Now, as you may recall, earlier this year I built Mrs. Hill a whole new kitchen, and when it was finished I wished she might have some quality cookware to enjoy. So, on a trip to Charlotte over the summer we paid a visit to the Le Creuset store in, of all places, Yemassee, South Carolina. Le Creuset is a French company that makes enameled cast iron cookware. I saw an episode of How It’s Made once where they showed the production of a Le Creuset Dutch oven, and it was amazing. And somehow, in spite of my relative lack of enthusiasm for cuisine, I had actually heard of the brand. I somehow knew that Le Creuset was known for lasting a long time. A lifetime, really. So it didn’t take much to convince me that this was something I wanted Miriam to have. I just didn’t expect to personally get as much use out of it. I now cook almost exclusively with one of the pieces we brought home that day, and it is marvelous. I say all this to make the next part of the story more clear.

Whether it was from our testimonials or not, our close friend Kat expressed a wish for a nice new Dutch oven, especially since one she owned previously, but made by another company, had been recalled by the manufacturer for a potentially dangerous defect. Miriam took a mental note of this, and on the day after Thanksgiving, six days after Kat’s wedding, Mrs. Hill and I found ourselves on our way to the Le Creuset store in Orlando. The problem for us was that everyone else in the country apparently had the same idea. I cannot possibly convey the enormity of the traffic. We moved inches at a time. Pedestrians on the sidewalk appeared to move away from us so quickly that I think I noticed a red shift. When we at last reached the entrance of the shopping mall, we found the police had barricaded the street; no one was getting through. Imagine the busiest football game day in the history of Gainesville, where cars park anywhere they can make room, where pedestrians cross the street where ever they feel like it, and where police tape restricts access to the very places you wish to go. Imagine that, and then imagine much worse. Miriam had to jump out of the car at an intersection and proceed on foot to the store while I tried my best not to get smashed by the insane drivers determined to reach their goal if it killed them. Cars covered the median and shoulder of the road, and people openly defied no parking signs to secure a small bit of real estate. Miriam emerged from the nightmare unscathed, and with a beautiful turquoise blue Dutch oven she was sure Kat would love. I was shaken. “I am never coming here again”, I vowed. I think I even shook my fist.

We proceeded on to Miriam’s parents’ house, and the next day, as we were enjoying an afternoon at Walt Disney World, Miriam received a textual message from Kat, who was on her way home from Richmond, where her wedding had taken place. “I just got a turquoise Le Creuset Dutch oven at a store in North Carolina”, it read. I died a little, but it was actually kind of funny. Miriam is such a good gift giver that she knew exactly what the bride would have purchased herself given the chance. And she did.

So, it’s back to the nightmare for us to exchange a Dutch oven for a skillet. It’s a good thing Kat and Harris are such wonderful people.

It sometimes seems as if everyone in America has roots in Ohio.  I have several friends who were born and raised there, but I had never been, and was quite eager to know what that state–the textbook definition of “middle America”–looks and feels like.  Moreover, in recent years, my growing fascination with industrial America has made Cleveland especially intriguing to me.  How, I wondered, did a place with such a prominent working class reputation come to have one of the best orchestras in the world?  What inspires people to endure such brutal winter weather?  What does it feel like to be in the “Rust Belt” at a time when manufacturing is dying in the country?  Meanwhile, an exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum made a visit to Cleveland in 2010 essential.  And though I would have liked to visit in a less frigid season, my schedule did not permit it.  So I traveled to Cleveland in December.

It has been decades since I traveled with my father, and this seemed like a perfect opportunity.  I met him in St. Petersburg the night before our early morning flight.  We had to leave the house at 5:30 Wednesday morning, but the traffic at that hour is minimal, and the lines at Tampa International Airport were as short as they probably get.  We were anticipating an adventure in the new full-body scanners the TSA has introduced nationwide, but not only did we not get screened, but “nobody even touched my junk”, my dad said.

The sun had barely risen when we were flying north along the western coast of Florida, over Tallahassee, and on to Atlanta.  We could see Stone Mountain as we made our descent.  Our layover there was brief, and we were soon soaring high above the Appalachian Mountains en route to Cleveland.  The skies were mostly overcast, so our first view of Ohio came only as we were about to touch down at Hopkins Airport.  We landed in snow, and when we exited the plane we walked down steps onto the tarmac before making our way into the terminal.  I must say that Hopkins Airport is not Cleveland’s most impressive monument.  It was rather bleak.

Thinking back on a recent trip to New York, where the Crowne Plaza offered free transportation, I thought I ought to call and see if our hotel might pick us up at the airport.  “What’s the best way to get to the hotel from the airport”, I asked.  “The best way is a taxi”, replied the girl at the desk.  In hindsight, I ought to have asked what was the most practical or affordable way, because a cab cost $33 plus tip.  Still, the twelve-mile ride was comfortable, and the driver took us directly to the front door of our hotel.

The Radisson Gateway is nothing special to look at from the outside.  Really, it is rather unassuming – the sort of place you wouldn’t notice if you drove by.  Indeed, the Radisson is so plain that I forgot to take a picture of the exterior.  But it was as clean as could be, and, truth be told, quite conveniently located.  We arrived around one o’clock, and even though check-in was not until 4:00PM, the clerk found us a double room ready on the spot.  Room 323 was huge, with high ceilings, crown molding, and two Sleep Number beds.  Though it lacked a closet, it did have a substantial wardrobe for us to hang our coats.  The water pressure in the shower was powerful, and the hot water was instant and endless.

After getting situated, my dad and I set out for our first destination, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.  To get there we headed east on Huron Avenue, then north on Ninth Street.  Cleveland impressed us immediately with its grand old buildings.  While many newer skyscrapers of glass and steel have risen downtown, along with oppressive mid-century failures, the old stone masterpieces are still there, too, including a handsome cathedral, an old bank, and myriad buildings with elaborate architectural details.  Some were being restored, others were neglected, and, sadly, many had likely been demolished long before we arrived to make way for uglier buildings and parking lots.

As we walked up Ninth, which slopes down to the north, a dark grey feature appeared on the horizon.  At first it seemed oddly blank against the snowy sidewalks and open streets of the city.  Then it became clear that it was Lake Erie, looking fierce and menacing, like a body of water moments before a terrible storm begins.  Far from shore I could see white-capped waves that contrasted sharply with the still, frozen surface of the lake nearer the shore.  Indeed, along the harbor, the water was frozen in irregularly-shaped chunks that gave one the impression they had been distinct icebergs smashed together by force, though, of course they weren’t.  The outside air temperature was twenty-five degrees, which was hardly distressing at all until we passed an open intersection and park, where the wind came howling down the avenues from the west.  Then it was positively frigorific, and hands needed to remain in pockets lest they freeze.

We arrived at the steps of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum at about 2:30 in the afternoon, and it felt delightfully warm inside.  The building, designed by I.M. Pei, has a distinctive sloped glass front facing south that allows a substantial amount of light on an otherwise dark December day.  The clerk at the ticket counter to the left of the doors told us the museum was open until nine o’ clock that night.  I asked him about how much time we’d need to really see everything, anticipating that we might benefit from two-day passes if, as I’ve experienced at many museums, I take my sweet time to look at everything.  “No”, he said, “four hours is plenty of time”.  So my dad and I just bought single day passes, which cost $22 a piece, making it the most expensive museum I have ever visited.  We deposited our jackets at the coat check on the lower level, where they also collected my camera, since no photographing of the exhibits is allowed.  You will have to use your imagination as I describe what we saw.

In tall circular glass cases in the lower lobby, assorted electric and acoustic guitars were arranged in random order.  They belonged to an assortment of musicians famous and obscure.  The one I liked best there was Johnny Cash’s ancient Gibson J-200 with his name inlaid on the fretboard in mother-of-pearl.  A small collection of automobiles was parked nearby, including ZZ Top’s Eliminator and Joan Jett’s first car, a sleek black Jaguar she bought before she even had a driver’s license.

Museum staff collected our tickets as we entered the main exhibit space.  The first things we saw were cases full of Jim Morrison artifacts, followed by Jimi Hendrix’s childhood drawings, photos, and clothing and instruments from his rock star days.  Those were fairly substantial collections.  The rest of the downstairs exhibit space devoted less space to any individual or band.  Clothing appears to form the bulk of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum’s collection.  Every corner is filled with outfits worn on stage or in music videos.  Some seemed simple enough, but a vast majority were elaborate or unusual.  I enjoyed the impression of scale suggested by the clothes.  Mick Jagger and David Bowie, for example, must be small gentlemen, indeed, while Jimi Hendrix must have been a large fellow.  Stevie Nicks must be downright miniature: her tiny gypsy outfits were displayed.  There was a decent display of Elvis objects, including his fantastic bejeweled white jumpsuit, and a car he had given to a member of his Memphis entourage.  The sign below it explained that Elvis went to a Cadillac dealership and spent nearly $200,000 on cars for his friends.  While there, he bought a car for a lady who was just in browsing at the time.  What a guy.  The $1,400 check from the first mortgage payment he made on Graceland was there, as was the receipt for $1,300 for the mansions distinctive gates.  Representing the Beatles were several costumes, including their famous collarless suits, and the vibrant yellow-green military-style uniform John Lennon wore on the cover of St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, complete with fanciful medals, epaulets and the royal coat of arms  on the sleeve.  The costume appeared to be in impeccable condition.  Nearby were Lennon’s distinctive round-framed National Health spectacles that he wore from around 1967 until 1973.  The Rickenbackers Lennon and George Harrison played on many early Beatles records were there, too.

The exhibit which I traveled half way across the country to see was upstairs in its own separate area, and it was amazing.  “From Asbury Park to the Promised Land” featured dozens of Bruce Springsteen artifacts, from clothing and furniture to instruments and notebooks full of handwritten lyrics.  The Teac four-track cassette recorder Springsteen used to record Nebraska was on display, as was the keyboard-operated glockenspiel that always sat atop Danny Federici’s Hammond Organ, and which features prominently in so many classic Springsteen songs.  The most amazing object, of course on display, of course, was THE Guitar, as the fans call it: Springsteen’s Fender Telecaster that, in fact, is a 1950s Telecaster body with an Esquire neck.  This is the guitar Springsteen played almost exclusively from the early 1970s until the mid-eighties – the guitar you see on the cover of Born to Run.  It is beat to hell, and there isn’t a trace of lacquer left anywhere on the fretboard.  The body is so well-used that the wood is worn down an eighth of an inch in places.  It’s the accumulated wear associated with proving it all night, every night, for decades.  I was thrilled to see it.

My father and I were starving when we left the museum, but, bizarrely, there appear to be no restaurants near the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  We knew, though, that eateries abound in the Gateway district where we were staying, so we ventured back that way.  We both felt compelled to try a cozy looking place on Prospect Avenue called Vincenza’s Pizza.  Though it was 5:30, the restaurant appeared almost deserted.  I was overjoyed to see that Chicago-style pizza was on the menu, and was cheap, to boot.  We ordered a whole pie, and enjoyed our Cokes while we waited for it.  When it arrived we were astonished by its size.  It proved far too much food, in spite of the fact that we hadn’t eaten anything that day but a few cookies on the airplane.  We had a quarter of the pizza left to take back to our hotel.  The entire bill, with drinks, came to barely $17.

I wanted to pick up some extra soda to take back to the hotel, so we walked around the corner to a CVS.  Inside I found my normal one-liter bottle of cola that I buy every day at work for almost a dollar less.  Milk cost over a dollar less per gallon.  Gasoline was about the same price as it is in Florida, but other commodities seemed absurdly cheap in Cleveland.

The next day we made our way by taxi to the Tremont district south of downtown.  Our destination was the house featured in the now-classic holiday film A Christmas Story.  There, in a humble working-class neighborhood, near the intersection of 11th Street and Rowley Avenue, sat the house, immediately identifiable.  Two other houses across the street are used as a ticket office/gift shop and a museum for the film.  We purchased our tickets ($8 each) and joined a tour that had just begun.  The guide explained that that house was the one used for all exterior shots in the film, and for any interior shots in which the outside can be seen through the windows.  So, when the Old Man is admiring his “major award”, what you are seeing is the house in Cleveland.  I was amused to find that Ralph’s lie about getting injured by a falling icicle could just as easily have been true, since icicles lined the roof of the house.  The backyard was enclosed by a short wood fence, beyond which lay the vast Industrial Valley.

My father and I were both impressed by the authenticity of the whole place.  Not the house-turned-movie set, but the neighborhood itself.  It was made of streets like millions of others in the northern United States, with two and three story homes spaced closely together.  At the corner adjacent to the Christmas Story House was a small neighborhood tavern, where, one imagines, neighborhood people stop for a bite and a drink after work.

Wishing to explore more of the the real Cleveland, we decided to walk a bit.  We strolled north up 14th Street, crossing over Interstate 490, past Lincoln Park, where children were enjoying the snow, and continued until we ran out of sidewalk before the Cuyahoga River.  We passed neat old apartment buildings, grand old churches coated with soot, an abandoned art gallery, and more than a few empty old houses.  Cleveland, of course, has been hard hit by the decline of manufacturing that only escalated with NAFTA in the 1990s.  Though it’s meant to be funny, the line in the “Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video” that says, “this train is carrying jobs out of Cleveland” is mostly true.  Cleveland, like much of industrial America, is losing jobs.  Still, as our taxi driver James told us, if you can find work, Cleveland is a place where, “for very little money”, a person “can live very well”.

James dropped us off at Public Square, right in the heart of downtown.  In the old days, that was the site of Higbee’s Department Store – the very place Ralph spies the Red Ryder BB gun he desperately wants.  Today the window is still filled with toys, but the department store is gone.  In its place is a tourism office.  We walked through the Square, past the statue of Moses Cleaveland (“he’s the guy who invented Cleveland”), past the Soldier’s and Sailor’s Memorial, past the wonderful statues outside the post office, past the Key Bank Building, and back to Vincenza’s Pizza.  The large deep dish pizza the day before proved excessive, so we opted this time for the medium, which was still ridiculously large, and absurdly cheap: $8 was the price of the pie.  With drinks our total was not much more than $10, which, for a sit-down restaurant is hard to believe.  The building that houses Vincenzo’s Pizza is itself an arcade of sorts, with a high glass ceiling, and dozens of small shop spaces.  Many of these, sadly, were vacant, but some contained jewelers, barbers, and a gymnasium.  It is an amazing building, but another arcade a block north defies comparison.

The Arcade, as it is called, was built in the late nineteenth century, which was, apparently, the true heyday of Cleveland.  Funded by insanely rich industrialists, the Arcade is an astonishing gem that surely cost a fortune, and could likely not be recreated today at any price.  The glass ceiling is several stories above the ground floor, which is flanked on either side by long balconies held up by elaborate ironwork.  No opportunity was wasted to feature highly-detailed brass railings or richly-ornamented lamp posts.   I’m not being mean when I say that the fanciest shopping mall you have ever been in sucks compared to the Arcade, at least in terms of beauty and craftsmanship.  Hats are a popular fashion accessory in Cleveland, and I was taken by a display of warm-looking knitted caps in a store window in the Arcade.  I went inside and picked out a matching set of hand-knitted wool hat and mittens for Miriam.  The sales lady was super nice, and talked to us for some time about Cleveland.  She expressed surprise that we would leave Florida in December to vacation in Cleveland, which, I suppose, is a legitimate source of confusion.

We left the Arcade and continued wandering, just admiring the architecture.  We passed the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland (indicated by a “D” on United States currency), with its allegorical statues of Integrity and Security guarding the door.  The Cleveland Metropolitan School District building was large, and we supposed that it must look beautiful in the spring when the ivy leafs out again.  A fabulous old building on East 6th Street currently being renovated–as evidenced by the contractor’s trailer parked out front–was apparently once distinguished by the words “NATIONAL BROADCASTING COMPANY” in large copper letters beneath a clock flanked by two carved stone eagles.

Occupying an entire city block, between St. Clair and Lakeside Avenues and bounded by East 6th Street and the open park space of the Cleveland Mall, the Cleveland Public Auditorium is one of the most impressive structures I have ever seen in my life.  The scale is simply massive, and the exterior is built of what I assume must be pale sandstone, with windows recessed into arched niches.  Carved into the stone along the top of the south facade are the words “1796 CLEVELAND PUBLIC AUDITORIUM 1928“.   Better still, the east and west facades bear the inscription:

A MONUMENT CONCEIVED AS A TRIBUTE TO THE IDEALS OF CLEVELAND – BUILDED BY HER CITIZENS AND DEDICATED TO SOCIAL PROGRESS, INDUSTRIAL ACHIEVEMENT AND CIVIC INTEREST – PATRIOTISM PROGRESS CULTURE

It’s absolutely fantastic – my idea of a perfect public building.

If the Cleveland Public Auditorium is impressive on the outside, Cleveland City Hall is magnificent on the inside.  It is, simply put, a temple – a temple to community and civic authority.  Through the Vatican-sized bronze doors, my father and I passed through the ubiquitous metal detectors, beyond which is an enormous lobby.  The arched ceiling rises several stories above the polished stone floor, and the entire room is lined with massive columns.  Two wonderful frescoes adorn either end of the room above balconies.  Even the mailbox is fancy.  We walked through the space in awe, then came to the far end, where, to our great surprise, we came upon The Spirit of ’76.  We left Cleveland City Hall quite amazed.  The building is, we discovered, Cleveland Landmark No. 1.

The next morning we had to depart for the airport.  Recalling the thirty dollar cab ride to the hotel, we opted to take the train.  It was windy and cold as we carried our luggage down Prospect Avenue to Tower City Center.  The train station is in the basement of a skyscraper.  I am ashamed to say I needed help from a Transit Authority worker.  I have been on trains and subways in some of the world’s great cities, and have managed to figure out the ticket-purchase procedure, but Cleveland had me baffled.  Still, with help we got our tickets: $4 for both of us one-way to the airport.  The train was a little late, but we had given ourselves ample time.  As the train left the station I got my last views of Cleveland.

At the airport we printed our boarding passes and passed through security.  I noticed a mounted display of all the cool stuff you cannot take on airplanes.  It was snowing again as the plane pulled away from the airport, and the skies were cloudy for hundreds of miles.  Finally, as we crossed the Appalachians we could see the land.  We changed planes in Charlotte, which has a beautiful airport, then were back in Tampa by the early afternoon. My dad and I had lunch together before heading to Uncle Tom’s house, where we relaxed until Miriam arrived from Gainesville and I went home.

The trip was a huge success and I will never forget it.  Indeed, I’d gladly go back.  People make fun of Cleveland, but I don’t know why.  It’s not Detroit.

When I left Lincoln Center I was bound for a record store located somewhere in that vast area between midtown and downtown.  Academy Records and CDs is on 18th Street, which was convenient enough, since I could exit the subway only a block or two away from the shop.  But when I got down there I was the thirstiest man in America, and you would not have believed how hard it was to find a drink down there.  I found the store, but I couldn’t find a restaurant, cafe, or any other place where I could eat and get a beverage.  Only block after block of beautiful old buildings.  Finally, near Union Square Park I stumbled upon a burger joint that had a prominent soda fountain in easy reach of every patron.  I ordered lunch, got my cup and sat down directly in front of that machine and drank soda after soda until I was so full I could barely eat.

Eager to shop, I walked briskly back to 18th Street and entered Academy Records.  I could scarcely believe my eyes.  Though not a large store, classical music CDs were stacked almost floor to ceiling.  They were arranged terribly, though: Beethoven, Brahms, and Bruckner could be found on one wall, but Bach and other baroque composers were in a separate area, and that wasn’t especially substantial.  The Romantics were clearly favored there, but that’s fine.  Within minutes I had my arms full with Abbado’s set of Schubert symphonies, and Karajan’s set of Bruckner symphonies, at what seemed like bargain prices: a nine disc set for around $40.  I was quite pleased, but then I happened to glance behind me to the right.  A narrow corridor I assumed to lead to an employees-only area, or, at best, a room of LPs, in fact led to a whole other room of CDs, and those were the real bargain discs.  They weren’t bargain in the sense of being bargain labels, like Naxos.  On the contrary, the huge, bulging bins were full of Bis, Chandos, EMI, DG, and so on.  They were not arranged in any order at all, but they were $2.99 per disc.  I dropped the big sets I had in my hand and started all over.  I snatched Neeme Järvi’s complete cycle of Gade symphonies; some Vaughan Williams; Britten’s War Requiem; and more that I cannot remember at the moment.  I almost put all of it back, however, when I spied a massive opera wall, which seemed to have almost every recording I could think of.  It didn’t have Kubelík’s set of Mathis der Maler, unfortunately, but it did have Davis’s Benvenuto Cellini, which I need, and almost all of Dorati’s cycle of Haydn operas, which I had not seen in person for almost ten years.  I briefly contemplated putting back all I had and getting six Haydn operas, but those were not cheap, and I thought Miriam would be outraged at my insane spending.  I stuck with my bargains, and left happy with a full bag.

I walked briskly back to the subway, made my way to Grand Central Terminal, and from there caught a Metro North train leaving almost that instant.

The sky was clear and blue as I crossed over the Harlem River into the Bronx en route to White Plains.

One of our goals while visiting New York was to try many of the various foodstuffs associated with that city, and to visit a couple of its famous restaurants.  Sardi’s had been a unique experience, but the food was not even close to being worth its high price.  Maxie’s was less outrageously expensive, but the food was still not outstanding.  On Friday morning, our third day in the city, we decided to just be simple.  I got a slice of New York-style pizza and Miriam got some Indian food.  My pizza was okay, but no better than you can get at any pizza restaurant anywhere in America.  Miriam thought her meal was the best she had our entire trip, and it was a relative bargain.  Once again we bought cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery.

We walked the bleak subterranean corridor from Grand Central to catch the 42nd Street shuttle to Times Square, where we caught the subway to Herald Square.  Our destination was the Empire State Building, but I noticed that we were passing by Macy’s, and I thought Miriam might enjoy it, so I suggested we go inside.  Any department store you have ever been in in your life, with the possible exception of Herrod’s in London, is nothing compared to this Macy’s.  The only other store I have been in that comes close is the Chicago Macy’s that’s in the old Marshall Field building.  This place is enormous, occupying at least eight floors.  Though it was only the end of September, Miriam wanted to see the Christmas decorations, and we ascended escalators from floor to floor trying to find them.  Amazingly, the escalators there are made of wood.  Finally, at the very top we found the Christmas wonderland.  It was insane.  So many things, and so many things of each thing.  I thought Miriam was going to lose it.  If you’re looking for a vast assortment of gnomes, or if you want to high-five a stuffed polar bear, go to the Macy’s in New York City.  (If you’re looking for a giant stuffed Unicorn or Pegasus, however, you’ll have to go to Chicago.)

The Empire State Building, only a block or so away, is immediately visible upon exiting the Macy’s.  Indeed, it’s visible from all over the city.  We knew well in advance that we wanted to see the city from high atop this great old skyscraper.  The only drawback, of course, is that it doesn’t offer a particularly compelling view of the Empire State Building itself.  (For that you’d have to go to, say the Top of the Rock.)  The lobby of the Empire State Building is tall and elegant, but not especially large for a building its size.  Visitors wishing to go to the observation deck are routed to an area that must take up half of the ground floor, where $20 tickets can be purchased, before being funneled Disney World-style through labyrinthine channels leading to a bank of elevators.  The special elevators to the observation deck move very fast.  The display counts ten floors at a time.  Somewhere above the eightieth floor you switch to another elevator to reach the eighty-sixth floor observation deck.

The observation deck is open, and visitors are kept from being blown away by a tall fence that curves in to discourage BASE jumpers and the bereft.  I was disappointed that, unlike the previous day which was clear and bright, Friday was smoggy, and the views from the top were limited.  But the area in our immediate vicinity was easily visible, and I snapped many photos, including this one looking down upon the area outside of Macy’s from which I took the above photo of the Empire State Building.  To the south I could just make out the Statue of Liberty behind the downtown skyscrapers.  Nearer to me I could see the iconic Flatiron Building.  To the east I could see the Chrysler Building, the river, and the bridges over to Queens.  Midtown was close and clear, and the old Pan-Am and GE Buildings were visible, too.

I am not a New Yorker, of course, nor do I ever intend to identify myself as one.  But I am one who appreciates beautiful architecture.  So, looking west from the top of the Empire State Building, the area around Madison Square Garden caught my eye.  Obviously, aside from the great old post office next to it, the new Penn Station/Madison Square Garden complex is ugly, especially compared to what used to be there.  As I wrote previously, present-day Manhattan stands over the graves of its once great buildings.  On the spot Madison Square Garden occupies today, the most beautiful train station in America once stood.  Penn Station was built in 1910, and until it was demolished in 1963 it was a masterpiece of public architecture.  The present-day Penn Station is so tragically inferior as to be offensive.  What you see in my picture at left once looked like this.

The same short-sighted foolishness that destroyed the old Pennsylvania Station has destroyed countless other great old buildings.  We can never get these places back.  Even if someone wanted to rebuild Penn Station in its former image, the cost would be so astronomically high that the first shovel of dirt would never get turned.  For all the money we spend on new architecture each year, we always seem to go the cheap route today.  Never again would anyone spend the kind of money it would take to make a new Empire State Building, Wrigley Building, or any other architectural gem.  (I will discuss this topic further when I write about Cleveland.)  Don’t misunderstand me; I do believe that good buildings are still being designed.  But does anyone think that a generic tower of reflective glass is beautiful?   Look at the picture to the left and tell me which is the better building: the plain glass box or the masterpiece behind it?  In great cities like Berlin war brought the demise of beautiful old buildings.  But war is a different kind of foolishness, and some of those buildings are being reconstructed, in spite of the cost.  Verily, there is a time to build up and a time to break down.  But we too often lack the wisdom to know when is the time to preserve what we have built.  It’s too late for the old Penn Station, for the old St. Petersburg Pier, for the old Gainesville Courthouse.  But it’s never too late to start thinking about what we still have worth keeping.

It was late in the afternoon when we left Monticello – hours later than we intended to depart for home.  As we got on the road I wondered if we’d be able to make it straight through.  In the past couple years I have lost the ability to drive comfortably at all hours: past midnight I become a drowsy man.  If the conversation in the car is good it’s still possible, but if Miriam falls asleep I get sleepy, too.  So, heading east on Interstate 64 toward Richmond I was still unsure.

We stopped for food at seven o’clock.  Perhaps we were already in North Carolina.  I ate four more biscuits, bringing my total for the day to seven.  Re-energized from the food and soda, I thought surely I could drive another ten hours.  Ha!  It soon got dark, and the miles and miles of South Carolina interstate were monotonous and fatiguing.  The to-stop-or-not-to-stop debate was a perplexing one.  On one hand, another night’s hotel would cost more money.  On the other hand, driving while sleepy isn’t safe, and since it would be likely we’d end up having to stop anyway, we might as well stop sooner than later, because the earlier we get to sleep the earlier we can leave.

We began looking for hotels where Interstate 26 crosses 95 in South Carolina.  Though there was nothing worth anything at that exit, the two or three hotels we asked wanted well north of a hundred dollars for a room.  We trudged on.  Finally, after perhaps another half hour of driving, I could stand it no more, and I pulled into a Super 8 Motel.  I went to the office but found the door locked and the room inside dark.  A teenager within seemed to come out of nowhere and gestured for me to walk around to the side of the building.  I found a small bullet-proof window there, and that’s where we conducted our transaction.  The room was sixty dollars or so.  I was too tired to haggle.  Miriam found the place extremely distasteful, and it did seem like the ideal horror movie setting, but the room was actually clean, even if the air conditioner having been off for some time made the room a bit musty.  The fear of certain murder kept me awake for a little while, but I did ultimately get the sleep I desperately needed.

Day Six

We didn’t bother retrieving our free continental breakfast in the morning.  We left as soon as we woke up.  We had never removed our clothes.  Leaving the parking lot in daylight I got a better look at our surroundings.  The hotel was a hideous yellow, and vultures sat perched along the roof line, perhaps waiting to feast on the heaps of torsos left murdered in the rooms.  It was somewhat chilling.  We got the hell out of there.

We were back in Florida by noon, and had pulled into our driveway by a quarter past one o’clock on the first day of June.  In five and a half days we had traveled 1,762 miles through five states and the District of Columbia.  It was an unforgettable adventure.

We have found that the importance of hotel location varies from city to city.  In Washington, D.C., for instance, you want to be in the heart of the city, or close to the Metro.  In Richmond, on the other hand, we chose a hotel on the outskirts of town, since we could drive easily in the city, and saved money over hotels downtown.  In Charlottesville we did the same thing and it worked out just fine.

We checked in to the DoubleTree at dusk.  If it wasn’t as opulent as the Willard, it was at least clean.  It had the usual frills, like flowers in the lobby, but it also had an indoor pool right in the middle of the building.  That was neat.  Our room had two beds and a tidy bathroom.  As was the case everywhere we went this trip, we barely stayed in our room five minutes–long enough to put our bags down and wash up–before heading back out to have fun.

Charlottesville is a university town, and it shares many of the traits common to university towns: a young population; a large, centrally-located campus; a small, charming downtown; abundant pizza restaurants; etc.  We drove around just looking at stuff before parking the car and walking to the pedestrian-only Main Street.  It was obviously once open to traffic, but now is an enchanting brick mall dotted with tables, benches, and planters, with shops and restaurants lining either side.  We spotted two movie theaters, two ice cream shops, numerous bookstores and clothing shops.  There was even a stationary store and a store for crazy cat ladies.

We ate dinner at Christian’s Pizza.  The first bite tricked me, and I thought we’d made a bad choice.  But my tastebuds had fooled me, and instead I found the pizza delicious, with surprisingly crispy crust.  I drank Dr. Pepper for some reason.

We walked up and down the promenade, looked in an antique shop, stopped for ice cream, and in general had a fine time before setting off again to explore more of the town.  We drove up and down random streets not looking for anything in particular.  Away from Main Street the city was quiet.

The campus of the University of Virginia is handsome, complete with the requisite number of statues, athletic facilities, and brick buildings to make it identifiably collegiate.  But unlike any other campus in America, the University of Virginia is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  It was designed by Thomas Jefferson himself, and the older buildings and grounds are charming as can be.  It was late in the evening, but we walked all around in spite of Miriam’s “tourist torture”-related foot injury.  We came upon two lovers on the steps of the great rotunda.  They dispersed when they perceived that I wanted to climb the stairs to see what was up there, and I thought they had run off to a dorm somewhere.  But when we were walking back from the other side of the building–the side that faces the great lawn–we perceived that the lovers were, in fact, hiding down in a courtyard.  We left them alone.

Day Five

Our main interest in Charlottesville was, naturally, Monticello.  The home of Thomas Jefferson, of course, is a popular tourist attraction that becomes very crowded in the summertime, and only a limited quantity of tickets are dispersed each day.  Our initial hope was to see Monticello in the morning, and be on our way back home by the mid-afternoon, which would have us pulling into our driveway between one- and two o’clock in the morning.  But we found that the earliest we could get tickets to see Monticello that day was after noon, so we had some time to kill.

We went first to breakfast at Cavalier Diner, which was a total mom and pop sort of place.  I ate many biscuits.  Then Miriam explored a stand-alone Anthropolgie store she had spied the night before.  It was huge.  We had checked out of our hotel already, so all that was left to do was drive up to Monticello.

Sunday was the day before Memorial Day, and I really felt I would like to go to Arlington National Cemetery on our way out of Washington.  Unfortunately for us, thousands of bikers had the same idea, and all the streets heading that direction were closed.  Traffic was extremely congested, but the weather was nice.

We had checked out of the hotel and paid our parking bill earlier.  I had made a quick trip through the White House Visitor’s Center, in a wonderful old building just across Pershing Park from our hotel, and purchased and mailed some postcards.  We were both hungry.

Miriam is especially fond of a D.C. restaurant called Open City which we frequented while on our last trip.  We were staying at the Omni Shoreham then, so Open City was the closest possible restaurant to us.  From the Willard, however, we had to drive.  I was looking for Connecticut Avenue, but missed it somehow, and we soon found ourselves in the residential neighborhoods north of downtown.  It was interesting to see how busy the shops and restaurants were: the sidewalks were packed with people going this way and that.  We got back on track, found our way to Open City, where I let Miriam out to reserve a table while I found a place to park.  The latter was no easy task, since the National Zoo is in that neighborhood, and the holiday and nice weather had everyone out and about.  I ultimately found street parking on the most pleasant lane I’d ever seen.  A mother and daughter were gardening in front of their house, and I asked the lady to summarize the parking rules for me.  Parking on one side of the street was reserved for a church four four hours on Sunday, but I’d be fine on the other side.  So I moved the car–right next to an awesome Corvair–and made my way to the restaurant.  Miriam was still waiting outside when I arrived, and we had to wait many minutes more.  But it was worth it.  Open City is charming and bright.  Indeed, the long wall of windows can be totally opened on nice days.  The food was as good as we expected.  We walked together back to the car, remembering our earlier holiday when the area around the Woodley Park-Zoo/Adams Morgan Metro stop was our turf.  If we ever move to Washington, we tell ourselves, that is where we’d like to live.

Driving out of the city was bittersweet: we were sad to leave with so much still left to do, but we had so much left to do elsewhere.  (Actually, it was bitterangrysweet, since the traffic was a nightmare and the bikers were outrageously loud.)  But we soon crossed the Potomac and were back in Virginia heading west on Interstate 66, passing Arlington, Falls Church, Tysons Corner, Merrifield, and Centreville.  I had a strong urge to exit in Manassas to visit the national battlefield, but resisted, mostly because I knew it would consume the remainder of our day, and we were determined to reach Charlottesville.

Somewhere near Gainesville, Virginia, I got it in my head that I would like to see Shenandhoah National Park.  I have always wanted to see it, actually, but couldn’t imagine a circumstance in which I would, since I knew it was unlikely to ever be a destination in and of itself.  But since we were so close, and since my free traveler’s map of Virginia (which I got at the visitor’s center) showed me it was a very minor detour en route to Charlottesville, I changed course slightly, and we headed south into the rural heart of western Virginia.  It was beautiful, actually.  Farms and fields stretched out in all directions around us, and the road passed over rolling hills for miles and miles.  The road itself–Highway 211, or Lee Highway–was in excellent condition, and traffic was very light.  We stopped for drinks and fuel somewhere near the ominously-named Amissville, but even that was nice.  We reached the western edge of the national park with plenty of time to meander down the Skyline Drive and still make Charlottesville before dark.

Shenandoah National Park charges admission, but I had no objections whatever, since I’m sure the National Park Service isn’t as well funded as it ought to be, and, in any case, I’ve wasted fifteen dollars on worse things countless times.  Anyone who has traveled along the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina will understand what driving through Shenandoah is like.  The only difference is that at the overlooks on the west side of the Drive, you look out over the Shenandoah Valley, and see the fabled river meandering along.  I kept thinking of the old, sad song:

It was a gorgeous day, and though the park was not crowded per se, there were plenty of cars enjoying the same drive.  We stopped repeatedly to explore the various overlooks, both facing east and facing west.  It was late in the day, and the lower angle of the sun combined with haze down in the valleys made the mountains look blue.  As the day wore on we determined that further stopping would be inadvisable, so we continued south down Skyline Drive, through mountains, through meadows, past animals, and so on, until we reached Highway 33, where I thought it wise to leave the park and head back southeast to Charlottesville.  There is a more southerly exit to Shenandoah National Park that would have spit us out near Interstate 64, but the extra miles along Skyline Drive would have easily taken an additional two hours.  I was satisfied with what I had seen.

As we drove back east toward Charlottesville, the high mountains began to gradually disappear behind us, until we were once again in the midst of rolling fields and farmland.  We made good time on the open roads and soon enough were at the northern edge of Charlottesville.

On Friday, 15 May, our friends Matt and Kerri, who had been legally married for several months, finally hosted a reception at the Thomas Center gardens in northeast Gainesville.  Miriam and I dressed pretty and arrived somewhat early, so that we observed the caterers setting up tables and the band plugging in instruments.  Soon enough, all our other friends arrived, food was served, and Matt and Kerri wandered around greeting everyone.  There was an open bar, so I took advantage and drank many an IBC Root Beer.  The gardens looked beautiful after dark, since the newlyweds had carefully strung lights and hung decorations.  They gave out as favors some fake mustaches, and many guests were wearing them.  The band was talented, and though people didn’t dance so much, everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Such a good time, in fact, that some time after nine o’clock the police arrived.  Kerri greeted the officer wearing a fake mustache and explained that she and Matt had obtained a noise permit in advance.  The party continued.  In fact, it would have kept going had the Thomas Center staff not begun removing the tables and chairs.  It was well after ten o’clock when we all disbanded, but only to be parted for a few hours.

Many of the party guests were roller derby girls, and the team was holding a car wash the following morning at Coffee Culture on 13th Street.  That place seems to like the Gainesville Roller Rebels: they even have a drink called a “Ruby Typhoon”.  The team had held successful car washes there before, and this was a good opportunity to raise money for charity.  Miriam and others arrived quite early, but I stopped by later on my way to work.  I was glad that Harris was there.  He’s fun to talk to.   Sara brought Coleslaw, which amused everyone.  Tradition has it that everyone will meet at Big Lou’s following a GRR carwash, and when I got out of work I rode my bike over there.  Alas, we sat outside in the sweltering heat.

While I went Swimming at Kat and Harris’ apartment, Miriam spent the afternoon preparing food to take to a surprise birthday party for our friend Kyle that his girlfriend Adrienne was holding at her apartment.  Guests were advised to dress like Kyle, which for some meant wearing glasses.  Many of Kyle’s friends were there, and we all socialized until he was brought home unaware, we hoped, of the party that was waiting for him.  Kyle thought he was just coming over to Adrienne’s for a quiet dinner after having some drinks with friends at the Top.  You know how you become suspicious when your birthday is coming up, and people begin acting strange?   As the party went on, and reports came in describing Kyle’s whereabouts, we began to worry that the secret would get out.  At one point, Matt, who was with Kyle, informed Adrienne that Kyle had wanted to go to his own apartment.  This was bad, because all the party guests had parked in front of Kyle’s apartment.  When he observed the vehicles of all his friends he would be sure something was up.  But we hid anyway.  Some of us hid, that is.  A few friends stayed in the dining room, figuring that we could still get him even if he was suspicious by making him think that he was having a small party, then, Surprise!, we all jump out of Adrienne’s bedroom and it’s a big party.  So Adrienne tells us it’s time to hide, and we go in her room and turn off the lights and wait.  Kerri and I kept watch out the window, waiting for the boys to come up the steps.  After what seemed like forever, they finally arrived.  When he entered the house Adrienne was going to ask him to fetch something for her from her bathroom.  Sure enough, he opened the door, and I think we almost gave him a heart attack, if not from the surprise itself, then from the sheer amplitude of our shouting.  Everyone ate because there was seriously a lot of food, and Adrienne presented Kyle with a cake.  We partied until the early morning hours.

The next day (Sunday), Miriam and I awoke and readied ourselves for a little day trip to St. Augustine and the beach.  The weather was nice, and after a long search we found good parking in the old historic district of the city.  Everywhere you looked couples were walking hand-in-hand.  Unfortunately, the service was terrible at the restaurant where we ate lunch.  But after that unpleasant experience we took A1A south to Marineland and found a nearly deserted stretch of beach.  By the time we left we were the only ones there.  Alas, I forgot my camera, so all I got were cellphone pictures.  But it was a lovely Sunday, and the perfect end to an epic weekend.

May first was also my graduation day.  My mother, my father, and all my living grandparents came to Gainesville and stood outside the O’Connell Center in the blazing sun for what seemed like an eternity waiting for the previous commencement ceremony to conclude.  When I was at last allowed to enter the building, sweaty and thirsty, I located my fellow English majors, and stood silently in line waiting to be ushered into the arena.  I didn’t know or even recognize anyone until the ceremony was under way, and even then, of the hundreds of names called that afternoon I recognized only two besides my own.  I had pleasant conversation with the girl sitting next to me.  She, too, was an English major, but her focus was literary theory, and mine was eighteenth- and nineteenth century British literature: our paths never crossed.  I was genuinely proud and happy to be there, and I thought the ceremony itself was dignified. Miriam captured a funny picture of me looking like Sasquatch as I crossed the stage.

After it concluded I gathered my people, and we made our way in several cars to Satchel’s.  I was frustrated by the experience, not because the restaurant was so crowded and the wait was so long; I expected that.  Rather, I was disappointed that Satchel’s made no attempt to reduce the suffering of their waiting patrons.  I knew I wanted one of the rare and desirable deep-dish pizzas–I had even reserved one ahead of time–but they wouldn’t start preparing it until we were seated, even though doing so would have freed a table forty minutes earlier for other patrons.  The lack of any real climate controlled waiting area was hard on my older relatives.  But the food was delicious, and everyone loved it.  Plus, Miriam brought a cake.

That day also marked the first time my mother and grandmother ever saw where I live.  I am sure they loved our home.  Miriam and I set our air conditioning down to seventy-six degrees to make sure everyone was comfortable, and it felt so comfortable that we decided then and there that we’d keep it that way all summer long.  I dubbed this “Summer of Seventy-Six”.

I received some nice graduation gifts: Miriam bought me new sneakers, my Grandma gave me a picture of her with my grandfather taken in the 1940s, and my Grandmom gave me a classy engraved pen.

That’s how summer began.  Just last week I received my diploma in the mail, so it’s official.  And now summer is ending.

My first indication that the tide was turning came when Satchel’s switched from Coke to Pepsi.  Old Man Satchel put a notice on the back of the menu saying that he didn’t have a preference one way or the other, but that the Pepsi people made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.  A short time later, the University of Florida announced that it had signed a new exclusive contract with Pepsi, and before long all the Coke machines on campus disappeared.  Last year, I walked into Big Lou’s to find them serving drinks in all new glasses printed with the Pepsi logo.  They, too, had switched.

Meanwhile, Pepsi is substantially underselling Coke.  I have noticed that both Wal-Mart and Publix have priced two-liter bottles of Pepsi at just a dollar, while Coke, when not on sale, is $1.79.  (The exception is at Major League Baseball parks, where I paid $8 for a Pepsi a week ago.)

Finally, Pepsi has introduced some new, old products that have soda fans excited.  Pepsi Throwback, which I first had last summer, is made with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup.  It tastes noticeably better.  I had assumed it was a limited-time-only sort of thing, but around the New Year, my friend Harris, a soda fan, told me it was back, along with Mountain Dew Throwback.  Both are still available, and both have wonderful retro packaging, with the Pepsi cans, in particular, especially evocative.  And though it isn’t a Pepsi product, per se, I recently discovered Dr. Pepper Heritage, also made with real sugar.  Dr. Pepper is an odd drink, but I enjoyed this reissue.

Now, it may be that sugar is once again less expensive than corn, and Pepsi is simply taking advantage of that.  Or Pepsi might have taken the pulse of the soda buying public, and realized that fans have a taste for real sugar.  Coke needs to do the same.

And, unless Coke is really doing as well as they’d like, they need to look out: Pepsi appears to be taking over.  Coke still has McDonald’s and Walt Disney World, but for how long?