We had stopped for food in North Carolina somewhere, and filled up with gas at least once. We were about halfway through South Carolina when I heard a rhythmic beating. At first I thought I was riding over a damaged portion of road. Then I felt the steering fail, and I knew at once it was the right front tire. Fortunately, I was in the right lane, and could get off the road without too much trouble. I pulled as far off as I could while still keeping the flat tire on the asphalt.

Now, I am, of course, perfectly capable of changing a tire. But it was pitch black outside—the Milky Way Galaxy was easily visible—and we were on the side of one of the nation’s busiest highways, and since Kaitlyn is a member of whatever the Canadian version of AAA is and offered to call them, we decided to just wait for assistance. South Carolina is so boring that we hadn’t been paying attention to where we were exactly. Fortunately, our phones have GPS, so I could see that we were about halfway between Highway 78 and Highway 61. Kaitlyn gave the information to the operator, and we were told we’d have help within the hour. So, we just stepped off into the brush by the side of the road and waited it out. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t raining, and we weren’t anywhere otherwise dangerous.

An hour passed and no assistance appeared. Then my phone rang. The service guy was totally wrong about where we were. He didn’t even know we were on the Interstate. I knew the dispatcher told him correctly, because she repeated what we told her verbatim. Then the service called us back: “You’re on 95 south between 61 and 62, right?” No! So I told him again, and he once again told me it would be twenty minutes.

After much longer than twenty minutes he arrived. He started digging around his truck for his jack, and when he found it he put it under the Volkswagen. But he couldn’t get it to go up. I told him that I had a jack, but he kept fooling around with his. He clearly wasn’t going to get it to work, so he starting screwing around with two bottle jacks, but couldn’t get those to work, either. Finally, I reminded him that I had a jack. He used it, and of course it worked. But he jacked up the car before loosening the lug nuts.

When he put the spare tire on, I asked him if he could inflate it, because it had been in the trunk so long and I was sure it had lost some pressure. “Sure”, he said. He had a compressor in the truck. But his compressor didn’t work, so, no, he couldn’t inflate the tire. Once the tire was on, and I walked around to the driver’s side door to get in, he was peeling out. I knew that was a bad sign, because the hazard lights had been on for hours. Of course the car wouldn’t start.

I immediately called the guy, and he said he would come back.

When he got back to us, he tried to pull his truck around, but he got stuck in the mud. I was not at all surprised. Canada, who has a great deal of experience getting out of tough situations in trucks offered to help him out. Once he had us jumped I pleaded with him to wait for us to get underway, and follow us to the next exit.

There, we filled the tire, got some snacks, and were back on our way to Gainesville. Alas, instead of arriving before midnight, we got home closer to 3:30AM.

It was a crummy experience, but Miriam and I were both happy to have Kaitlyn with us. Her personality calms everyone down. Her signature phrase is “no worries”.

We traveled with our friend Kaitlyn, who we call “Canada”. We started later than we would have wished, but we all had last-minute errands that prevented us from departing at the ten o’clock hour we had agreed to the night before during a game of charades we played at the house Canada shares with another of our friends, Leslie.  We stopped briefly for food in Starke, then ignored our hunger until we reached South Carolina. From there we drove on, through North Carolina and southern Virginia, arriving in Richmond some time around midnight.  We had booked two nights at a bed and breakfast in the heart of the city, but our check-in there was not scheduled until the following afternoon, so, while on the road, Miriam booked us into the Holiday Inn next to Richmond International Airport. The Holiday Inn, as it turned out, was right next door to a hotel where Miriam and I stayed the year before on a trip to Washington.

The next morning we headed into the city so Miriam and Canada could meet up with Kat and the other bridesmaids for a lunch. While we stood in front of the restaurant on Harrison Street, we watched a driver attempting to park grind the side of his car against a steel post, reverse, then repeat the process. We gestured to him repeatedly in warning, to no avail.

While the ladies enjoyed their lunch, I explored a nearby city park. Monroe Park is handsome, with large, old trees, which, at the time, were in various stages of leaf-loss. Some were bare, some were orange or yellow, and still others, like the magnolias and conifers, were green. A sign informed me that Monroe Park, formerly Western Square, was home to the Virginia state fair in the 1850s, a Confederate hospital in 1864, and the site of the city’s first baseball games in 1866. Along Laurel Street, which forms the western boundry of the park, stand two impressive structures: the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, and the Landmark Theater. All through the neighborhood, Virginia Commonwealth University occupies old magnificent row houses. The variety of styles of the houses—built during the 1870s and 1880s, after Richmond was burned to the ground—is marvelous.

When I rejoined Miriam and Kaitlyn, we proceeded to our hotel, a lovely bed-and-breakfast on the corner of Grace and Meadow. The Grace Manor Inn, though once a boarding house, still posesses all its original ornate details, from the pocket doors to the fireplaces. And it is clear that this house was built for a very wealthy family, since those details are the fanciest of fancy. It isn’t simply that the rooms have crown molding, it is that those moldings are elaborately sculpted in a way that today could hardly be duplicated, but even at the time must have cost a fortune. Outside was a lovely garden, with a fountain and a sculpture, a greenhouse and a pool. We crossed our fingers that the pool might be heated, but alas, it was freezing cold. Still, we found the parking situation—a small private lot along the back alley—very convenient. Many an urban hotel charges extra for parking.

Kat and Harris were booked in a suite upstairs, but Canada, Miriam, and I were staying in the carriage house, which, as its name suggests, is an apartment above the garage that would have onced housed the family’s carriage. The operators of the Grace Manor Inn have decorated the carriage house in a conspicuously modern style, which, if a bit lackluster compared to the main house, still proved very functional. Indeed, the carriage house was extraordinarily generous in its amenities: a huge bedroom with attached bathroom, a living room with a couch and chair, and a large dining room and kitchen area complete with a washer and dryer. Kaitlyn had a small futon to sleep on, and Miriam and I had a huge bed – a bed, in fact, that was familiar to us, since we have the same one at home.

Friday evening Miriam was scheduled to attend the wedding rehearsal. That left Canada and me with some time to kill. She was looking to get an outfit to wear for the occasion, so we got in the car and headed to a neighborhood called Carytown, so-called because it is centered around Cary Street. This is, from what I could tell, a fashionable district, with many antiques shops and vintage clothing stores. And when I say vintage, in a couple cases I really mean vintage. I had been a little miffed that, in one “vintage” shop we went the day before, most of the clothing was from no earlier than the late 1990s, and virtually none of it was from the 1980s or before. But in Carytown we found a shop with racks of clothes from the 1940s through 1960s. If one were looking to procure costumes for a play set against the backdrop of the Second World War, head to Carytown. Meanwhile, Canada was looking for pants, and I was looking for a black belt to wear with my suit. I found one at a shop with the humorously unpretentious name, “Need Supply Company”. I quickly found a made in USA black belt, but I also found tables covered in the finest looking blue jeans I ever saw in my life. I cannot exaggerate how good these pants looked. And the quality looked to be extraordinary. The tags proclaimed them to be “CRAFTED by JEANSMITHS in NORTH CAROLINA” by the Raleigh Denim Company, which, of course, pleased me. I would surely have bought several, but the price per pair was around $200. But I had the belt I needed, and Kaitlyn and I continued down Cary Street. We dipped in a shoe store, which isn’t normally my thing, but they had a whole wall of New Balance, which is my preferred sneaker these days, having become familiar with their extraordinary comfort. The pair of New Balance I have been wearing for a while now are an attractive gray color, and quite casual, with none of the clutter one often sees on New Balance sneakers designed primarily for runners. This store, West Coast Kix, had a pair remarkably similar to the ones I was wearing. Unfortunately, they were not made in USA like my current pair. But they were made in England, and that’s good enough for me, so I bought them. Canada found some pants, and we made our way back to the hotel to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Big dinners have always made me a tad uncomfortable. For one, I don’t like meeting new people. And, of course, my discriminating taste makes many restaurants unappealing to me. When Kaitlyn and I arrived at Mekong Restaurant, on West Broad Street, we were a few minutes late. I spotted a long table with at least thirty people, and I assumed that was our party, but I lamented that I’d be squeezed in next to nobody I knew. I really didn’t recognize anyone. But that’s because it wasn’t our party. Ours was in a separate room, with several large round tables. I spied Harris, and gathered that the bridal party was not yet present. So we just chatted until they arrived, then took our seats. Happily, my table was inhabited by people I knew, or—in the case of Harris’s lovely sister and our dear friend Laura’s long-time boyfriend—had recently met. So we all had a fine time chatting and catching up. Amy, a psychologist and former Gainesville Roller Rebel, moved to Nashville some time ago to start her own practice and we had not seen her since. Laura (who, you may recall, has knitted me a fabulous cap, accompanied me to baseball games, gone with us to Disney World, and, in general, spent countless evenings watching television on our couch), moved to Providence last summer to work at Brown University, and has been sorely missed. Her boyfriend, who I had heard about for years, is a splendid fellow with a wonderful sense of humor. He kept me laughing constantly. Meanwhile, dinner guests made toast after toast to the couple, and we all enjoyed ice cream cake. Dinner ended quite late.

On Saturday morning, Kat and Harris, Kaitlyn, Miriam, and I all met downstairs for breakfast in the very fancy dining room at Grace Manor Inn. The meal consisted of several courses, concluding with a dessert. In fact, such a breakfast was served both mornings of our stay. Saturday, though, we were joined by Mel, another friend and Gainesville Roller Rebel who is a professional hairdresser. She had come all the way to Virginia to attend the wedding and do hair for Kat and her bridesmaids.

After breakfast, Miriam was occupied with wedding stuff, so Kaitlyn and I went on another quest: to get her some shoes, and me some bottled water. (We had set the thermostat too high the night before, and I felt like I was going to burst into flames all night, and it left me so thirsty.) Canada used the GPS on my phone to get us to a shopping center out in a suburban area of Richmond, and there we got all our errands done in one shopping center. Laura, who was doing bridesmaid stuff, had asked if Canda and I could pick up her boyfriend from his downtown hotel on our way to the ceremony. Kaitlyn, once again, used my phone to guide us there, navigating the many one-way streets.

We headed to Maymont Gardens, which is a large park on the north side of the James River. It is a beautiful place, even in late autumn. As you see in this photograph, Maymont has a stunning Ginkgo tree. We found Mel and her husband Cory when we arrived, and we walked around a while admiring the structures and the scenery before taking a tram on a fun ride to the site of the ceremony, beneath a rocky cliff, in front of a brook. The place looked rather like the Shire. A string quartet was playing when we reached the wedding site, and guests were standing about. We saw Harris, too, chatting with friends and family. I know the nervousness that plagues grooms as they await the appearance of their brides, and, after a while I noticed Harris was standing all by himself, looking terrified. He told me later he was alright, but he sure looked scared. Miriam, Laura, and Amy were in the bridal party, but Laura’s boyfriend, Mel and Cory, Kaitlyn, and Shannon Sisco, and I were all just there to watch.

Before Kat appeared in the arm of her father, we had seen some punk teens wandering around the rocks behind the wedding site. In fact, all of us thought we might have to go have a talk with them to tell them to get lost. Shortly after, we heard a commotion coming from the top of the cliff. I expected to look up and see some kids tumbling down. But it was a deer. It had slipped down, then scampered back up. But Kat arrived, looking lovely, and the ceremony went off without a hitch. Indeed, we kept remarking how perfect the weather was, and how wonderful the setting. As the newlyweds passed by, Harris gave one of his trademark thumbs-up.

As the wedding party disappeared for an hour or so of posed photographs, my companions and I traveled back up to the site of the reception. We stood around chatting, having a nice time, but all the while quite concerned by the appearance of another guest – a young man wearing a black suit and black leather gloves, holding a black briefcase. He was completely bald, and looked rather like a comic book villain. We badgered Shannon to go use her charms to see if she could find out what was in the briefcase, but he would reveal nothing. I thought that, perhaps, as the couple arrived, he might free some doves or butterflies, but that never happened. He just walked around with the briefcase, looking mysterious.

The bridal party finally did arrive, and when they had their first dance everyone stared, as is custom. There wasn’t much dancing besides that, but what the reception lacked in dancing it made up for in speeches. It is custom, of course, for weddings to have two speeches: from the best man, and from the father of the bride. But many couples, dispensing with tradition, invite a bridesmaid to say a few words, or some other relative or friend. Kat and Harris being the sort of people they are, could not restrict the speeches to just a chosen few. No, practically everyone who knew them wanted to tell all just how wonderful they are. The stories are true; Kat and Harris are splendid. But it was comical just how over-the-top the speech one-upmanship became. Initially, Harris was just a great guy and a great friend – one who made you always feel he was your best friend. I get that. Harris has a knack for connecting with people. But by the fourth or fifth speech, Harris is saving his friends from drowning in the Atlantic Ocean. Again, these stories are true, and anyone who knows Harris would not be at all surprise by such tales, but so nice are Kat and Harris that the speeches just went on and on, until at least ten people had spoken. Finally, time was up and the venue was closing. We’d have to leave.

We all met back at the carriage house, dressed in our street clothes. We had lots to talk and laugh about. The plan was to have two after-parties: one at a bar/arcade, the other at the home of a friend of Kat and Harris. We were assured that, at the early hour of nine o’clock at night, parking would not be an issue, nor would we have to pay a cover at the bar. That was just not the case. Parking in Richmond is hard to come by. Streets are crowded, and since many are one-way only, one has to be prepared to parallel park on the left side of the street. Not to sound boastful, but I can parallel park the hell out of a car. Still, left-side parallel parking was a challenge. We finally found a spot, and somebody negotiated a deal with the bar to let the wedding party in for free, provided we agreed to leave when the bands started to play. All our hands were marked with a large “W” to distinguish us from the regular bar folk. We all ate because we were starving, and it was cute to see Kat and Harris’s first meal as man and wife. Then the two played old school arcade games before we had to leave.

We parked back at the Grace Manor Inn and walked the three blocks down Grace Street to the home of one of Kat and Harris’s close Richmond friends. Inside, all the young wedding guests were there, but wearing normal people clothes. Even the mysterious briefcase guy was there. It turns out, he was just screwing with everybody. Nothing was in the case. We had brought Kat and Harris’s wedding cake (or what was left of it), which we had transported from Maymont Park, and everyone had another chance at some of that. Miriam and I, Canada, Laura and her boyfriend all sat on a couch in a large, mostly empty parlor.  Kat came in after a while and we chatted some more with her. Then began a strange spectacle, but what that really defines Kat and Harris, and really all their close Richmond friends. Loud music could be heard from the dining room, then a crowd formed a huddle, singing Misfits songs at the top of their lungs. It’s their thing. We spectators watched for a moment, then let them to it. We walked back to Grace Manor, and said goodbye to Laura. Mel and Cory had gone, as had Amy and Shannon. The next morning we would leave, too.

But we still had one more breakfast in the elegant dining room, and it was an honor to spend it with the bride and groom the morning after their wedding. They would stay on at Grace Manor another night, so we hugged them goodbye and went back to the carriage house to pack. We made one more stop, at a little coffeeshop in a working class Richmond neighborhood to meet up with Sarah Jean, who moved from Gainesville to Richmond last summer. We chatted for an hour or so, while a hipster couple sat on a nearby porch, the fellow playing an acoustic guitar, his girlfriend looking at him admiringly. “That’s the dream”, I thought to myself. We bid Sarah Jean farewell and got on the road after noon on Sunday morning, the twentieth of November.

We had an epic misadventure in store. But that is for next time.

That story is still to come.

Something had happened by the time I was a teenager, however. I had lost faith that I would ever travel. I remained fascinated by the world’s monuments and natural  wonders, but I doubted I would ever see them in person. I simply couldn’t imagine a scenario in which I would behold the Eiffel Tower, the Vatican, or the Alps. My doubts may have stemmed from my limited experience. While I had, as a boy, been to Atlanta, Chicago, Miami, and even New York City, I spent most of my time very near home. Indeed, years would pass in which I would not travel more than fifty miles from my home. Between 1986 and 1998 I left Florida one time.  So, I was, perhaps, understandably skeptical about my potential for future travel, particularly travel to exotic destinations. I simply couldn’t imagine having the opportunity.

Ten years ago today I stood in the middle of Piazza San Marco in Venice, “the drawing room of Europe”. Before me was St. Mark’s, consecrated in 1071. Nearby were the ancient Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile. Standing beside me was a beautiful girl who, I’ll confess, interested me more than whatever magnificent landmarks surrounded us. I had known her for barely six months that day, and had known her for as few as three months at the time she invited me on the voyage of a lifetime. Together, between May and June 2001, we visited a dozen cities and towns in five countries. Places I had only read about in the my Childcraft Library stretched out before me like a vision.

In Paris we stood atop the Eiffel Tower, and strolled the broad avenues designed by Baron Haussmann in the mid-nineteenth century. We crossed the Rhine and admired vast sunflower fields of central Germany, interrupted only by the occasional castle or village. In Leipzig we listened to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach in the church where he worked for the last decades of his life, and where he is buried in honor. In Munich we gazed with wonder at priceless art, including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. In Salzburg we saw Mozart’s own piano, stood on the stage at the Großes Festspielhaus, and strolled the indescribably charming baroque streets. In Vienna we toured the gardens of Schönbrunn and watched Tosca at the Staatsoper, which remains among the most perfect musical experiences of my life. We paid our respects at the graves of Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert, Schoenberg, and Wolf. In Rome we wandered about the ancient ruins. In Florence we ate the best ice cream we’d ever tasted. In Milan we dined in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. In spotlessly clean Switzerland we watched in amazement as a railroad worker scrubbed the track with a toothbrush. We stood atop a high mountain gazing down upon the unbearably lovely town of Chamonix, where one of us saw snow for the first time. In Normandy we walked across Omaha Beach, and saw the evidence of the enormous sacrifices made there, in the form of thousands of white marble crosses. We slogged through the mud around Mt. Saint-Michel. We were constantly in motion. And when we weren’t, we slept in fancy hotels with magnificent views of glaciers, and in run-down dumps with views of other run-down dumps.

The beautiful girl who stood beside me ten years ago today in Venice, and who slept beside me in luxurious hotel rooms and miserably uncomfortable train cabins, is asleep next to me right now. For over ten years she has shared with me nearly every experience in my life, both good and bad, and for the past six years she has shared my name. Today is her birthday.

Happy birthday, Angel. You are my rose, and lily, and dove, and sun.

Walking around Atlanta with my cap bearing a large F, I have repeatedly been salutated, “Go Gators!” So, my skepticism about those UF advertisements, and their claim that “the Gator Nation is everywhere” has been misplaced.

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.

Grainger was born in Australia in 1882, and even by today’s standards he was an odd fellow.  He ate weird, designed his own clothes, built his own musical instruments, and got married on stage at the Hollywood Bowl.  As a composer, Grainger is certainly not of the highest rank.  His chief skill lay in arranging folk songs of the British Isles.  Those arrangements for band or piano sold countless copies, and in conjunction with live performances of these settings he made a great deal of money.  His skill as a pianist was extraordinary, as demonstrated by his arrangement of Country Gardens:

He had traveled around with an Edison wax cylinder machine strapped to his back, recording folk songs.  This may be how he encountered An Irish Tune from County Derry:

I toured No. 7 Cromwell Place on a rainy Monday morning, guided by an old man named Stuart Manville, the president of the International Percy Grainger Society.  Mr. Manville grew up in White Plains, and remembers seeing Grainger around.  A decade after Grainger’s death, Mr. Manville married the composer’s widow Ella, and they lived together at Cromwell Place until her death in 1979.

The fact that Percy Grainger is not among the first rank of composers is both harmful and helpful.  Harmful because, as Mr. Manville explained to me, the Grainger Society has scant resources with which to preserve Cromwell Place.  Verily, as I noticed, wallpaper is peeling from many surfaces, paint is chipped or missing from walls and woodwork, the kitchen has no running water, and so on.  Rock Hill, Aaron Copland’s house in nearby Cortlandt Manor, is better preserved, Mr. Manville said, because, of course, Copland’s music still sells well.   On the other hand, because Grainger is not as well-known, and few people visit it, it remains almost exactly as it was when the composer lived.  Indeed, as I walked around, I could see that many things had clearly not been touched in decades.

As you enter the house, Grainger’s main music room is on the left.  His portrait hangs above his grand piano.  On a shelf nearby, a framed photograph of Edvard Grieg is signed to Grainger.  The composers were friends.  There is another upright piano in the room, too, with a worn out stool beneath it.  Sheet music is everywhere.

To the right of the front entrance is a living room, with a home-made exercise bar strung up by Grainger between two columns.  Through the living room is a dining room with a surprisingly humble table made from sawhorses.  An original Edison wax cylinder machine was nearby.  Books and papers were piled everywhere.  Off the dining room, the kitchen was more primitive than anyone would tolerate today.  The stove was a wood-burning model, and access to bottled  milk deliveries was still possible through a small door at the back designed solely for that purpose.

The Graingers’ bedrooms are on the second floor, and appear exactly as they did while the composer lived.  Though surely the linens have been changed and the furniture dusted, all else looks untouched.  The carpets and furnishings and items are all original.  Mr. Manville explained that he hadn’t even gone through the items in a small cabinet facing the bed.  A small paper heart “to my love” still is pinned to the door.  Ella Grainger’s bedroom appears as more of a monument to her than a time capsule.  That is, one of her dresses lies across the bed, while another–which she wore to the White House to meet the Roosevelts–is hanging from a hat rack.  Her combs and toiletries sit on her vanity, while her portrait and one she painted of Grainger, hang on the wall.

Upstairs in the attic and downstairs in the basement lie the real treasures of Cromwell Place: hundreds, if not thousands, of Percy Grainger’s scores, arranged in boxes on shelves.  Grainger had had two fire-resistant concrete bunkers constructed in the basement, and Mr. Manville told me that when Benjamin Britten and Ralph Vaughan Williams visited Grainger proudly gave them tours of his music archive.  Clearly visible on the shelves are boxes labeled “I’m 17 Come Sunday”, “In a Nutshell”, “Molly”, “Irish Tune Co. Derry”, “Mock Morris”, and “Shepherd’s Hey”:

These rooms were absolutely fascinating.  These boxes appeared almost completely undisturbed.  Indeed, a suitcase sitting on the floor had likely not been touched in decades. Why this material isn’t at a national library in Canberra is beyond me, but I consider myself very fortunate to have been able to see it with my own eyes, and even touch it with my own hands.

I have known of Percy Grainger for years, mostly as the composer of The Warriors and Lincolnshire Posy:

He remains Australia’s most important composer, and he lived at No. 7 Cromwell Place in White Plains, New York.

]]> http://danajohnhill.com/dana/2011/01/11/cromwell-place/feed/ 0 http://danajohnhill.com/dana/2011/01/09/i-heart-white-plains/ http://danajohnhill.com/dana/2011/01/09/i-heart-white-plains/#comments Sun, 09 Jan 2011 16:23:50 +0000 Dana http://danajohnhill.com/dana/?p=2078 When Miriam and I traveled to New York City in September we stayed in White Plains in Westchester County.  I loved it there.

White Plains sits barely twenty-five miles from midtown Manhattan, but the experience of being there is entirely different.  White Plains is a city in its own right, with its own downtown, skyscrapers, train station, shopping malls, and so on.  But it’s also home to thousands of commuters who travel to New York City each day for work.  These commuters live in charming homes on shady lanes, or stylish old apartment buildings on tree-lined streets, and eat dinner or go shopping on Main Street or Mamaroneck Avenue.  They appear to have ample access to recreation in the warmer months at several parks and golf courses.  What I loved best about White Plains was that it felt like a city, had all the characteristics of a city, but still felt easily navigable on foot.

White Plains, like most of the cities and towns in the Northeast or New England, is old – as old as the United States itself.  As an old city it shares most of the characteristics of communities that developed before the automobile: the center of town is relatively compact; access to public transportation is easy; public buildings and spaces are prominent and easily accessible.  I loved all of that.  And though it’s harder to explain why, I loved one building in particular more than others.

The Westchester County Center is an eighty-year-old art deco gem that perfectly suits its purpose of hosting a variety of entertainment- and sporting events.  When it opened in 1930, Percy Grainger performed at the piano, and ever since it’s held concerts, car shows, dances, boxing matches, and, the week we were there, roller derby.

Suberbia Roller Derby was hosting “Derby in the Burbs”, the 2010 Women’s Flat Track Derby Association’s Eastern regional championship.  New York City’s Gotham Girls were clearly the superior team.  They crushed most of their competition, beating Providence by three hundred points, which was simply astonishing.  But the Philadelphia Liberty Belles were also good, and I also enjoyed seeing Pittsburgh’s team, and their terrific “Steel Curtain” maneuver.

The event wasn’t as heavily attended as I would have imagined, but that might have just been an illusion of the venue.  The facility is very large, with a big open floor with a stage at one end.  A balcony circles the room, but, brilliantly, no concrete or steel supports the balcony, giving unobstructed views to those beneath it, and increasing the usable floor space substantially.  Meanwhile, concessions and restrooms are available on each floor.  There were even custom benches made without nails or screws.  It’s the exact kind of facility that I wish Gainesville had.

In White Plains, Miriam and I stayed at the Crowne Plaza Hotel at the intersection of Hale Avenue and Maple Avenue.  Our room overlooked a parking garage and a cute neighborhood.  The hotel offered free transportation anywhere in White Plains, and we used that extensively, though we walked around, as well.  In the evenings we went to the city’s main drag, Mamaroneck Avenue, and got dinner.  One night we ate at a tasty pizza place, another night at a much less tasty tavern.  We ate a couple times at the charming City Limits Diner, where the food was good, and the atmosphere even better.

We spent a lot of time at the train station in White Plains, which lay halfway between our hotel and the Westchester County Center.  The station itself is nothing special, but it’s one of the busiest places in town, and was the site of perhaps the most ridiculous confrontation I ever witnessed.  As Miriam and I waited for a train, two women got into a fight.  One was the incredibly rude lady I mentioned before, who had repeatedly cut the ticket line a day or so before, and who asked the unfortunate Englishman so many questions on the train to Grand Central.  She didn’t start the fight, and anywhere else a fight would not have happened, but her behavior from earlier in the week caused us to have slightly less sympathy than we might have had otherwise.  The rude woman was talking loudly on her telephone in the waiting room of the station.  Another woman, also in business attire, was sitting on a bench next to her.  After a while, the second woman–we’ll call her “The Fighter”–said to the first woman, whom we’ll call her “Rude Lady”:

“You know you’re talking really loud, don’t you?”
“This is a public place.”
“Yeah, but we all don’t want to hear your conversation. I mean, what if I started singing right here?”

The Fighter then proceeded to sing loudly right in the direction of Rude Lady, who continued to talk on her phone.  I blame The Fighter for acting so childishly, but Rude Lady was being rude, and it wasn’t hard to understand The Fighter’s frustration.  Still, it was completely ridiculous.

It rained on our last day in White Plains, which was a Monday.  That morning I had an appointment to meet with the president of the Percy Grainger Society who was going to give me a tour of the composer’s house, only a few blocks from the hotel.  I will tell that story soon.  Meanwhile, I had to borrow an umbrella from the front desk so I would down to Cromwell Place.  While walking back I got a phone call from Miriam who asked me if I wanted to meet her for lunch at the gigantic mall directly next to our hotel that I hadn’t even noticed because it didn’t really look like a mall, insofar as it wasn’t surrounded by hundreds of acres of parking.  I met her at the food court inside, and she already had my food waiting for me, like a sweetheart.  I sat my umbrella down and ate.  When we got up to leave I, of course, forgot the umbrella.  I had been thinking how I needed to not forget the umbrella, because I knew that they made a note of my borrowing it, and would charge me if I failed to return it.  But we were already exiting the mall when I realized I’d forgotten it.  Meanwhile, we needed to catch the shuttle to the airport to make our flight, and that ride was only available once per half-hour.  So, in spite of my having just eaten a huge meal, I ran across the gigantic shopping mall–which was deserted, thankfully–and found the umbrella, still leaning up against the chair where I had left it.  I ran back across the mall to find Miriam, and we caught a ride to the airport.

The Westchester County Airport is one of the few things I didn’t like about White Plains.  It is small enough that upon arriving you are conveniently situated near exits and taxis.  The drawback is that when you are departing, you must sit in one room that must accommodate everyone waiting to board an airplane.  On the day we were leaving that included hundreds of people.  It was standing-room-only.  But our flight back to Orlando was safe, and my overall impression of White Plains remains extremely positive.

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.

Leaving the Empire State Building we once again headed underground to catch a subway to Brooklyn.  I had never been there and was curious to see what life was like in the New York City’s most populous borough.  We surfaced near Bedford Avenue and 7th Street in what appeared to be a simple neighborhood of apartments above shops and restaurants.  We walked several blocks, and though the sidewalks were far less crowded than those in Manhattan, we did find a group of young hipsters engaged in a photoshoot for who-knows-what.  It seemed entirely appropriate given the environment.  Miriam visited the Built by Wendy shop, but only browsed a few minutes before we strolled back to take the subway back to Grand Central and the Metro North to White Plains where we watched roller derby at the WFTDA Regionals.  More about that later.

Day Four

Our full schedule had prevented us from seeing a couple things in Manhattan that I was eager to see, so on Saturday, while Miriam watched roller derby in White Plains, I took the train into the city and explored a bit.

My first stop was, of course, Grand Central Terminal, where, once again, I enjoyed a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery.  This one was cinnamon with a delicious swirl of icing.  We had been at Grand Central each day of our trip, but I hadn’t really bothered to walk outside the building, since we usually caught the subway from there.  That Saturday, on my own, I decided I should see what was around the old building.  I walked out the doors onto Pershing Square, walked a little way down the block and took a photo.

The scale of Grand Central Terminal is massive; the ornate details are astonishing.  In marble over one door appear the words:

TO ALL THOSE WHO WITH HEAD HEART AND MIND TOILED IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF THIS MONUMENT TO THE PUBLIC SERVICE THIS IS INSCRIBED

Inside, enormous chandeliers light great rooms with high ceilings.  It’s a wonder to behold, and a fitting introduction to the city to anyone who arrives there.

From there I meant to visit the Museum of Modern Art, but I struggled to find the most practical subway route.  I knew the best place to get off, but when I exited the car at that station I was confronted with a sign informing me that the station was closed that weekend.  I had to get back on the subway and exit at a less proximate station and walk.  In the end, I would have done just as well walking the eleven blocks from Grand Central.  In any event, I still made it to MoMA and saw neat stuff along the way, including St. Thomas Church on 5th Avenue and 53rd Street.

The Museum of Modern Art is in a rather unimpressive building.  Indeed, so nondescript is it that I didn’t even feel compelled to take a photograph of the exterior.  Inside, however, it is suitably modern, with a great atrium open to several floors.  I paid for my admission (nothing in New York City is free) and began exploring the art.  The first pieces I saw were not impressive.  Indeed, among the first I saw was one that was simply insulting.  The Mythic Being Village Voice Series by Adrian Piper consisted of framed pages from a newspaper.  The title plaque next to the “art” indicated that eleven different individuals or institutions contributed funds for its purchase.  For fifty cents and the price of a few picture frames I could have made the exact same thing.  Anyone could have.  It’s precisely this sort of fraud that leads the public to believe all modern art is a scam.  It isn’t, of course, but it’s easy to feel that way sometimes.  And when you see what hangs on the wall just a few rooms away, Piper’s piece rightfully appears weak.

I walked from gallery to gallery enjoying the genuine masterpieces on display in every room.  I passed Van Goghs on the way to Picassos, Matisses, Braques, Kahlos, Monets, Mondrians, and more Picassos.  There was wonderful sculpture, including mobiles by Calder.  The biggest disappointment was Dalí’s Persistence of Memory.  I’ve never thought much of Dalí in the first place, and I hadn’t even cared that this famous picture was at MoMA, but when I happened to pass a painting surrounded by a small crowd I decided I ought to look.  It was no bigger than a sheet of notebook paper.  Indeed, I think I may have said out loud, “you’ve got to be kidding me” as I walked past.  I think everyone else was underwhelmed also.

I found several things at MoMA that I loved.  Christina’s World has been a favorite since I was a child, and that was just hanging on a wall by an escalator.  The exhibit on modern design was fascinating, and really heightened my awareness of the banality of most of the everyday objects that surround us.  Take a look at any chair or table in the room you currently occupy.  Are any of them works of art in their own right?  What about the objects sitting on the table?  A ribbon fan on display was a perfect example of how designers used to create ordinary things both functional and beautiful.

Far and away my favorite work of art at MoMA was their magnificent Klimt.  I love all Gustav Klimt’s pictures, and had seen Mäda Primavesi two days before, but Hope is among his best, and what I was most looking forward to seeing at MoMA.  I stared at it for ages, as did many other people standing near me.  When I go back to Vienna I intend to visit the Belvedere and the Secession Building.

Leaving MoMA I made a last minute decision to walk up to Lincoln Center.  Along the way I stopped by Steinway Hall just to say I had.  It’s almost directly across the street from Carnegie Hall, and all the great pianists who give recitals there select their instruments at Steinway and Sons and have them delivered to Isaac Stern Auditorium.  As far as pianos go, Steinway is as good as it gets, and they still make them in New York City (and Hamburg).  You can see the process of making a Steinway piano in a film called Note by Note: The Making of Steinway L1037.  And don’t miss “How Does a Piano Get to Carnegie Hall”.

I passed some wonderful architecture near Columbus Circle, and there at Broadway and 58th Street stands the building that houses the Museum of Arts and Design.  No. 2 Columbus Circle, has an amazing history, and for a building that nobody outside of New York City knows or cares about, the Wikipedia entry for it is remarkably thorough.  In a nutshell, the building was designed by Edward Durell Stone and completed in 1964.  The “Lollipop Building”, as it was called, had few fans, since it was, by almost all standards, remarkably ugly.  It had almost no windows, but that was functional, since it housed an art collection.  In 2005 the building was ripped down to its skeleton, and the facade we see today is far worse than what came before it.  Even those who criticized the Lollipop Building find No. 2 Columbus Circle uglier than ever, and entirely lacking in architectural merit.  I agree.  Here is a site with many wonderful photos of the building as it once appeared.

Lincoln Center occupies several square blocks, which makes sense, since it’s the home of Avery Fisher Hall and the Metropolitan Opera House, among others.  The Met season was beginning only days after our visit, opening with a new production of Das Rheingold that was the talk of the town.  Posters were everywhere.  I went inside the Met Opera Shop, where they had hundred and hundreds of opera recordings as you might expect.  I was quite tempted to buy, but I am glad I saved my money, because the place I went next was unlike anything else I have ever seen.