around the neighborhood in ritualized mock confrontations with dancing and chanting. (Interestingly, the song Iko Iko is about this kind of encounter—the lyrics make a little more sense knowing this, but not a lot.)

Unfortunately, Mardi Gras was long over by the time we got to New Orleans, so we didn’t get to see a real parade. But some tribes did march at Jazz Fest. Pipi and I have half a mind to go to Mardi Gras one year so that we can see this for ourselves. In the Bay Area, you do sometimes get people in feathered outfits, but they’re usually just expressing their appreciation of Cher, and you hardly ever get enough in once place for a parade.

This woman is a part of a tribe called the New Orleans Mardi Gras Indian Rhythm Section.

T-Shirts

As I’ve said, I really don’t like crowds, but one fun thing about being among a throng of people is that I almost always see a few funny t-shirts. The jazz festival crowd didn’t disappoint. Here are a few that I saw, some of which I think you would only see in New Orleans.

Here I am. Now what were your other two wishes?
You used to be my type, but I got help.
I like girls who like girls—worn by a man.
Real men marry doctors—worn by a woman.
Louisiana: third-world and proud of it.
I took my Chevy to the levee but the levee was gone.

In addition, two airplanes with banners were circling the fairgrounds on the last day of the festival. One towed a flag saying “Shell: Hear the music and fix the coast U broke.” (A reference to the fact that many think Shell Oil’s environmental practices made Katrina’s impact worse.) The other was advertising Larry Flint’s Hustler Club. Think the two pilots waved to each other whenever their loops brought them close?

Jazz Fest

We didn’t actually go to New Orleans just to eat. We went to see the 2008 Jazz & Heritage Festival. We were there for four days of the festival but only attended two—one day off was planned, and we declared ourselves rained out another morning. (The festival goes on rain or shine but Pipi and I make no such promises, so we went sightseeing instead.)

Two days is actually just about perfect, I think. I have a limited tolerance for crowds, so a third day might have been too much humanity. And there was a lot of really great music packing into those two days. We saw Richard Thompson twice, once on a main stage and once being interviewed at a small venue (pictured). Stevie Wonder played, and we saw some of his set. It almost didn’t feel like a live show, because he was about a quarter of a mile away from where we were, but it counts. We saw quite a bit of zydeco, some gospel, and discovered the John Butler trio, who were billed as a blues act. Keb’ Mo’ played. The Neville Brothers closed the festival for the first time since before Hurricane Katrina. Apparently they stayed away from New Orleans long enough that some were starting to call them the Never Brothers, but all seemed to be forgiven at the show, which went on for about an hour longer than scheduled.

The one thing we didn’t see all that much of was jazz. We listened to some ragtime while waiting out a squall in the Preservation Hall tent, but that was about it. They may have to rename the festival at some point, because as in New Orleans itself, there are so many different genres of music represented.

Where You Eat?

The second thing everyone asks me—and this says as much about my friends and me as it does about New Orleans, is, “What did you eat?”

Our best meal by far was at a restaurant called Upperline, in the Garden District. Pipi and I both opted for a tasting menu, which was a great idea because of the variety of things we got to try. The first course was two kinds of soups, a gumbo and a turtle soup. Yes, real turtle soup. The turtle meat looked and tasted like ground beef. There was also a duck etoufee with corn cakes. Dessert was a choice of pecan pie, which I had, or bread pudding (a New Orleans obsession), which Pipi tried.

The entrée was roast duck with peach sauce. I did worry that this would be too much duck, but it wasn’t. I had forgotten how good duck can be. It was served with fried green tomatoes and a shrimp remoulade. Photos unfortunately make diner look like a plate with three kinds of brown on it. They don’t begin to do it justice, and neither do words, so you’ll just have to believe me that it was fantastic. (Now you know why I’m not a food writer.) The duck was juicy without being greasy. The tomato was fried to the point of being soft and hot, but not soggily breaded like an onion ring, and the bread pudding, never my favorite dessert, came with a rich, toasty caramel sauce that took it to a new realm.

The beautiful thing about New Orleans is that it’s one of those cities where you can eat well at any price. We both had lots of yummy cheap things at the Jazz festival. Highlights included a great jerk chicken (our Frommer’s guide described New Orleans as the northernmost city in the Caribbean, which made perfect sense to us), a key lime tart, and a spinach-artichoke casserole. I know that sounds boring, but southerners know how to add enough salt and fat to anything to make it decadent. One other discovery was the New Orleans snowball. It’s shaved ice with flavored syrup and condensed milk. It tastes more like Hong Kong than the Deep South, but it’s great on a hot day. And better for you than ice cream, we told ourselves as we tried to ignore the server draining a can of Borden’s on mine.

We also went to a fascinating restaurant in Metarie called Deanie's Seafood Bucktown USA. It was an enormous family restaurant with acres of tables and lots of kids running around. (It didn’t help that the official soft drink of New Orleans appears to be Barq’s, the only root beer I know of with caffeine.) Walking in, I was afraid the place would be an Applebee’s or Olive Garden sort of place, with huge servings of bland, mediocre food. The only thing I was right about was the huge servings. The food was pretty good, and almost everything on the menu seemed exotic from my California perspective. You could get crawfish any which way (I had etoufee) and almost everything seemed to include shrimp, which seems to be the food of the people in Louisiana. In fact, we didn’t get the sense that there was anything at all unusual about taking a station wagon full of kids to eat massive plates of shellfish. Pipi says she left the restaurant feeling like she better understood what regular people eat in New Orleans, and I agree. I can’t help but think how disappointed Louisianans must be when they frequent diners in other states.

In case you missed it the first time, New Orleans photos are here.

Back From New Orleans

The first thing everyone asks me is, “How is New Orleans doing?”

It’s hard for me to answer that because I didn’t know it well before Hurricane Katrina, and of course still don’t. One thing I can say is that the infrastructure is still surprisingly debilitated. There are still whole neighborhoods where hardly anybody lives, where many houses are boarded up or just abandoned, and where the shopping plazas are empty shells. It’s a vicious cycle—who wants to live in a neighborhood with no grocery stores? Who wants to rebuild a grocery store where nobody lives? I can see that it takes time to break out of a cycle like that, but I am a little surprised that more developers haven’t stepped in to make it happen. (I think that’s okay—recovery should happen organically, when people are ready to come home. I’m just surprised, is all.)

One other thing that surprised me is that signs of flood damage are everywhere. I had expected that after two and a half years, people would have moved to put the tragedy behind them by covering up as many visual reminders as they could. But I think that some of these scars are in fact proudly preserved.

When I say that I’m thinking mostly of the X marks that were spray-painted on virtually every residential building in the city in the days and weeks after the flood. Many are still visible. I understand that nobody is going to repaint an abandoned house, but some inhabited homes still have the marks. The home near the fairgrounds pictured above, for example, is definitely lived in (by an older woman I saw rocking on the porch) and otherwise maintained. But the owner still hasn’t painted over the Red Cross graffiti next to her door.

The Xs, by the way, tell very interesting and often horrifying stories. For one thing, if you imagine them being drawn by someone sitting in a boat floating by, you can get an idea of how high the water was. In this case, the boat wouldn’t have been in deep water when the rescuers came by, but look at the date (always in the top quadrant): September 9. That’s 11 days after the storm hit, and more than a week after the flood.

The left-hand side of the X is where rescue crews leave some kind of identifying mark, almost always involving the state they came from—someone from California seems to have looked at this house.

The bottom section is for a body count, the right-hand side usually notes anything else alarming found on site, like gas leaks, animal carcasses, or vicious dogs. Here, though, the story is relatively happy. No bodies were found, and the only warning note, “1 SIP,” stands for “One Sheltering in Place.” That just means that one person chose to stay in the flooded home. A later note, dated Sep. 28, asks that any would-be rescuers not take the pets away, and an addendum elaborates that if anyone finds the house empty, it’s just because the owner is out for a stroll with her dogs.

I’ll say one thing for New Orleans: It may be falling apart physically, woefully mis-managed, and abandoned by a third of its population. But the people who do live there? They’re as tough as nails.

Here’s a link to some of my New Orleans photos.

Going to New Orleans

Pipi and I are leaving for New Orleans tomorrow. We’re going to see the Jazz Festival, which we’ve done once before, but we also hope to see some of the city this time. The last time we went, we almost literally did nothing but attend the festival. This year we’ve allowed a little more free time to be tourists.

I probably won’t bring my computer with me, so I won’t be blogging regularly until I’m back. Have a good week!

Technical Difficulties

I’m sorry about the outage. I’ve been working on two projects again, destination descriptions and another cookbook. And we’re getting ready to go on a trip, so it has been a little crazy. I’m really looking forward to this vacation!

Mouthpiece

I got a mouth in the mail today. I think I’m about half-way toward a complete Mr. Potato head now. I’ve got: eyes, ears, a mouth, and one arm. I think I just need the other arm, a nose, and feet. And an explanation for all of this.

Fun Fact

The name “Boca Raton,” as in the resort town near Miami, means “Rat’s Mouth” in Spanish.

Did everyone in Florida take French in high school?

The Horror

Today I got two plastic eyeballs in the mail. There was a press release with them that had a headline about how this new Toy Story ride is going to be “eye-popping.”

There’s always some kind of connection between the press release and the enclosed body part, which does not, in my opinion, make it any less morbid.

The interesting thing is that each of the three boxes I’ve gotten shows evidence of having been opened roughly. But no one ever takes the pieces. Which goes to show that even mail thieves don’t want any part of this P.R. campaign.

Make it Stop

I got another box from Disney today. It had a little plastic arm in it. Just one. The right one, I think. I’m not kidding. This is really getting creepy.

This Just In:

Computers and water don't mix.

Yesterday, I was upset about having to pay a self-employment tax. Here's another cost of self-employment: If you do something really, really stupid, you have to pay to fix it yourself.

If, for instance, you manage to spill a big glass of water all over your laptop and corrode parts of your motherboard, optical drive, and other important-sounding things (my computer could see? Who knew?), your boss doesn't have to make room in the budget for repairs. You do.

Fortunately, my little Mac is not a total loss. It looks like the hard drive is intact, and the wet parts are replaceable for less than it would cost to buy a new laptop. We have another computer in the house, so I'm not out of work while mine is in the shop. Best of all, I had time to back up all my previous week's work before the screen went black, so I didn't lose any current projects.

Also, the nice man at the Apple store in Emeryville told me a story that made me realize it could have been worse: He said he helped a woman who had spilled wine in her laptop, which gummed everything up so badly the machine couldn't be salvaged. So she bought a new computer. Two weeks later she did it again. I'm pretty confident something like this won't happen to me because I'm never, ever going to put anything even slightly moist, much less liquid, anywhere near my computer again.

Tax Day

Well, that wasn't much fun. Even though I kept careful records and organized my receipts, it wasn't easy to get my taxes done this year, even with professional help. But they're done and mailed, so I don't have to worry about it again for a while. And that's a good thing, too. The whole process was an awful lot of fuss over a depressingly small amount of money.

This morning, after I'd made copies of all my paperwork, I took the tax forms to the post office to mail. On my way there, I saw a woman who appeared to be a professional can collector asking a homeless man slumped on the steps where the nearest H&R Block office was.

Not surprisingly, the homeless guy wasn't all that helpful. But the two of them, especially the can lady just barely scraping by yet apparently still wanting to do the right thing and pay her taxes, really helped put my situation in perspective.

Imagine how difficult THAT return was to compile.

Bad Publicity

I used to write about Disney a lot when I worked at Travelocity. I enjoyed that for the most part, especially since I got to travel to the parks sometimes. I went to Disney World twice, Disneyland once, and Even Disneyland Paris on one surreal occasion.

Because of this relationship, Disney kept me on their mailing list even after I started freelancing. So I’m used to getting press releases, photos, and, every Christmas, a calendar in the mail from them.

None of this prepared me for this afternoon when I opened up a cardboard box about the size of a desk calendar, mailed from Orlando. (In April? Funny.) What was inside, though, wasn’t a calendar. It was a press release about a Toy Story-themed ride that will be opening soon at one of the parks….and a pair of disembodied Mr. Potato Head ears.

This really disturbed me. It looked like something the Mafia would do, or a serial-killer trophy. Why just the ears? Is there a deaf little Mr. Potato Head somewhere being tortured for my benefit? (“And if you don’t pay up, lady, we’ll stick his mouth on upside down!”) It doesn’t make sense and I want it to stop. I don’t want any trouble. I just want Mr. Potato Head to come home safely.

Re-Upped

I just got the word that Perfect Escapes wants me to write more destination descriptions for them. This is excellent news financially and professionally, but a disaster from a time management standpoint. Pipi’s birthday is Friday, so we were planning to make a long weekend of it by both taking the day off. Oh well. You always appreciate time off when there’s something else you really should be doing.

What’s Going on Here?

And now Skybus has gone out of business. I wasn’t familiar with them. It’s just surprising to me because it’s the third airline in about a week to cease operations.

Somewhere—I think in a box in my parents’ attic—I have a number of those little plastic pilot wings they give children on airplanes. I know I have several from now-defunct carriers, like TWA and Eastern. I wish I’d been more aggressive about collecting these because I know I’ve flown other airlines that are no longer in business.

Oh, oh. Is it me?

Mahalo to Aloha Airlines

The news of Aloha Airlines’ closing also surprised me. This didn’t feel quite as personal, but Pipi and I have flown Aloha, so I was a little nostalgic.

It was the one time I’ve ever been to Hawaii, which felt luxurious enough. It was also one of the few times I’ve ever traveled in anything other than coach. First class on Aloha was sort of first-class lite, but it was a very enjoyable trip. The attendant in the front cabin was a particularly handsome and charming man who knelt down in the aisle next to our row and introduced himself, whispering like his name was a secret that he was only going to tell the two of us. Ice cream was served during one of the movies, and we got a bottomless container of macadamia nuts to share. (It wasn’t really bottomless, of course; our partner in crime just kept refilling it as fast as we could gobble.)

Later, Pipi and I confessed to each other that as we landed, we’d both been secretly wishing the flight were longer. That’s the only time in my adult life I’ve ever had that thought. So I wish all those Aloha employees well, too, especially our friend who was so generous with the macadamia nuts. I hope he lands on his feet.

And I hope my attempt to eat enough nuts to make up for the cost of the upgrade didn’t have anything to do with the airline’s demise.

Back on Track

By the way, I do apologize for going dark earlier in the week. I was working on two projects at once, both of which were paying gigs, so I had to let something else slide. (It was either the blog or litter-box maintenance. The guys thank you for your patience.)

RIP ATA

I just saw the surprising news that ATA ceased operations today.

This news surprised me for many reasons. For one, it follows the shutdown of Aloha Airlines so quickly that when I saw the headline about “Major Airline Folding,” I thought to myself, “Why are they still writing about Aloha? That news is so three days ago.”

Another reason I was surprised is that I can’t remember ever seeing an airline shut down so abruptly without being in bankruptcy. ATA had filed Chapter 11 in the past, but came out of it. I have always thought that if an airline was not in the process of reorganizing, you could depend on it to keep running, but clearly I was wrong about that.

The biggest reason this news shocks me is that my father flew for this airline for many years, so ATA feels like part of the family. Luckily for my father, he retired about a year ago, so he at least got to make a graceful, planned exit—no cardboard box full of personal effects delivered by a guard for him. Still, I think a lot of ex-employees are getting these boxes shoved at them today, so let’s take a moment to remember the late, great ATA and its employees.

Molokini

This morning I didn’t know about Molokini. Now, I want to go there as soon as possible. It’s a partially-submerged volcanic crater just off the coast of Maui, one of the best diving and snorkeling places in the world.

Fun Fact

By law, no building on the Hawaiian island of Kauai can be taller than a coconut tree.

Not-So Fun Fact

I learned something today: Skype credits expire.

I think I’ve sung the praises of Skype before. It’s a service that allows you to make very cheap, sometimes free calls to anywhere in the world using your computer. Sometimes calls have that echo-y, transatlantic cable quality to them, but it’s so inexpensive that it’s worth it in a lot of cases. I loaded my account up when I was planning my trip to Shanghai, and I still had a lot left even after bickering with the soccer-ticket salespeople several times. (I would have gone broke attempting this with my landline.)

I’ve barely used Skype since then, though, because I don’t need to call overseas very often. And today, I got an email saying that my credit would expire in a week if I didn’t make a call.

Curiously, though, you can call anywhere for any length of time and it counts. So I performed the curious ritual of calling myself from my desk. My home phone rang across the room. I picked it up and listened to myself breathe for a few seconds, and then hung up. This appears to be all it takes to keep the account active. Strange business.

Here be Dragons?

Did you know that 70% of Hong Kong’s landmass is rural? I’ve even been there and that surprises me. I guess I shouldn’t have spent all my time eating Indian food in Kowloon. (For one thing, getting out more might have made writing the H.K. destination summary easier.)

What do you suppose they're growing on all this land? Cameras?

Fun Fact

The Mall of the Emirates in Dubai has a Borders, a Virgin Megastore, a movie theater, and Starbucks. Oh, and a ski area. There is a man-made hill with actual snow and a 200-foot vertical drop in the middle of the mall. Strange place. If homosexuality weren’t punishable by death in the United Arab Emirates, I might just go see it for myself.

I Got the Gig

I’ve been asked to write 20 destination blurbs for the Perfect Escapes web site. This is a lot like work I used to do at Travelocity, only aimed at a readership with a lot of disposable income.

I kind of thought this would be a piece of cake until I started trying to write one on San Francisco. I’m so overwhelmed daydreaming about what I would do in the Bay Area if I had an expense account that I have hardly typed a word all afternoon. Maybe I should start with an easy one, like Dubai.

Busy for a Change

I’m working on two paying gigs this week, which is unusual for me. I’m editing, and I’m also writing a few destination descriptions on spec for a luxury travel company based in San Francisco. I have my friend Randy, a former Travelocity co-worker, to thank for that. Ideally, the two trial pieces I’m writing will lead to a request to do more. I’m hopeful. It would be nice to have something steady to count on for a little bit.

My First Fan

On Friday night I went to a reading at Book Passage, my favorite Bay-Area bookstore. It was a promotional event for Best Women’s Travel Writing 2008. I was in the 2007 edition, and at this reading, someone actually recognized me from the year before, remembering correctly that I had read a story about China. This struck me as pretty remarkable. There are lots of writers whose work I enjoy but whom I probably could not pick out of a lineup.

Spoke too Soon

I may be happily wrong about the supposedly abandoned train engine I saw last week. The Oakland Terminal Railway is still a going concern, operating on about 10 miles of track in West Oakland. It’s a switching line, owned jointly by Union Pacific and the Santa Fe Railroad. The headquarters are right on Engineer Street. So this little engine may still find work now and then.

Published

This is a pleasant surprise: Several months ago, I had an essay accepted by the San Francisco Chronicle Sunday Magazine. I had thought it would appear next Sunday, but it actually ran yesterday.

(Pipi saw it first and showed the page to me, and my first thought was “Oh, no, someone stole my title!”)

The Little Engine That Couldn’t

Some days it’s hard to think of a title for my blog entry. Other days, the title’s easy, but I don’t really know where to go from there.

This is one of those days.

I took this picture on scenic (not really) Engineer Street, which goes past the wastewater treatment plant. This sad little engine appears to have found its final depot here, hard by an Army Reserve center and a giant empty lot. I don’t think the tracks in this area are even functional anymore. The Army base region is criss-crossed with them, and Amtrak still goes through West Oakland on its way to Jack London Square and Emeryville, but I think this particular engine has whistled its last. I hope I’m wrong, though. What’s more lonely than a train without a destination?

Where the Names Have No Streets

The Oakland Army Base doesn’t have enough abandoned buildings left that you could call it a ghost town. But here’s one thing it does have: ghost streets.

I don’t know how long it’s been since A Street was a real thoroughfare, and I can only guess where it originally went. There’s a freeway on top of it now.

Slow Cooking, Fast Editing

I’ve got my editing cap on this week. I’m working on another cookbook. This one’s slightly shorter than the last one, so I shouldn’t be as crazed getting it done. Still, I might be a bit brief this week.

Over It

A few months ago, I wrote a post enthusing about a site called WAYN.com.

But I’m over it.

I still like some of the widgets, like the one that keeps track of how much of the world you’ve visited. And I like the idea of being able to communicate with travelers all over the globe. But the reality is starting to get really annoying. I’m getting several emails a week like this one:

HI MY NAME IS BEN,TO BE HONEST WITH YOU AM MUCH IN LOVE WITH YOUR PROFILE......SO I WAS THINKING IF YOU COULD GIVE ME THE PRIVILEAGE TO HAVE AN ONLINE CHAT WITH A GOOD LOOKING ANGEL LIKE YOU, AS TO KNOW YOU BETTER,

WE DO NOT MEET AN ANGEL IN OUR EVERY DAY LIFE SO NOW THAT I MET YOU, I WOULDN'T LET YOU GO TILL YOU BLESS ME WITH YOU BEAUTY

HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU SOON ANGEL.

Ben is from Morocco, so I don’t hold the broken English against him. And I know he isn’t really angry, so I’ll let the caps slide. But…angel? Come on. Read the profile, people.

Monterey Guidebook Photo

Schmap wanted my Monterey photo, too. That makes two guidebooks in about a week that I’ve been published in. Life is strange sometimes.

Glad That’s Over With

West Oakland has a bad rap. Part of this stems from the very real crime problem in this part of town, and while I’ve never felt unsafe during daylight hours, people are right to be a little wary.

The other, far more unfair impression that a lot of people have of West Oakland is that it reeks. This is because if you drive over the Bay Bridge, on your way to IKEA, say, or Berkeley, as soon as you arrive in the East Bay you drive right past a sewage treatment plant.

This is not the nicest welcome the city could provide. It’s especially unfortunate because as I think I’ve said before, West Oakland has several large bakeries and a lot of that side of town actually smells really great.

Still, there’s no denying that the wastewater plant stinks. I knew I would have to deal with it someday, and today was the day. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it really only smelled bad on one side of the plant. The other sides were perfectly pleasant, but walking there felt pretty desolate. The plant is on a patch of land that is just north of West Grand Avenue, on the very last street you can turn on before getting on the freeway. Miss the turn and you’re going to San Francisco.

There were plant employees around, and a lot of cars coming and going, but oddly enough, very few other people were out strolling around the sewage treatment plant today. Even though it was a beautiful spring-like day.

There was one other person of leisure out. He pulled his car over to the wrong side of the road, parked, and started rummaging through his trunk. I was afraid he might drag out a corpse or something, but instead, he pulled out an ancient golf driver--I think it really was made of wood—and headed toward a large empty lot near some railroad tracks. There’s more than enough empty space to do a little driving practice. He didn’t have any golf balls, though. I think he may have been planning on hitting rocks from around the tracks. It’s the kind of no-man’s land where you can do weird things like that and nobody minds, or even notices.

It wasn’t a bad walk, but I’m glad it’s over with. My next neighborhood is going to have to smell better.

Schmap Again

Schmap has come knocking again! Now they’re considering a Monterey photo that I took. This photo, too, was originally taken for a Philippine Airlines in-flight magazine article. As with the Tahoe photo, it isn’t the most impressive one I took that day, but they must have a need for a photograph of this particular hotel.

The photo hasn’t made the final cut yet. I’ll know in a few days if they want it for sure or not.

Not a Paid Gig

No, Schmap isn’t paying. But given the fact that I never thought the Tahoe photos would see the light of day beyond Flickr, I don’t mind.

Rare Photo Credit

Here’s a curiosity: A photograph of mine is being used in an online guidebook.

This is a photo of Vikingsholm Castle that I originally took for an article about Lake Tahoe that I wrote for an in-flight magazine. I was slightly disappointed that the magazine didn’t use any of my Tahoe photos, but I understood. I’ve never pretended to be a professional photographer, and it’s rare for a magazine to accept photos and text from the same person anyway.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that the online guidebook company Schmap wanted to use one of my Tahoe images. The really surprising thing was that they found me. I had posted a number of Tahoe photos on the Flickr web site, and someone at Schmap noticed them.

I took a lot of photos that day that I think were better than the one they’re using, but this one must have filled a hole in the guide. The carving in the picture is not an easy thing to photograph because it’s in a dark room and you’re not allowed to use a flash or a tripod. I waited for everyone else on the tour to get out of the way, braced the camera against a banister, and hoped for the best with a 15th of a second shutter speed. Maybe no one else on Flickr had that kind of patience.

Bataan Afternoon Stroll

Lately I’ve been walking in a place I’m not entirely certain I’m supposed to be in: the old Oakland Army Base.

This area hasn’t been a working Army base since 1999. When it was open, it was a military cargo terminal. Now it seems to be devoted to civilian cargo. There’s not much to it anymore, just some warehouses and a lot of truck traffic. There are some no trespassing signs, but I think they date from the army base days. The few remaining roads seem to be open to the public; it’s just that not many people take advantage of this fact.

There are people around, but they’re working, not walking. Truckers come and go constantly, and customs officials cruise around a lot. There are several taco trucks in the area, a drug-testing facility, a container business, and one lone convenience store that feels like the packie at the end of the world.

My most recent Oakland map lists several streets on the base that don’t seem to exist anymore. In particular, there is an enormous empty lot at the southern end of the base that is supposed to be crisscrossed with streets, but they’ve disappeared completely. At least one other road is behind a gate labeled private property. All this makes walking every street a little bit of an adventure, and I’m not sure how to proceed.

The streets that do exist have great names, like Africa Street, Tulagi, Petroleum Street, and Bataan Avenue. Overall, this part of town couldn’t feel more different from the rest of West Oakland, where most of the streets are named after trees.

Not Strictly Related, But….

…Eclipses are pretty cool.

I got a good view of yesterday’s lunar eclipse when I was driving from Oakland to San Francisco for a class. Unfortunately, by the time I got to San Francisco the sky had become overcast and the eclipse was hard to see. (And even harder to photograph.)

The accompanying photo is more impressive if you keep in mind that the moon was full last night. I took this picture through the fog about half way toward totality.

Change of Plans

Actually, we did not end up at Tamarindo. They don’t take reservations, and by the time we got there, we were told the wait would be more than an hour. We’re glad to see a downtown Oakland restaurant become that popular, but we decided to go elsewhere. We ended up at Breads of India for an excellent dinner, marred only by my learning that chicken tikka masala is not an authentically Indian dish—it’s a colonial English invention. This was disappointing news, but it didn’t stop me from having it anyway.

Indian food might seem like a strange choice for Valentine’s Day, especially this Valentine’s Day, but I’m happy to report that no violence broke out.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. I hope you all have a nice day, no matter who you are—or aren’t—spending it with.

Pipi and I are going to a Mexican restaurant in downtown Oakland called Tamarindo. It’s fancier than it sounds. They serve Mexican small plates. I’ve liked everything I’ve ever had there, but what I remember most is the dulce de leche crepe for dessert. It’s indecently good.

The Park at the End of the World

Last week I walked so far west in Oakland that I passed a customs station. And then I walked a little further.

I didn’t really get to another country, of course. I was just following Seventh Street to its very end at the Port of Oakland.

Seventh Street here is very industrial. At its western end it dead-ends at loading docks open only to trucks. But it also skirts my very favorite park in Oakland, Middle Harbor Shoreline Park. Middle Harbor is a very new, very green little park that feels like it’s smack in the middle of an industrial wasteland. On one side it’s surrounded by water and on two sides it’s flanked by enormous cranes. You can see container ships up close, and you get an interesting view of the Bay Bridge, which isn’t the Bay’s prettiest, but in context, it is nice to look at in a WPA, “lets-get-it-done” American kind of way. The view of the Bay itself is beautiful.

To get to the park you have to follow Seventh Street under interstate 880, which always used to feel like Oakland’s western border to me. Then you pass between a former army base and a huge rail yard. If you’re on foot, 18-wheelers pass you every minute, but you’ll hardly see any passenger vehicles. You’ll probably be the only pedestrian, although recently I did see a group of about spry 25 senior citizens dressed in floppy hats and nylon pants leaving the park at a serious hiking pace. I can’t imagine where they were going, but they probably wondered what I was up to, too.

My Mind Plays Tricks on Me

Normally I think I have a pretty good memory. This isn’t surprising. I come from a line of people with super-human powers of recall. Last year, for example, I overheard my parents reminiscing about what exactly they’d once been served for dinner at a friend’s house. They talked about it as if it had happened a few months before, but actually, this dinner party took place before I was born.

Another example: This past Christmas, my grandmother gave my father a picture of himself taken when my father was about three years old. Even my dad wasn’t sure where it was shot, but my grandmother remembered not only the location (suburban Virginia), but also what my father was looking at when the picture was snapped (a toy boat in the water).

So it always comes as a shock to me when I discover that I’ve remembered something wrong. A few days ago I realized that I’d done it again. Last week I blogged about my memories of the living room of an apartment in France I’d stayed in one summer. I clearly remembered a light gray carpet. But a photo I have shows that the carpet isn’t gray at all.

It’s a minor detail, of course, an insignificant part of a place I was a long time ago. What bothers me is the fact that I was so sure I did know. I had what seemed like a crystal-clear memory of the room, but it turns out I made some of it up. That’s a little alarming.

How often does this happen? It’s hard to know. My friend Sarah remembers a time when we were in China together and I did bicycle tricks for an appreciative audience of gawking locals, reasoning that they were going to stare anyway, so I might as well give them something to look at.

I remember the bike sideshow, too, but in my memory, Sarah’s the one doing tricks.

I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, I would be disturbed to discover that I’d made up not just an image, but also an entire scene and sold myself on it. On the other hand, I love Sarah’s version, because it makes me sound so much more hammy and brave than I really am.

There are no photographs from that day (although the locals may still be talking about it), so we’ll never know who’s the brave one and who’s the imaginative one.

I guess that’s why writers keep notebooks.

Tea Time

My tea came. I’ve got tea as far as I can see. Thé for days. The Internet really is an amazing thing.

Hyper Chouette (Very Cool)

As cool as French kids may have thought I was, I thought they were 10 times cooler.

For one thing, they spoke French effortlessly. I arrived having studied the language for several years, and I certainly got better as the summer went on. But it was obvious early on that my accent, grammar, and textbook-prim vocabulary were always going to set me apart. Marks of fluency like the subjunctive and verlan, the rapid-fire deliberate inversion of syllables popular with teenagers, would remain beyond me.

French kids also got to do things American kids didn’t, at least not at that age. Some of them smoked openly. I didn’t want to join them, but I was secretly impressed by their fearless adoption of an activity that in my town was restricted to the darkest corners of doughnut shops and video arcades. French teenagers could also legally drink, but bafflingly, didn’t. They in fact seemed to think that being visibly drunk was a little déclassé. Kids who could reject as uncool something that was considered the holy grail of teen experience where I came from were obviously operating on an entirely different and unattainable plane of cool.

I did arrive in France holding what I believed to be one very cool card—I had a driver’s license. The French can’t take their driving test until 18, or at least that was the rule then, and apparently everyone fails the first few times anyway. So hardly anyone I met could legally drive a car. But since no grown-up was going to let me drive his or hers, and because many French teens zipped around on impossibly cool scooters anyway, no one was too impressed.

What I found most intoxicating about French youth was the degree of autonomy they seemed to be granted. The family I stayed with had a daughter my age named Manu. The two of us were chaperoned on a trip to Paris, but towards the end of the summer, the two of us were put on a train by ourselves and sent off to the Riviera, where we stayed in someone’s temporarily unoccupied apartment with two family friends who were not much older than we were. Predictably, the only one of us who got in any kind of trouble was me; I thought I was too cool for sunscreen the first day at the beach and peeled like a reptile for the rest of the week.

After the Riviera, Manu and I somehow made our way to the city of Toulouse, where we stayed with her aunt and cousins. I honestly don’t remember how we got there. Looking at a map, I can see that the distance between the towns is about 200 miles, and it surprises me a little bit now that as 16-year-olds we were trusted to make this journey. We must have taken a train but how did we get to the station? How did we find out what time the train left?

I don’t remember how we did it, but we did. The fact that I don’t remember the details suggests that the trip, as remarkable as it was for me, must have been uneventful. Though I can see that it might not have been the best idea in practice to let my teenaged self loose in Europe with a rail pass, it obviously worked out. And I’m glad. This was the first time I really traveled in any way that could be described as independent, and I must have taken to it. I’m really glad nothing went wrong, or who knows what I’d be doing now. Working at a golf club, maybe. That’s what I did the next summer, but for some reason, that experience didn’t seem to resonate with me quite so strongly.

The Good Old Acid-Washed Days

1987 was a really long time ago. We wore our pants high and our bangs low. Pop music jangled, telephones made real ringing noises, and no one had ever heard of the World Wide Web. (Or digital cameras, as you may have guessed.)

One other difference was that European people liked us. At least in my experience, the French did. French teenagers thought I was cool simply by virtue of being from the country that brought them MTV and Don Johnson. Adults seemed happy enough to have us around, too. I think they found the United States a little amateurish in everything from our embarrassing willingness to eat with our hands to our weirdly colorless politicians, but they appreciated the fact that the United States was willing to stand up for smaller countries, and that we too thought the English could be a little silly.

I don’t mean to imply that they hate us now in France. I don’t think they’re renaming their food or anything like that. (“Would you like Swiss Cheese or Freedom Cheese on your sandwich, Madame?”) But I think that on both sides of the Atlantic, we’ve all lost our wide-eyed appreciation for each other. I guess it’s inevitable that international relations, like all relationships, will change and mature. But I miss the salade days when we were all a little easier on each other.

I really hope my tea comes soon.

In Search of Lost Tea

The Internet is a remarkable thing. You can do research, keep in touch with people thousands of miles away, watch music clips, see videos of cats doing funny things, and of course, buy things.

Recently, it occurred to me that the Internet might be able to reconnect me with a particular kind of tea that liked one summer when I lived with a French family. You can probably get a similar blend in the United States, but only this one brand has the Proustian effect I’m looking for. (It’s a word; I looked it up.) Only this one makes me, for a moment, 16 years old, sitting on a cool gray living room carpet, wearing chinos with the cuffs folded and rolled up short, watching reruns of Miami Vice absurdly dubbed into French.

Now I have a batch of French tea winging its way to my doorstep, thanks to the Internet. They tried to drop it off yesterday, but we were out. The UPS guy left a delivery attempt notice, and noted that the sender was “France,” as if the country itself had sent me a package. Which is kind of what it feels like. I should be home all evening, and I can’t wait until they deliver my little box of Savoie, circa 1987.

Sweet West Oakland

There’s a new restaurant in West Oakland called the Brown Sugar Kitchen, and it’s fantastic. It’s on the Mandela Parkway, in a neighborhood the owner calls “Sweet West Oakland.” I don’t know the origin of the name, but it makes literal sense to me. West Oakland has a number of bakeries and a lot of it really does smell really sweet. This place is no exception. They serve cinnamon rolls that look amazing. The gumbo was great, and so was the macaroni and cheese. I didn’t get to try nearly everything I wanted to, so I’ll have to go back soon. I hope the restaurant does well. It’s kind of out of the way, but it was pretty crowded the day I was there, so clearly people are hearing about it.

Back on Track

It’s sunny this morning! I can finally get some vitamin D.

Later I’m going for a real walk, but just now I warmed up with a stroll to the mailbox. Whenever I have something to mail (today it was the rent check) I like to walk to a particular mailbox that is a fairly long but flat walk from my apartment.

Using my pedometer, I found that the far mailbox is a 3,133-step, 1.38-mile roundtrip. That’s a good start, but I don’t know how anyone gets to 10,000 steps on a regular basis.