One of the joys of visiting Savannah is going to Tybee Island. Before we went with Emily to preview SCAD, so long ago, her junior year in high school, we knew nothing of the beach in Savannah. Luckily, however, someone let us in on the well-known secret of Tybee Island, where families spend weeks in the summer, playing in the surf, lying on the beach, eating and drinking at local joints both on the main drag and on the beach, and just generally having fun.
We went that year to Tybee Island and ate at the Crab Shack, which someone told us about. It was November, and not very many people were out, but we were. We drove over, found the beach, found the Crab Shack, and had a great time eating fresh seafood at the only tourist restaurant that serves it NOT fried! It was great. Since that time, we have gone to Tybee Island during every trip to Savannah and loved looking at the water and walking on the beach.
So this time, when we were finishing Emily's education in Savannah, we went over to Tybee Island on Saturday. Our plan was to eat at a place called North Beach, or something like that, and then just enjoy the beach and the water. Our previous visits to the island had been during the week, and were not impeded by a crush of people, so imagine our surprise when we found the beach so crowded that parking spaces at the North Beach place were not to be found! We circled and circled, and finally gave up. Then we headed back to Crab Shack, and, after we ate, we couldn't remember why we were going anywhere else. While parts of the Crab Shack are kitschy and touristy, the food part is really good and really well-priced. And best of all, none of the food is fried. We had you-peel boiled shrimp, crab salad, cole slaw, she-crab soup (which was merely okay), and a "boiled dinner," which is shrimp, potatoes, corn, crab, clams, and other delicacies, cooked together like a stew and then served in a pot. Susie and I had, in honor of Kim, who could not be there, glasses of Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc, and Dick and Max had their choice of a plethora of interesting beers.
We spent some time looking at the alligators (yes, really - but they were fat and lazy and in a watery swampy area far down from the quizzical, rubber-necking tourists) and then headed out to the beach, where we spent a lovely couple of hours watching the water encroach on the shore, watching a couple of guys who took para-kiting to a new level, and watching the two love-birds who were so taken with each other that they didn't even notice our smiling at their amorous necking. We also watched a group of incredibly selfish people. How do I know they were selfish? Susie, who is our family historian, asked politely if any of them would take a picture of us together; they all kind of looked at each other, and then kind of shrugged, and then one of them said, "I don't really want to because I would have to get up." I guess the looks on our faces shamed at least one of them, because she, the only one of the group who even really looked in our direction, got grudgingly to her feet and took a snapshot. I was really irritated, and wondered could be important to these people who, when they could help someone, chose to do nothing.
After a while, we headed back over to the mainland, and had some down time. We split up for dinner, Max, Emily, Jeff and I eating dinner at Thai, and Susie and Dick not eating at all! Thai was an okay restaurant, but I can't say that it was much different from any other Asian eatery I have frequented. The food was fine, the wine selection was fine, and the decor was fine. In fact, it was so non-memorable that I had to stop writing and try to remember where we had dinner.
That was our last stop before we all took the Graveyards and Ghosts tour, which was at 10 p.m. The tour was the most disappointing, and the most expensive, part of our trip. Susie and I expected to be taken to some of the old buildings and some of the old cemeteries in the area; instead, we were taken on a trolley tour around some of the old buildings, we looked through the gates into one of the large cemeteries, and we experienced a Disney-like event complete with an actor, theatrical lighting, and visual and sound effects. Please understand that I am a Disney World and Disneyland freak. I LOVE going to those parks, and nothing is more fun than seeing the robotic Abraham Lincoln and the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's a Small World, along with everything else animatronic, but I was not expecting that kind of entertainment in Savannah, Georgia, which is rich in real history and legendary ghosts, and needs no animatronic enhancement.
ANYWAY! We separated that night determined to sleep late the next day, and then strike out on our own. Mother and Don were leaving the next morning, and we decided to simply hang out until dinner time, when we would meet Dick and Susie at the only deserving chain restaurant in town: Bonefish Grill. If you have not tried Bonefish, please do so. The food is good, it is reasonably priced, it is fresh, and the restaurant has nightly specials and a wine list with something for about everyone. In Kansas City, Bonefish is located in both Olathe and up by the airport. In Memphis, it is somewhere south of the city, in a really Yuppie part of town; the location is similarly upwardly mobile in Nashville. We were rewarded Sunday night, and Bonefish in Savannah showed its best side. It was good to take a break from the bustle of being a tourist, and it was good to sit together as a family. Emily was with us, and she enjoyed so much getting to spend time with Susie and Dick. Although we are separated by half a country, it is good to feel close.
The next morning, we finally met Savannah Dan. You will love hearing about him.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Papillote and A.Lure
The first full day of our Savannah visit was lovely. I had purchased a carriage tour for Mother and Don, because the walking tour we took back in March was about an hour and a half long, and I thought that would be too long and too hot for both of them. So they got up bright and early and headed out for their tour of the city Emily and I slept in.
We talked with Susie and Dick and agreed to meet up around 12:30 for lunch somewhere; however, my sending Mother and Don on the tour had an unintended effect: they had such a good time that they bought tickets to a trolley tour at noon. We agreed to wait for them to eat lunch, and set about deciding where that should be. Emily suggested Papillote, a little French sidewalk cafe, where she had never been, but where she had heard the food was good. And so we all trooped into a teeny-tiny cafe, where aromas of fresh-baked bread was nothing short of intoxicating. The restaurant sold a wonderful brioche, and offered a soup of the day, as well as sandwiches, salads, and wonder of wonders, French wine! Susie ate butternut squash soup and a salad and pronounced them fabulous. Mother and I split an open-face crab and avocado sandwich on the brioche, and I had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Dick ate one whole sandwich himself, and so did Don. Emily ate about half of whatever she ordered, which is why she is a size 0.
Even though we were all full, we headed to what is a Savannah legend: Leopold's ice cream shop. Here is a brief history of Leopold's, which I heard on Paula Deen's show, when she and Leopold's owner were chowing down on a caramel popcorn ice cream concoction - The shop has been in the family for three generations, and the current generation has significant connections to Hollywood, producing movies, and even winning an Academy Award (you can get the details from his web site). The shop itself is decorated in vintage soda shoppe, with movie posters and a projector thrown in. Most important, however, is the ice cream. You can get lunch there, but why? Unless, of course, lunch is a big ice cream sundae or waffle cone. Anyway, we all had ice cream and declared ourselves stuffed - and just four hours before we were to eat dinner at A.Lure, the restaurant where Emily tends bar.
Before going there, though, Emily and I decided to take Mother out for a glass of wine. We had a wonderful time at the top of the Bohemian Hotel, and then went back to our respective hotels to get ready for dinner. By this time, Max was on his way to meet us, and I enjoyed a relaxing hour or so out by the pool at the Sheraton Four Points. When Max finally arrived, it was time to head out to A.Lure for our second wonderful dinner with wonderful family.
A.Lure is an attractive restaurant in an old building somewhat off the beaten path in Savannah - just like many restaurants in the city. It has a cute little bar area - emphasis on "little" - and exposed brick walls throughout the building. It has many hard surfaces, so the area can be kind of loud, as it was the night we were there. We couldn't help it that we had been seated right across from a "girls night out" group - whose laughter and enjoyment became louder and louder as the night went on and the martinis kept coming. Regardless, we enjoyed our meals. Against my better judgment, I chose shrimp and grits, even though I knew at the time that the best shrimp and grits in the world can be found at City Grocery, run by John Currence in Oxford, Mississippi. I was proved right - the best shrimp and grits are still in Oxford, but A.Lure acquitted itself well, regardless, by serving wonderful chicken and waffles. We sat around and talked and laughed and had a wonderful time, until we left around 10 to get ready to go to the beach the next day.
NEXT: Beach, Crab Shack, and Savannah Dan
We talked with Susie and Dick and agreed to meet up around 12:30 for lunch somewhere; however, my sending Mother and Don on the tour had an unintended effect: they had such a good time that they bought tickets to a trolley tour at noon. We agreed to wait for them to eat lunch, and set about deciding where that should be. Emily suggested Papillote, a little French sidewalk cafe, where she had never been, but where she had heard the food was good. And so we all trooped into a teeny-tiny cafe, where aromas of fresh-baked bread was nothing short of intoxicating. The restaurant sold a wonderful brioche, and offered a soup of the day, as well as sandwiches, salads, and wonder of wonders, French wine! Susie ate butternut squash soup and a salad and pronounced them fabulous. Mother and I split an open-face crab and avocado sandwich on the brioche, and I had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Dick ate one whole sandwich himself, and so did Don. Emily ate about half of whatever she ordered, which is why she is a size 0.
Even though we were all full, we headed to what is a Savannah legend: Leopold's ice cream shop. Here is a brief history of Leopold's, which I heard on Paula Deen's show, when she and Leopold's owner were chowing down on a caramel popcorn ice cream concoction - The shop has been in the family for three generations, and the current generation has significant connections to Hollywood, producing movies, and even winning an Academy Award (you can get the details from his web site). The shop itself is decorated in vintage soda shoppe, with movie posters and a projector thrown in. Most important, however, is the ice cream. You can get lunch there, but why? Unless, of course, lunch is a big ice cream sundae or waffle cone. Anyway, we all had ice cream and declared ourselves stuffed - and just four hours before we were to eat dinner at A.Lure, the restaurant where Emily tends bar.
Before going there, though, Emily and I decided to take Mother out for a glass of wine. We had a wonderful time at the top of the Bohemian Hotel, and then went back to our respective hotels to get ready for dinner. By this time, Max was on his way to meet us, and I enjoyed a relaxing hour or so out by the pool at the Sheraton Four Points. When Max finally arrived, it was time to head out to A.Lure for our second wonderful dinner with wonderful family.
A.Lure is an attractive restaurant in an old building somewhat off the beaten path in Savannah - just like many restaurants in the city. It has a cute little bar area - emphasis on "little" - and exposed brick walls throughout the building. It has many hard surfaces, so the area can be kind of loud, as it was the night we were there. We couldn't help it that we had been seated right across from a "girls night out" group - whose laughter and enjoyment became louder and louder as the night went on and the martinis kept coming. Regardless, we enjoyed our meals. Against my better judgment, I chose shrimp and grits, even though I knew at the time that the best shrimp and grits in the world can be found at City Grocery, run by John Currence in Oxford, Mississippi. I was proved right - the best shrimp and grits are still in Oxford, but A.Lure acquitted itself well, regardless, by serving wonderful chicken and waffles. We sat around and talked and laughed and had a wonderful time, until we left around 10 to get ready to go to the beach the next day.
NEXT: Beach, Crab Shack, and Savannah Dan
Monday, July 2, 2012
Dinner in Savannah
I arrived at Emily's apartment right on schedule at 4:00 on Thursday, about two hours after Mother and Don arrived and two hours before Susie and Dick arrived. Emily made reservations at Sapphire Grill at 8, and then we headed to the airport to meet Susie and Dick and show them to their hotel.
Savannah's little airport is just perfect. It is big enough to get people in and out, but small enough so that nothing is a whole lot of trouble. Parking isn't a problem, renting a car isn't a problem, security isn't a problem, and sitting and waiting isn't a problem because the whole thing looks like a building at the beach and is therefore beautiful. We found Dick and Susie quickly and caught up with each other's lives while they waited for their luggage and picked up the car they had rented. Then we led them to the Hampton Inn where they were staying.
Navigating through Savannah in a car is not nearly as friendly as navigating through the airport. The squares that make Savannah such a lovely city make driving, at least the first time, a challenge. A driver has to circle the square, which is a one way proposition, yielding where necessary, and realizing that streets exist on each side of the square that are not through streets, so turning on short notice and without signaling is common. Emily and I have it down by now, but Dick and Susie were in for a frustrating trip to the restaurant! Emily and her guest Jeff picked up Mother and Don, and I met them at Sapphire in my car. We waited for Dick and Susie, took phone calls from them as they made their way through the city, and ordered wonderful cocktails from the very talented mixologist at Sapphire Grill.
We had been to Sapphire in March with our friends Gary and Susan, when Susan had a blackberry martini (muddled berries in the glass, which was rimmed with sugar), I had a Mai Tai (just the right mixture of slightly sweet and rummy), and Emily had a French 75 (Champagne and gin). This time, Emily had another French 75, Jeff had a Mai Tai, and whatever I had, I don't remember because I was trying to make sure everyone was having a good time. After all, Jeff was meeting a bunch of Emily's family at once, and I wanted to make sure we sounded normal. During our meal, however, I do remember that the mixologist sent over, splayed with seven straws (!), a Gin Mule, which is like a Moscow Mule (vodka and ginger beer), except using gin, which I usually do not like. This drink was really good, and I drank my share.
Our food was also exceptionally good. The Sapphire Grill has two menus: one is a traditional menu that a diner would find at any restaurant; the second is a la carte, including the diner's choosing an entree and sauce, as well as any other dishes he or she would like. For instance, Emily chose diver scallops with white truffle butter sauce and a mushroom sauce. I ordered salmon from the traditional menu. Both were fabulous. In fact, everyone raved about the food, not much of which was left on the table. Unbelievably to those of us from the Midwest, Jeff ordered a steak instead of seafood. I guess those who hail from Florida aren't as enamored with fresh seafood as those of us who are landlocked.
We didn't leave the restaurant until after 10, and we all got home just fine. The next day was looming large, and we were going to spend some time downtown. I had reserved a carriage tour for Mother and Don, who are early risers, and then we were all going to go out for lunch somewhere. That meant that the rest of us would sleep late! What a treat!
So, when in Savannah, eat at Sapphire Grill and order a specialty cocktail. The food is good and the drinks are good; be prepared to pay for the good stuff, though. This is not an inexpensive restaurant. It is located next to The Lady and Sons, famous, of course, because of its famous owner. See an earlier post regarding Paula Deen, the queen of southern.
Next: Papillote, Leopold's, and A.Lure. And Savannah Dan!
Savannah's little airport is just perfect. It is big enough to get people in and out, but small enough so that nothing is a whole lot of trouble. Parking isn't a problem, renting a car isn't a problem, security isn't a problem, and sitting and waiting isn't a problem because the whole thing looks like a building at the beach and is therefore beautiful. We found Dick and Susie quickly and caught up with each other's lives while they waited for their luggage and picked up the car they had rented. Then we led them to the Hampton Inn where they were staying.
Navigating through Savannah in a car is not nearly as friendly as navigating through the airport. The squares that make Savannah such a lovely city make driving, at least the first time, a challenge. A driver has to circle the square, which is a one way proposition, yielding where necessary, and realizing that streets exist on each side of the square that are not through streets, so turning on short notice and without signaling is common. Emily and I have it down by now, but Dick and Susie were in for a frustrating trip to the restaurant! Emily and her guest Jeff picked up Mother and Don, and I met them at Sapphire in my car. We waited for Dick and Susie, took phone calls from them as they made their way through the city, and ordered wonderful cocktails from the very talented mixologist at Sapphire Grill.
We had been to Sapphire in March with our friends Gary and Susan, when Susan had a blackberry martini (muddled berries in the glass, which was rimmed with sugar), I had a Mai Tai (just the right mixture of slightly sweet and rummy), and Emily had a French 75 (Champagne and gin). This time, Emily had another French 75, Jeff had a Mai Tai, and whatever I had, I don't remember because I was trying to make sure everyone was having a good time. After all, Jeff was meeting a bunch of Emily's family at once, and I wanted to make sure we sounded normal. During our meal, however, I do remember that the mixologist sent over, splayed with seven straws (!), a Gin Mule, which is like a Moscow Mule (vodka and ginger beer), except using gin, which I usually do not like. This drink was really good, and I drank my share.
Our food was also exceptionally good. The Sapphire Grill has two menus: one is a traditional menu that a diner would find at any restaurant; the second is a la carte, including the diner's choosing an entree and sauce, as well as any other dishes he or she would like. For instance, Emily chose diver scallops with white truffle butter sauce and a mushroom sauce. I ordered salmon from the traditional menu. Both were fabulous. In fact, everyone raved about the food, not much of which was left on the table. Unbelievably to those of us from the Midwest, Jeff ordered a steak instead of seafood. I guess those who hail from Florida aren't as enamored with fresh seafood as those of us who are landlocked.
We didn't leave the restaurant until after 10, and we all got home just fine. The next day was looming large, and we were going to spend some time downtown. I had reserved a carriage tour for Mother and Don, who are early risers, and then we were all going to go out for lunch somewhere. That meant that the rest of us would sleep late! What a treat!
So, when in Savannah, eat at Sapphire Grill and order a specialty cocktail. The food is good and the drinks are good; be prepared to pay for the good stuff, though. This is not an inexpensive restaurant. It is located next to The Lady and Sons, famous, of course, because of its famous owner. See an earlier post regarding Paula Deen, the queen of southern.
Next: Papillote, Leopold's, and A.Lure. And Savannah Dan!
Monday, June 25, 2012
Vacay Day Two
Usually, when I am out of the house, my normal routine goes out the window (also out of the house!). I stay up late, sleep late, find energy I never knew I had, you know, the kinds of things that just shout, "I don't have ANYTHING to do !" So I was a little worried about getting on the road to Savannah on Thursday morning. If I left around 8:00 a.m. Central time, I could arrive in Savannah around 4:00 p.m. Eastern time. This assumed a normal drive around Atlanta.
I didn't need to worry. I woke up full of energy around 7, "bright-eyed and bushy tailed," and loaded up the car. I headed across the outer road to Panera, took a right to the gas station and filled up, and then made one more right turn onto I-Whatever-it-was, bidding good-bye to the Doubletree precisely at 8:00 a.m. Wow! I watched for lots of traffic, because I had been warned about Bonnaroo the night before by the helpful desk clerk at the hotel. As she handed me my warm chocolate chip cookie, she said, "Hon, if you're headed south, you better watch out for lots of traffic. It's Bonnaroo, and there will be lots and lots of people and trucks and RVs and troopers. It might take you a while to get to Chattanooga." I remembered seeing a car with a phrase, "Bonnaroo or Bust," chalked on its back window, and so I asked, "What is a Bonnaroo?" "Music festival," she said. "Big. Big."
So as I sped along the interstate, I watched for the huge conglomeration of traffic, but it didn't show up that early. Everyone was breezing along quickly and quietly, except in a couple of areas where the speed limit was lowered to 55. In my naivete, I thought the signs were serious, but I found myself terribly mistaken as I watched all kinds of cars and trucks and RVs passing me and all the troopers as if we were sitting still. Well, the troopers WERE still, but they were not sitting. They were doing their jobs and getting ready for the inevitable onslaught of people. I decided to call Max and have him tell me what Bonnaroo meant, so he looked it up, and I was really missing a party. Radiohead was there, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Beach Boys, Alice Cooper, Kenny Rogers, Steven Wright (one of my favorite comedians), and a bunch of other acts.
Sorry to have to miss all the fun, but really glad not to be having to sit out in the sun for two or three days and wait in line for a vacancy in a porta-potty, I headed straight to Chattanooga, where my grandmother, great-grandmother, sister, and I went when my parents went to teachers' meeting in, probably, 1963. I remembered going to Lookout Mountain and Rock City, and generally finding all kinds of tourist stuff to do. I remembered the mountains, and I was happy to find that they are still there. The drive into Chattanooga is nothing short of spectacular, the road drifting and winding and climbing and falling in the midst of the Smoky Mountains. It was still early and cool, and the sun turned its face on the layers and layers of mountains on the horizon in all directions; I could see the green trees and a little blue haze and a ribbon of gray that wound about in the distance. I will drive to Savannah again just to see that vista.
I got through Chattanooga just fine, and decided that I needed to stop on the way back to see the Civil War battlefield at Chickamauga, and then took the next leg of the trip on I-75 toward what I dreaded most: a drive around Atlanta, about 110 miles from Chattanooga. I have often heard the East Coast being described as a "megalopolis," with city running into city into city, with no green area in between. I go on record here today to say that I-75 is the same way. From Chattanooga to Atlanta, exit after exit, traffic was unrelenting, at least three lanes each way, and crammed to exploding with huge trucks and pick-up trucks, RVs and vans, SUVs and cars, all screaming along at what seemed to be 110 miles per hour, taking no prisoners, leaving a wake of shattered tire rubber and broken glass all over the highway. I know how hard I was gripping the steering wheel because my tan line stops at the second knuckle on each hand where my fingers turned under the wheel. And I had no choice but to go as fast as I could, right along with them, hoping that I could see where I was going when I had to get in the correct lane for my exits from I-75 to I-285 and back to I-75.
Changing lanes became a practiced art. I looked in each mirror, and turned my head just the way Bill Wheeler told me to do in Driver's Ed in 1969, and then quickly claimed my space in the next lane. I also had to watch out for people in front of me doing the same thing, only doing it at their own speeds, decidedly slower than traffic in the left outside lane. Speed, slow down, speed, slow down. Speed. And then, as I expected, right when I was about to change lanes around the airport (I think the cars at the airport in Atlanta are just about as bad as planes at the airport), someone came up on my blind spot going so fast that I hadn't even seen him in my mirrors, or when I looked over my shoulder a few seconds earlier. I jerked the car back into my own lane - or so I thought. This was my education in the responsiveness of our little black convertible. I jerked the car as I would have my Honda Accord, and though the Accord would have been just fine, the jerk I gave the wheel put the car not in the lane from which I had come, but about one-third of the way into the NEXT lane to my right! Fortunately, and incredibly, that lane was empty. I shook for a while after that, but made it through just fine, and heaved a sigh of relief (sounds trite, but it's true) after I took my exit from I-285 onto I-75.
Fooey! The traffic AFTER Atlanta was only marginally better than the traffic BEFORE and IN Atlanta, and to my surprise, the three-lane highway extended to Macon, some 85 miles south. At Macon, however, I would be able to make my final turn, onto I-16 East, toward Savannah! Before that, though, I was getting hungry, and so I tried to find an exit with fast food that would be an "easy-off, easy-on." I took the exit for McDonough, Georgia, in honor of my friend Mark McDonough, and found nothing easy about it. I managed, however, to find something to eat at Burger King, and knew I would be able to wait for real food until I arrived in Savannah and we went to dinner at Sapphire Grill. That thought kept me going. When I turned onto I-16, my last 160 miles before I saw my lovely girl, I began to get excited all over again. I knew a great time was waiting, and I would be happy to see all the people who would be arriving about the same time, and who would join us for dinner for the next three nights.
Coming up: Dinner at some really good places, and Savannah Dan, the best tour guide EVER! See you next time!
I didn't need to worry. I woke up full of energy around 7, "bright-eyed and bushy tailed," and loaded up the car. I headed across the outer road to Panera, took a right to the gas station and filled up, and then made one more right turn onto I-Whatever-it-was, bidding good-bye to the Doubletree precisely at 8:00 a.m. Wow! I watched for lots of traffic, because I had been warned about Bonnaroo the night before by the helpful desk clerk at the hotel. As she handed me my warm chocolate chip cookie, she said, "Hon, if you're headed south, you better watch out for lots of traffic. It's Bonnaroo, and there will be lots and lots of people and trucks and RVs and troopers. It might take you a while to get to Chattanooga." I remembered seeing a car with a phrase, "Bonnaroo or Bust," chalked on its back window, and so I asked, "What is a Bonnaroo?" "Music festival," she said. "Big. Big."
So as I sped along the interstate, I watched for the huge conglomeration of traffic, but it didn't show up that early. Everyone was breezing along quickly and quietly, except in a couple of areas where the speed limit was lowered to 55. In my naivete, I thought the signs were serious, but I found myself terribly mistaken as I watched all kinds of cars and trucks and RVs passing me and all the troopers as if we were sitting still. Well, the troopers WERE still, but they were not sitting. They were doing their jobs and getting ready for the inevitable onslaught of people. I decided to call Max and have him tell me what Bonnaroo meant, so he looked it up, and I was really missing a party. Radiohead was there, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Beach Boys, Alice Cooper, Kenny Rogers, Steven Wright (one of my favorite comedians), and a bunch of other acts.
Sorry to have to miss all the fun, but really glad not to be having to sit out in the sun for two or three days and wait in line for a vacancy in a porta-potty, I headed straight to Chattanooga, where my grandmother, great-grandmother, sister, and I went when my parents went to teachers' meeting in, probably, 1963. I remembered going to Lookout Mountain and Rock City, and generally finding all kinds of tourist stuff to do. I remembered the mountains, and I was happy to find that they are still there. The drive into Chattanooga is nothing short of spectacular, the road drifting and winding and climbing and falling in the midst of the Smoky Mountains. It was still early and cool, and the sun turned its face on the layers and layers of mountains on the horizon in all directions; I could see the green trees and a little blue haze and a ribbon of gray that wound about in the distance. I will drive to Savannah again just to see that vista.
I got through Chattanooga just fine, and decided that I needed to stop on the way back to see the Civil War battlefield at Chickamauga, and then took the next leg of the trip on I-75 toward what I dreaded most: a drive around Atlanta, about 110 miles from Chattanooga. I have often heard the East Coast being described as a "megalopolis," with city running into city into city, with no green area in between. I go on record here today to say that I-75 is the same way. From Chattanooga to Atlanta, exit after exit, traffic was unrelenting, at least three lanes each way, and crammed to exploding with huge trucks and pick-up trucks, RVs and vans, SUVs and cars, all screaming along at what seemed to be 110 miles per hour, taking no prisoners, leaving a wake of shattered tire rubber and broken glass all over the highway. I know how hard I was gripping the steering wheel because my tan line stops at the second knuckle on each hand where my fingers turned under the wheel. And I had no choice but to go as fast as I could, right along with them, hoping that I could see where I was going when I had to get in the correct lane for my exits from I-75 to I-285 and back to I-75.
Changing lanes became a practiced art. I looked in each mirror, and turned my head just the way Bill Wheeler told me to do in Driver's Ed in 1969, and then quickly claimed my space in the next lane. I also had to watch out for people in front of me doing the same thing, only doing it at their own speeds, decidedly slower than traffic in the left outside lane. Speed, slow down, speed, slow down. Speed. And then, as I expected, right when I was about to change lanes around the airport (I think the cars at the airport in Atlanta are just about as bad as planes at the airport), someone came up on my blind spot going so fast that I hadn't even seen him in my mirrors, or when I looked over my shoulder a few seconds earlier. I jerked the car back into my own lane - or so I thought. This was my education in the responsiveness of our little black convertible. I jerked the car as I would have my Honda Accord, and though the Accord would have been just fine, the jerk I gave the wheel put the car not in the lane from which I had come, but about one-third of the way into the NEXT lane to my right! Fortunately, and incredibly, that lane was empty. I shook for a while after that, but made it through just fine, and heaved a sigh of relief (sounds trite, but it's true) after I took my exit from I-285 onto I-75.
Fooey! The traffic AFTER Atlanta was only marginally better than the traffic BEFORE and IN Atlanta, and to my surprise, the three-lane highway extended to Macon, some 85 miles south. At Macon, however, I would be able to make my final turn, onto I-16 East, toward Savannah! Before that, though, I was getting hungry, and so I tried to find an exit with fast food that would be an "easy-off, easy-on." I took the exit for McDonough, Georgia, in honor of my friend Mark McDonough, and found nothing easy about it. I managed, however, to find something to eat at Burger King, and knew I would be able to wait for real food until I arrived in Savannah and we went to dinner at Sapphire Grill. That thought kept me going. When I turned onto I-16, my last 160 miles before I saw my lovely girl, I began to get excited all over again. I knew a great time was waiting, and I would be happy to see all the people who would be arriving about the same time, and who would join us for dinner for the next three nights.
Coming up: Dinner at some really good places, and Savannah Dan, the best tour guide EVER! See you next time!
Friday, June 22, 2012
On the Way to Savannah
I have not been on a vacation in years - that is, a vacation that has taken me out of town more more than three or four days at a time. My teaching schedule, court schedule, and church schedule run pretty much daily, and getting out of town requires that I find a teaching substitute, a piano substitute who will play for the praise team and for the choir, an organist, and a substitute judge. Until this past year, any trip out of town also required a puppysitter, who usually was our loyal secretary and dog-lover Michelle (and her family).
This year is different.
I am not teaching any summer classes, the second Sunday in June was Juice and Joplin, which meant no choir, no praise team and no organist (we bring in a Scott Joplin Festival pianist who plays for the one casual service in the Fellowship Hall), the substitute judge was free for one Wednesday - and as you all know, Fluffy is no longer with us.
So I planned to take a trip to Savannah for Emily's graduation. Max didn't have as many vacation days available as I wanted to be gone, so though we would normally have driven down together, I planned to drive by myself and he would fly down. This was going to be an adventure! I was going to put the top down on the car and drive as fast as each state's highway patrol would allow through Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia.
So last Wednesday, I changed clothes at City Hall, jumped in the car, and drove off toward Savannah, Georgia, where my little girl was going to graduate without our being there (see previous blog entry if you have forgotten what happened - as if there is not more!). The day was warm, but not hot, the sun was shining, but not too intensely, and when the wind hit me full force as I breezed across Missouri on I-70, I was simply invigorated.
My plan was to get to Nashville by 8 p.m. and then eat dinner at the Bonefish Grill. Max and I had found that restaurant on the way back from Savannah at Thanksgiving, and the food was good and reasonably priced. The restaurant also pours really good wine, and I figured I would be able to use a glass after an 8-hour trip.
Well, as plans go, that sounded fine, but my plans had already been somewhat adjusted because of the graduation SNAFU, and then when I tried to get a reservation at Aloft, I found that the hotel was sold out because of some music festival called Bonnaroo. So while I drove toward Nashville, Max looked on line for a hotel where I could stay, and we lucked out because the Doubletree was available. It was not, however, close to the Bonefish Grill, and so my lovely dinner was out of the question. I simply was not going to check into a hotel and drive another 30 minutes or so to a restaurant. I figured there would be some chain restaurant close to the Doubletree that would do. It would be, of course, required to have a bar.
The drive to Nashville took about eight hours, as expected. I got through St. Louis with little fuss and bother, except that driving 80 miles per hour is somewhat stressful, especially with big trucks on both sides of my little car, and Lexi and "big-assed" trucks and SUVs whizzing by me faster than 80 miles per hour. Max usually drives through that area, and so I had not experienced the exhilaration of speed under my own foot for some time, but I was triumphant after I completed my solo drive-through - and I didn't get lost even one time!
The drive through Illinois and then Kentucky was uneventful, but fast. The speed limit in both states, in more rural areas, is 70, so I drove 75 and was passed continually by lots of travelers who were going much faster. As I passed through Paducah, I remembered my trip to the LowerArts District and the historic downtown, and thought about eating dinner at Cynthia's or Max's, but by this time - probably around 5:30 - I was hot and dirty, so I decided to keep on driving. Nashville was but 140 or so miles away, and I would easily arrive before dark. I had noticed more than a few "armadeddos" (say it fast) lying on the side of the road, and certainly more dead deer than I care to remember, so I was not thrilled about the possibility of finding a buck of my own to hit, and I had to travel through beautiful and wooded Kentucky lake country, likely full of deer trying to hit my car.
So I got to Nashville a little before 7:30, driving somewhat more slowly than I had on the open highway - I saw MANY troopers! - and discovered that lots of people live and work in Nashville, and that rush hour lasts until 7:30. The Doubletree was on the south side of the city, so I got to drive all the way through and around Nashville in order to find the exit to my hotel. Even with the Google map on my phone, I took the wrong turn off the interstate and took an additional 15 or so minutes to find myself in the only suburb of Nashville without a chain restaurant. The Doubletree, however, had a sports bar/restaurant off the lobby, and so I ate some food, and more important, had a Scotch and soda to burn off the stress of the day. The server asked me if I wanted a particular Scotch - I guess she doesn't drink Scotch. Why get a good one only to sully it with club soda?
After eating the mediocre food, I went to my room and celebrated my successful trip and my making the trip it on my own by reading a book: Burden of Proof, by Scott Turow. It was his first book after Presumed Innocentand deals with some of the same characters. I had begun reading it before I left for the trip, and was enjoying the story and reading itself.
As I fell asleep, finally clean and tired and tanned regardless of 70SPF sunblock, I reveled in the idea of being away, and looked forward to what the next day would bring. Stay tuned.
This year is different.
I am not teaching any summer classes, the second Sunday in June was Juice and Joplin, which meant no choir, no praise team and no organist (we bring in a Scott Joplin Festival pianist who plays for the one casual service in the Fellowship Hall), the substitute judge was free for one Wednesday - and as you all know, Fluffy is no longer with us.
So I planned to take a trip to Savannah for Emily's graduation. Max didn't have as many vacation days available as I wanted to be gone, so though we would normally have driven down together, I planned to drive by myself and he would fly down. This was going to be an adventure! I was going to put the top down on the car and drive as fast as each state's highway patrol would allow through Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia.
So last Wednesday, I changed clothes at City Hall, jumped in the car, and drove off toward Savannah, Georgia, where my little girl was going to graduate without our being there (see previous blog entry if you have forgotten what happened - as if there is not more!). The day was warm, but not hot, the sun was shining, but not too intensely, and when the wind hit me full force as I breezed across Missouri on I-70, I was simply invigorated.
My plan was to get to Nashville by 8 p.m. and then eat dinner at the Bonefish Grill. Max and I had found that restaurant on the way back from Savannah at Thanksgiving, and the food was good and reasonably priced. The restaurant also pours really good wine, and I figured I would be able to use a glass after an 8-hour trip.
Well, as plans go, that sounded fine, but my plans had already been somewhat adjusted because of the graduation SNAFU, and then when I tried to get a reservation at Aloft, I found that the hotel was sold out because of some music festival called Bonnaroo. So while I drove toward Nashville, Max looked on line for a hotel where I could stay, and we lucked out because the Doubletree was available. It was not, however, close to the Bonefish Grill, and so my lovely dinner was out of the question. I simply was not going to check into a hotel and drive another 30 minutes or so to a restaurant. I figured there would be some chain restaurant close to the Doubletree that would do. It would be, of course, required to have a bar.
The drive to Nashville took about eight hours, as expected. I got through St. Louis with little fuss and bother, except that driving 80 miles per hour is somewhat stressful, especially with big trucks on both sides of my little car, and Lexi and "big-assed" trucks and SUVs whizzing by me faster than 80 miles per hour. Max usually drives through that area, and so I had not experienced the exhilaration of speed under my own foot for some time, but I was triumphant after I completed my solo drive-through - and I didn't get lost even one time!
The drive through Illinois and then Kentucky was uneventful, but fast. The speed limit in both states, in more rural areas, is 70, so I drove 75 and was passed continually by lots of travelers who were going much faster. As I passed through Paducah, I remembered my trip to the LowerArts District and the historic downtown, and thought about eating dinner at Cynthia's or Max's, but by this time - probably around 5:30 - I was hot and dirty, so I decided to keep on driving. Nashville was but 140 or so miles away, and I would easily arrive before dark. I had noticed more than a few "armadeddos" (say it fast) lying on the side of the road, and certainly more dead deer than I care to remember, so I was not thrilled about the possibility of finding a buck of my own to hit, and I had to travel through beautiful and wooded Kentucky lake country, likely full of deer trying to hit my car.
So I got to Nashville a little before 7:30, driving somewhat more slowly than I had on the open highway - I saw MANY troopers! - and discovered that lots of people live and work in Nashville, and that rush hour lasts until 7:30. The Doubletree was on the south side of the city, so I got to drive all the way through and around Nashville in order to find the exit to my hotel. Even with the Google map on my phone, I took the wrong turn off the interstate and took an additional 15 or so minutes to find myself in the only suburb of Nashville without a chain restaurant. The Doubletree, however, had a sports bar/restaurant off the lobby, and so I ate some food, and more important, had a Scotch and soda to burn off the stress of the day. The server asked me if I wanted a particular Scotch - I guess she doesn't drink Scotch. Why get a good one only to sully it with club soda?
After eating the mediocre food, I went to my room and celebrated my successful trip and my making the trip it on my own by reading a book: Burden of Proof, by Scott Turow. It was his first book after Presumed Innocentand deals with some of the same characters. I had begun reading it before I left for the trip, and was enjoying the story and reading itself.
As I fell asleep, finally clean and tired and tanned regardless of 70SPF sunblock, I reveled in the idea of being away, and looked forward to what the next day would bring. Stay tuned.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
The Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel, NYC
I was half awake this morning while NPR's talking heads were educating me about this and that, when I heard a voice mentioning the Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York. The Oak Room is closing (I don't know about the hotel), and the story was about some of the people who have played there, the room itself, and why it is such a special place. Even in semi-dreamland, I went back to the one time Max and I went to the Oak Room, a time when I actually saw my friend Terry Teachout instead of just reading his blog or something else he has written, a time when I could simply sit and listen to the thing I love best - good music.
The year might have been 1995, but I can't really remember. I do know that we had, on a whim, decided to go to New York, one of my favorite places, with Bob and Susan, two of our favorite people. Bob and Susan were New York Newbies, and we promised to take in a variety of events while showing them how to get around on their own. Our plans included an obligatory tourist East River tour around the Statue of Liberty, an obligatory tourist trip to The Today Show, the New York City Ballet on its season closing night, Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, and what I was looking forward to most, a trip to the Cafe Carlyle to hear the legendary Bobby Short. I also planned one evening of down time so that I could go see my good friend Terry, who at that time lived on the Upper West Side in a "garden apartment," which turned out to be two floors in a brownstone with a kitchen that had one time been a closet. The "garden" consisted of a small (!) patio surrounded by stacked cement blocks forming a two-foot high, three-dimensional fence upon which sat two flower pots containing straggly flowers trying desperately to find the sun some 200 feet higher than they.
I was in charge of getting tickets and set to my task earnestly, finding good seats for the musical, the ballet, and a special Picasso exhibition at MOMA (where another exhibit was a cherry nineteen-sixty-something Jaguar X-12 that Bob would LOVE). I was striking out, however, on seats at the Carlyle, and took the maitre d's advice to show up one night and something would turn up.
So off we went. Things were going swimmingly, and I was so excited to see Terry after so many years of NOT seeing him. He told us of his life as a writer in New York, doing pieces for The Wall Street Journal, The Congressional Quarterly, even Time Magazine. He was doing music reviews, had fallen into the art world, and was at that point in love with modern dance. He asked about our itinerary, and I gave him the list. In his matter-of-fact voice, with an almost-imperceptible nod to being one in the know, he said, "Oh, my dear, you MUST go to the Oak Room. Susannah McCorkle is playing there, and she is such a wonderful, smart singer. She is doing a program on Cole Porter. It is a fabulous show."
What Terry says must be done, and so when we got back to our hotel, I called the Algonquin Hotel and made reservations for the Oak Room to see Susannah McCorkle. We were going to a real cabaret - a NIGHT CLUB in NEW YORK CITY!!! We got the last table available, and when I reported back to Terry, he said, in the same tone, same voice, "Oh, dear. I'll bet you got the Table of Death." Being one NOT in the know, I asked what that was.
"Well," he said, "the Oak Room is very small, and one table sits about five feet from the singer on the singer's right. I'll bet that was the last table, and I'll bet you got it. For Heaven's sake," he said, as though he were talking to a rube from Thayer (Oh, wait! I AM a rube from Thayer!), "DON'T talk while she is singing. That will drive her crazy and she won't be able to concentrate."
So we got dressed that night and went to the Oak Room in the Algonquin Hotel to hear Susannah McCorkle sing. We were all somewhat hushed as we entered the room, as it was very tiny, even smaller that Terry had prepared us for. I think that fewer than 100 people would be in that room at one time, even when it was very, very full. The room had a series of tables around its perimeter where some people would eat after-theatre supper. The rest of the room looked more like what I expected a cabaret to look like - several small tables scattered about where patrons would be served the drink minimum and listen to background music while carrying on a conversation. And then we were taken to our table - the Table of Death. We were indeed about five feet from where Susannah McCorkle would be standing as she sang Cole Porter's songs to us and to the rest of the room.
We ordered our drinks, and then the time was upon us where we would hear what Terry called a smart singer making Cole Porter come alive. There was no reason for Terry to have warned us not to talk. Being so close to the singer and being able to watch her piano accompanist move his ten fingers to make beautiful music was nothing short of magic. I don't think any of us said a word during the entire show. It was as if we were holding our collective breath. I did note that she had on the same Bruno Magli shoes I had bought that afternoon, except mine were gold-toned and hers were black. I was entranced, and I will never forget that evening or her performance or the feeling that I had done something really special that I would rarely, if ever, be able to describe or explain.
After that night, we had a really good time at all the other events we had scheduled. We went to the Cafe Carlyle and saw Bobby Short, but that evening was tainted because we had to wait an hour in a really hot lobby to be admitted, and we spent over $200 for eight watered-down drinks, AND the drummer was too loud and Short too, and I mean this, trite. And I at that time was disappointed to have to say that the legend of Bobby Short could not and did not compare with the unplanned evening we spent in a quiet little night club, where we heard a smart singer breathe life into not only Cole Porter's songs, but into Cole Porter himself - a smart singer who, tragically, a few years after we heard her, heard something in her own head, a different kind of music, that sent her to her death from a very tall New York skyscraper.
So things go on: the Oak Room is closing, The New Yorker will list Patti LuPone as the opening act at a new cabaret, and Bobby Short died several years ago. But this will never change: I still have that night that came back to me with stark clarity this morning - sitting at the Table of Death at the Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, listening to Susannah McCorkle sing Cole Porter. Magic.
The year might have been 1995, but I can't really remember. I do know that we had, on a whim, decided to go to New York, one of my favorite places, with Bob and Susan, two of our favorite people. Bob and Susan were New York Newbies, and we promised to take in a variety of events while showing them how to get around on their own. Our plans included an obligatory tourist East River tour around the Statue of Liberty, an obligatory tourist trip to The Today Show, the New York City Ballet on its season closing night, Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, and what I was looking forward to most, a trip to the Cafe Carlyle to hear the legendary Bobby Short. I also planned one evening of down time so that I could go see my good friend Terry, who at that time lived on the Upper West Side in a "garden apartment," which turned out to be two floors in a brownstone with a kitchen that had one time been a closet. The "garden" consisted of a small (!) patio surrounded by stacked cement blocks forming a two-foot high, three-dimensional fence upon which sat two flower pots containing straggly flowers trying desperately to find the sun some 200 feet higher than they.
I was in charge of getting tickets and set to my task earnestly, finding good seats for the musical, the ballet, and a special Picasso exhibition at MOMA (where another exhibit was a cherry nineteen-sixty-something Jaguar X-12 that Bob would LOVE). I was striking out, however, on seats at the Carlyle, and took the maitre d's advice to show up one night and something would turn up.
So off we went. Things were going swimmingly, and I was so excited to see Terry after so many years of NOT seeing him. He told us of his life as a writer in New York, doing pieces for The Wall Street Journal, The Congressional Quarterly, even Time Magazine. He was doing music reviews, had fallen into the art world, and was at that point in love with modern dance. He asked about our itinerary, and I gave him the list. In his matter-of-fact voice, with an almost-imperceptible nod to being one in the know, he said, "Oh, my dear, you MUST go to the Oak Room. Susannah McCorkle is playing there, and she is such a wonderful, smart singer. She is doing a program on Cole Porter. It is a fabulous show."
What Terry says must be done, and so when we got back to our hotel, I called the Algonquin Hotel and made reservations for the Oak Room to see Susannah McCorkle. We were going to a real cabaret - a NIGHT CLUB in NEW YORK CITY!!! We got the last table available, and when I reported back to Terry, he said, in the same tone, same voice, "Oh, dear. I'll bet you got the Table of Death." Being one NOT in the know, I asked what that was.
"Well," he said, "the Oak Room is very small, and one table sits about five feet from the singer on the singer's right. I'll bet that was the last table, and I'll bet you got it. For Heaven's sake," he said, as though he were talking to a rube from Thayer (Oh, wait! I AM a rube from Thayer!), "DON'T talk while she is singing. That will drive her crazy and she won't be able to concentrate."
So we got dressed that night and went to the Oak Room in the Algonquin Hotel to hear Susannah McCorkle sing. We were all somewhat hushed as we entered the room, as it was very tiny, even smaller that Terry had prepared us for. I think that fewer than 100 people would be in that room at one time, even when it was very, very full. The room had a series of tables around its perimeter where some people would eat after-theatre supper. The rest of the room looked more like what I expected a cabaret to look like - several small tables scattered about where patrons would be served the drink minimum and listen to background music while carrying on a conversation. And then we were taken to our table - the Table of Death. We were indeed about five feet from where Susannah McCorkle would be standing as she sang Cole Porter's songs to us and to the rest of the room.
We ordered our drinks, and then the time was upon us where we would hear what Terry called a smart singer making Cole Porter come alive. There was no reason for Terry to have warned us not to talk. Being so close to the singer and being able to watch her piano accompanist move his ten fingers to make beautiful music was nothing short of magic. I don't think any of us said a word during the entire show. It was as if we were holding our collective breath. I did note that she had on the same Bruno Magli shoes I had bought that afternoon, except mine were gold-toned and hers were black. I was entranced, and I will never forget that evening or her performance or the feeling that I had done something really special that I would rarely, if ever, be able to describe or explain.
After that night, we had a really good time at all the other events we had scheduled. We went to the Cafe Carlyle and saw Bobby Short, but that evening was tainted because we had to wait an hour in a really hot lobby to be admitted, and we spent over $200 for eight watered-down drinks, AND the drummer was too loud and Short too, and I mean this, trite. And I at that time was disappointed to have to say that the legend of Bobby Short could not and did not compare with the unplanned evening we spent in a quiet little night club, where we heard a smart singer breathe life into not only Cole Porter's songs, but into Cole Porter himself - a smart singer who, tragically, a few years after we heard her, heard something in her own head, a different kind of music, that sent her to her death from a very tall New York skyscraper.
So things go on: the Oak Room is closing, The New Yorker will list Patti LuPone as the opening act at a new cabaret, and Bobby Short died several years ago. But this will never change: I still have that night that came back to me with stark clarity this morning - sitting at the Table of Death at the Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, listening to Susannah McCorkle sing Cole Porter. Magic.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
So, I booked Max’s flight from KC to Savannah for Friday, June 8 (because he has only 3 days of vacation by that time), with a return on Tuesday, June 12. I asked Southwest to send a confirmation e-mail to me, to him, and to Emily. About an hour later, I got a text from the Divine Miss Em saying that “Daddy booked his flight for the wrong weekend.” Several frantic texts later, the truth was revealed: the date for Emily’s graduation is NOT June 9, as previously thought. It is June 2. The truth is out: Emily has inherited her father's calendar genes. So we will be celebrating Emily’s graduation one week later, with pictures of her in mortarboard and black gown and NOT having to sit in some stadium or arena watching people we don’t even know trudge across the stage.
Max and I plan to carry forward with our previously scheduled arrangements – my leaving Sedalia after my docket on June 6 and maybe picking up Susie in St. Louis that evening on the way to the Aloft and Bonefish Grill in Nashville Wednesday night, and arriving in Savannah on Thursday afternoon; Mother and Don’s flying into Savannah on Thursday; Kevin, Kim, and Kate’s, and Kelsey’s, we hope, arriving on Thursday sometime; Johnny’s thinking of us while his granddaughter graduates from high school in San Antonio; Patty’s and Libby's wishing they could be there; and Max’s flying in the next day to Jacksonville and getting a car to get to Savannah on Friday; and a plethora of entertainment for the weekend with our favorite family and friends.
Best, I am planning a couple of tours and a couple of dinners at a couple of fabulous restaurants, including the one that serves the best wine and Irish whiskey we have EVER tasted.
Regardless of our calendar-challenged mess, we will not really miss a graduation ceremony. In order to satisfy our graduation hunger, we will make Emily wear her cap and gown to dinner. I hope no one will need to change plans, but if that is necessary, we will understand and will never hold it against anyone. We will simply think of him or her or them while we drink margaritas on the beach!
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