The Jersey Shore
When I say, "Wild", you say "Wood". WILD (WOOD) WILD (WOOD). When I say, "Ultimate", you say, "just tell the story already."
Ultimate- The beach tournament at Wildwood, New Jersey has become the Ultimate event of the summer. There were 440 teams registered, even with some overlap in divisions, that's an astounding number of people on the beach playing frisbee. Mostly the crowd that was once Red Delicious, Donk-a-phant Dance Party, and Stillerman's Beach Blokes became Assume the Wurst, an insult and German-inspired team with grand plans to wear lederhosen and drink from steins. As usual the costumes got left for last and we were a hodge-podge of suspenders and awkward shorts. The steins were cylindrical and aluminum and had American writing them. Outlawed in state forests along with their cousins Stoli and Jose, the steins stayed relatively quiet. The lederhosen that SM and JM wore, those were loud. I sported suspenders modified by Clare with a flowered strip of cloth. My pants were borrowed sport shorts and unaccustomed to the pull that accompanies a good suspender.
I am ahead of myself. I should first describe the accommodations. Alan again let us live in the 8-person tent that has suited the team so well. This year we had a few invited guests and so 8 became 10. Anyone who has spent time in a tent will recognize that putting more people in a tent than the name implies usually doesn't work that well. Even when the tent has two rooms and seems incredibly expansive, a tent has its limits. Assume the Wurst and friends were prepared to test those limits. With 5 on a side, and not a hint of a breeze, we settled on top our sheets and bags and tried to find sleep. Sleep was elusive. It was hot as a euphemism and we were packed in like a similie. I didn't really expect a visit from the sandman, but eventually I turned out to be one of the lucky ones. Some claimed they only received a post card.
Morning came hotly. The mercury at 6:05 was already starting to rise with the glowing orb in the east. The games, the Ultimate games that we'd come for, came later, closer to the heat of the day, and on the soft warm sand just 400 meters from the sea and a whole lot closer to the cotton candy and go-karts of the boardwalk. Assume the Wurst had trophy hopes, but faced a dominant opponent early. Dispatched of quickly, Wurst moved on and notched a victory. As a team we seemed more impatient and less willing to do the methodical work that helped us win last year. The upside was that the highlights seemed more prevalent. We battled it out with a talented DC team, but after staying even early, we fell way behind. The sun beat on. We jumped in the ocean between games and tried to keep water in our systems. We closed out Saturday with a cross-over game victory. The wind seemed to make our throws a little shaky, but we were having fun. Saturday night we gave up on the campground and headed to a motel and a diner. The team spirit was in full force as JM offered up some of his fries with a side of fries.
We lingered on Sunday morning. With a full night of sleep, and a later start, there was time for that sort of thing. I got a prescription filled. We went to the grocery store in waves. Eventually morning turned to later morning and lingering turned to rushing. We showed up for our game late only to be outdone by our opponents who showed up later. We jumped out to a 4-0 lead and then were outdone by younger speedy legs. We took our loss on a day that didn't seem as hot, but would soon turn on us too. In what became our final game, we rolled to a 17-7 victory in the hot, hot sand. At times, the sand was almost unbearable. We were all digging in our feet at every stoppage. On one play, I caught the score and kept on running until I got to the shade of the boardwalk for some relief. It was painful in that burning arches sort of way.
We then went over to watch the finals and reflect on some of our own great plays. HG was a force. In one game, after a rare mistake, my defender turned to me and said, "I think she'd been perfect up until that moment." I had to agree and I enjoy playing with her. I like the way she moves the disc down the field and the way she grinds it out on defense. MB was his usual flying-high self. Two plays in particular stand out. MB called out to me as he was headed up the line. Prone to accepting suggestions, I jammed a throw into the back corner of the endzone. His defender was on him, but he layed-out high and pulled down a big score. There were other great dives, but the other play that stands out was his greatest. He jumped out of the endzone and flipped it back in bounds. JM dove for it and on his way down, speared the disc, not from underneath, but from above, and pulled it in for the score. It was sweet. JM saved a number of discs with that same sort of well-timed grab. It was fun to watch. AH found his dominant sand legs and made the sort of noise that he makes on grass fields regularly with big skies, big D, and general bigness. Alan pulled out a few big hops and big throws of his own and I do enjoy sharing the field with him. The doc pulled out some silky throws as usual and SM kept us focused on our goals.
My personal highlights, some of which are documented on the Youtube included a callahan, a game-ending layout grab for a score with accompanying cramps at the end of day 1, a handblock backed up at the endzone, and some fancy help from my alternating hands. Three times my hands were there to try to help each other out. The first time as I was headed out the back of the endzone, I reached up with my right hand and then changed my mind in mid-air and went with my left to get a little more reach. I was out of bounds, but closer. Later, I reached up with my left hand to catch a disc and as the disc was d'ed off my hand, my right reached up and grabbed it for the score. The final scene of the highlight film and my best play came on a disc from Alan. He threw an outside-in flick that sliced more than expected. I tracked it, reached up with my right hand as I was jumping and then grabbed it with my left hand before falling to the ground. All in all, it was another pleasing, thrilling, wonderful trip to the beach in New Jersey. That's the situation.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Nike and Tracktown, USA
The day started slowly, but with made-to-order omelets so I'm not complaining. It's hard to move a family of four out of a hotel, particularly when one of the four seems to absolutely love hotels. She thinks hotels are the vacation destination. We had other ideas. I give my sister credit because kids might slow her down a bit, but they definitely don't stop her. We drove a short way to Beaverton to locate the Nike World Headquarters. I'd heard good things about HQ, but I was unprepared for the Nike Campus. I like Nike ads and some of their products, but never before had I wanted to work there. After visiting the campus, I want to work there. They had soccer fields and tracks. We heard about weight rooms and every building seemed to house a small museum of famous sports figures. The campus was beautiful and like college except the yards were better trimmed and the dorms were noticeably absent. College for adults with an adult-sized rec center. We saw a lunch break soccer game going. This was the day before a holiday weekend too. Wow.
We left Nike drooling and set our sites on Eugene. We got distracted by an outlet mall. Then it was traveling with my family. There's something about an outlet mall that speaks to us. Judging by the crowds, we must not be alone. Much much later, we finally arrived in Eugene, Oregon also known as Tracktown, USA.
Tracktown USA lived up to its billing. We ate dinner at Tracktown Pizza where the pizza was good and the decorations were track-related. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe and track had replaced football as the town's chosen sport. This was the alternate universe Applebee's. After dinner we went to the famous Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. The gates were wide open and the end of a high school meet was in progress. We got sunsets and rainbows and a preview of the cheering crowds. We wandered around the whole stadium, a stadium dedicated to track, and even got a few moments on the track itself. It was something else.
On my birthday, I got to run with Kevin on Pre's trail. The trail, which wasn't that easy to find, was built for Steve Prefontaine and is a wonderful soft surface through a rolling park. It takes the runner in loops, but seems so separated from the world. The trail was shared by many runners and walkers, but the trees and turns allowed for a certain solitude. The afternoon was for the Pre Classic. This track meet is now part of the Diamond League series and attracts some big names. It also attracted a sold-out crowd of over 12,000. Incredible! To have 12,000 people pumped up about track and field, cheering on the jumpers with claps and standing on the last lap of distance races was just awesome. I'd purchased my tickets late, but I still had good seats on the first turn with a fine view of the finish line. I wouldn't be able to call any photo finishes, but it was a good view. We saw 20 people break the 4:00 minute mark during the International Mile (1600m) and Bowerman's mile. It was almost unbelievable. The steeplechase was a thrill and so was the 5000. It was amazing to see Matt Tegankamp, a former challenger, grown up, ripped and chugging to a 13:25 finish. The crowd was cheering the last lap of the 5000 like crazy. They really appreciated distance events. It was great.
I finished the evening with another tiring run on Pre's Trail with my sister. Then we had dinner with a 400m Duck runner and his mother at Papa's Soul Food and ice cream at Prince Puckler's. Both were delicious and both had more people talking track.
I didn't have time to dream of track that night because I had to catch an early train back to Portland. When I arrived in Portland a sense of familiarity washed over me. Well, it did once I figured out where I was and how to take the light rail to the airport. With a little time on my hands, I stopped in to a fine little cafe serving Stumptown coffee. It was my first Northwest coffee. It was a good cup, but I'm no expert. I felt at home drinking my coffee, reading about traffic, and waiting for the light rail. Then I glanced at my hulking backpack, headed out for 12 hours of traveling and caught dozens of fireworks shows at a time as my plane cruised through Pittsburgh and on in to Baltimore.
Thanks, America. That was a good trip.
The day started slowly, but with made-to-order omelets so I'm not complaining. It's hard to move a family of four out of a hotel, particularly when one of the four seems to absolutely love hotels. She thinks hotels are the vacation destination. We had other ideas. I give my sister credit because kids might slow her down a bit, but they definitely don't stop her. We drove a short way to Beaverton to locate the Nike World Headquarters. I'd heard good things about HQ, but I was unprepared for the Nike Campus. I like Nike ads and some of their products, but never before had I wanted to work there. After visiting the campus, I want to work there. They had soccer fields and tracks. We heard about weight rooms and every building seemed to house a small museum of famous sports figures. The campus was beautiful and like college except the yards were better trimmed and the dorms were noticeably absent. College for adults with an adult-sized rec center. We saw a lunch break soccer game going. This was the day before a holiday weekend too. Wow.
We left Nike drooling and set our sites on Eugene. We got distracted by an outlet mall. Then it was traveling with my family. There's something about an outlet mall that speaks to us. Judging by the crowds, we must not be alone. Much much later, we finally arrived in Eugene, Oregon also known as Tracktown, USA.
Tracktown USA lived up to its billing. We ate dinner at Tracktown Pizza where the pizza was good and the decorations were track-related. It was like we'd entered an alternate universe and track had replaced football as the town's chosen sport. This was the alternate universe Applebee's. After dinner we went to the famous Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. The gates were wide open and the end of a high school meet was in progress. We got sunsets and rainbows and a preview of the cheering crowds. We wandered around the whole stadium, a stadium dedicated to track, and even got a few moments on the track itself. It was something else.
On my birthday, I got to run with Kevin on Pre's trail. The trail, which wasn't that easy to find, was built for Steve Prefontaine and is a wonderful soft surface through a rolling park. It takes the runner in loops, but seems so separated from the world. The trail was shared by many runners and walkers, but the trees and turns allowed for a certain solitude. The afternoon was for the Pre Classic. This track meet is now part of the Diamond League series and attracts some big names. It also attracted a sold-out crowd of over 12,000. Incredible! To have 12,000 people pumped up about track and field, cheering on the jumpers with claps and standing on the last lap of distance races was just awesome. I'd purchased my tickets late, but I still had good seats on the first turn with a fine view of the finish line. I wouldn't be able to call any photo finishes, but it was a good view. We saw 20 people break the 4:00 minute mark during the International Mile (1600m) and Bowerman's mile. It was almost unbelievable. The steeplechase was a thrill and so was the 5000. It was amazing to see Matt Tegankamp, a former challenger, grown up, ripped and chugging to a 13:25 finish. The crowd was cheering the last lap of the 5000 like crazy. They really appreciated distance events. It was great.
I finished the evening with another tiring run on Pre's Trail with my sister. Then we had dinner with a 400m Duck runner and his mother at Papa's Soul Food and ice cream at Prince Puckler's. Both were delicious and both had more people talking track.
I didn't have time to dream of track that night because I had to catch an early train back to Portland. When I arrived in Portland a sense of familiarity washed over me. Well, it did once I figured out where I was and how to take the light rail to the airport. With a little time on my hands, I stopped in to a fine little cafe serving Stumptown coffee. It was my first Northwest coffee. It was a good cup, but I'm no expert. I felt at home drinking my coffee, reading about traffic, and waiting for the light rail. Then I glanced at my hulking backpack, headed out for 12 hours of traveling and caught dozens of fireworks shows at a time as my plane cruised through Pittsburgh and on in to Baltimore.
Thanks, America. That was a good trip.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Jeff's Portland
When I sent Jeff a message on Facebook, I gave him options. I hadn't seen the guy in a few years. We basically grew up together, he was almost like a little brother for a while, but the frequency of our interactions had been on a steady decline since middle school, so I didn't know exactly how much was fair to ask. The options I gave Jeff were multiple choice a) meet up for drinks (it being Portland and all), b) meet up for dinner, c)allow me to couch surf, d) all of the above, e) none of the above. I wouldn't have been offended if Jeff had chosen option e, but I turned out to be very lucky that he went with d) all of the above. Jeff picked me up at the train station and then whisked me off on a Portland adventure. As Jeff is a resident of downtown Portland, the couch/floor lodgings were perfect for me. Better than the comfy carpet was the excellent hospitality. The "triad" of favorite places we toured on the first night included Bailey's Taproom for a fine selection of microbrews and a little boggle, a Mexican restaurant hole-in-the wall that shared a bathroom with an adult establishment, and a nice smokey bar without the smoke called Tug Boat. Jeff introduced me to some of his friends and I felt immediately like a bona-fide Portlander.
The next day I ran the very pretty waterfront, did a little laundry, and headed for the only Portland destination on my list, Powell's bookstore. Powell's was chock full of books. It was city blocks of books. They had satellite locations. The rooms were color coded and on a sunny day I was quickly overloaded. I didn't last long in Powell's but I vowed to return.
Dusting myself off after being overwhelmed by books, I borrowed Jeff's cruiser bike and headed to Hawthorne Street. Hawthorne had a similar reputation to Seattle's Fremont. I wandered a bit and stumbled upon the Waffle Window. The Waffle Window granted my waffle wishes and also served up a stellar mint green tea lemonade. The lemonade was great, but the hippies didn't have what I was looking for otherwise. I biked on from there to Forest Park and took in one of the U.S. of A's largest urban wilderness parks. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but it meant a nice bike trail through the woods for me, so I took it. On the way back, I made a stop at the infamous carts for some BBQ Fusion (which tasted a lot like regular BBQ).
We went to play some pick-up Ultimate that evening, but due to poor planning Jeff and I rarely ended up on the same team. From there we went to dinner at Montage. Montage was a pretty special place. It was under a bridge and had some mixture of Bayou, rustic, modern, under-the-highway vibe going that I couldn't really place. The food was tasty and the leftovers were artsy in some pretty impressive foil creation containers. After dinner, we went to OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) for beer and Einstein. There's something pretty cool about taking a few swigs while wandering around a museum. Whether spotting a member of the band Everclear having that same experience adds to the coolness is still up for debate. Speaking of the 90's, we rocked out to some fine ones on the drive home. I'm fearful that the 90's are the new oldies. Don't tell the guy from Everclear if you see him at a museum.
The next day in Portland, the rains came. I'd started to wonder if every day in the Pacific Northwest was perfect. Even the rain didn't really call for an umbrella. I was starting to like this town. I set to wandering again and found VooDoo Donuts where "The magic is in the hole." I had a delicious Portland Cream, wandered through the Pearl Street District and didn't buy expensive goods, and ate lunch at the counter of the Byways Cafe. My malt was a disappointment, but I soon found myself meandering through Powell's in the way it was meant to be meandered. It was bookstore heaven. If I hadn't already purchased two books and if I hadn't had to carry my purchases, I might have flipped out and purchased a library full of books right there. I managed to limit myself to one book, on sale, and already on my list. I added a few to my "to-read" list and salivated quietly.
That night we met my sister, brother-in-law and nieces in Tigard for bratwurst at Gustav's and Jeff left me for my next adventure in Nike and Tracktown, USA.
When I sent Jeff a message on Facebook, I gave him options. I hadn't seen the guy in a few years. We basically grew up together, he was almost like a little brother for a while, but the frequency of our interactions had been on a steady decline since middle school, so I didn't know exactly how much was fair to ask. The options I gave Jeff were multiple choice a) meet up for drinks (it being Portland and all), b) meet up for dinner, c)allow me to couch surf, d) all of the above, e) none of the above. I wouldn't have been offended if Jeff had chosen option e, but I turned out to be very lucky that he went with d) all of the above. Jeff picked me up at the train station and then whisked me off on a Portland adventure. As Jeff is a resident of downtown Portland, the couch/floor lodgings were perfect for me. Better than the comfy carpet was the excellent hospitality. The "triad" of favorite places we toured on the first night included Bailey's Taproom for a fine selection of microbrews and a little boggle, a Mexican restaurant hole-in-the wall that shared a bathroom with an adult establishment, and a nice smokey bar without the smoke called Tug Boat. Jeff introduced me to some of his friends and I felt immediately like a bona-fide Portlander.
The next day I ran the very pretty waterfront, did a little laundry, and headed for the only Portland destination on my list, Powell's bookstore. Powell's was chock full of books. It was city blocks of books. They had satellite locations. The rooms were color coded and on a sunny day I was quickly overloaded. I didn't last long in Powell's but I vowed to return.
Dusting myself off after being overwhelmed by books, I borrowed Jeff's cruiser bike and headed to Hawthorne Street. Hawthorne had a similar reputation to Seattle's Fremont. I wandered a bit and stumbled upon the Waffle Window. The Waffle Window granted my waffle wishes and also served up a stellar mint green tea lemonade. The lemonade was great, but the hippies didn't have what I was looking for otherwise. I biked on from there to Forest Park and took in one of the U.S. of A's largest urban wilderness parks. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but it meant a nice bike trail through the woods for me, so I took it. On the way back, I made a stop at the infamous carts for some BBQ Fusion (which tasted a lot like regular BBQ).
We went to play some pick-up Ultimate that evening, but due to poor planning Jeff and I rarely ended up on the same team. From there we went to dinner at Montage. Montage was a pretty special place. It was under a bridge and had some mixture of Bayou, rustic, modern, under-the-highway vibe going that I couldn't really place. The food was tasty and the leftovers were artsy in some pretty impressive foil creation containers. After dinner, we went to OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) for beer and Einstein. There's something pretty cool about taking a few swigs while wandering around a museum. Whether spotting a member of the band Everclear having that same experience adds to the coolness is still up for debate. Speaking of the 90's, we rocked out to some fine ones on the drive home. I'm fearful that the 90's are the new oldies. Don't tell the guy from Everclear if you see him at a museum.
The next day in Portland, the rains came. I'd started to wonder if every day in the Pacific Northwest was perfect. Even the rain didn't really call for an umbrella. I was starting to like this town. I set to wandering again and found VooDoo Donuts where "The magic is in the hole." I had a delicious Portland Cream, wandered through the Pearl Street District and didn't buy expensive goods, and ate lunch at the counter of the Byways Cafe. My malt was a disappointment, but I soon found myself meandering through Powell's in the way it was meant to be meandered. It was bookstore heaven. If I hadn't already purchased two books and if I hadn't had to carry my purchases, I might have flipped out and purchased a library full of books right there. I managed to limit myself to one book, on sale, and already on my list. I added a few to my "to-read" list and salivated quietly.
That night we met my sister, brother-in-law and nieces in Tigard for bratwurst at Gustav's and Jeff left me for my next adventure in Nike and Tracktown, USA.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Independent Seattle
My plane arrived late to Seattle. I had missed my chance to take public transportation to my hotel, but I was too tired to worry about it. I took a cab to the Moore. What it lacked in class it made up in interesting carpet, but I wouldn't find that out until the next day when I used the stairs. My room had a view, if a bay off in the distance and the buildings that once made up the factory district can be considered such. I slipped quickly into a Northwestern slumber. I woke up early, strapped my camera and some snacks into my hip pack and ventured into Seattle. I only had a few places in mind to visit and I knew I'd get to them eventually. For now, I was just walking. I walked along with morning traffic for a while before noticing a park. I walked up hill through the park and then just kept going up. After about an hour of walking without direction, I seemed to hit the crest of the hill in the Queen Anne neighborhood. As I walked by a joint called The 5 Spot, I saw their sign, "It's all down hill from here." It seemed like a fine place for breakfast, so I ate there and enjoyed chorizo in my omelet. The waiter seemed troubled when I didn't order coffee, but he soldiered on.
Breakfast had been a fine destination, but I still had little direction. After wandering through more of the Queen Anne area, I spotted the Space Needle down the hill. I'd already decided that I didn't need to go up in the Space Needle, but I did want to go by it and visit the nearby EMP. The Experience Music Project (and Jimi Hendrix museum) captured my attention when I heard about its opening in 2000. It obviously wasn't the highest of my priorities, but I did intend to make a stop. I pointed my walking shoes toward the needle and descended. I arrived at EMP, next to the Needle, just in time for the doors to open. I bought a ticket and got to experiencing music. The Hendrix exhibit lacked the volume of Graceland, though I suppose Hendrix may have lacked the impact of Presley, but it still provided a lot of interesting guitars, garb, and facts that I'd previously been unaware of. Hendrix was the face, but the music experience was this museum's calling card. I got to bang on drums. I got to play the guitar with lights pointing me to the correct fingering. I even got to play a few riffs of famous rock songs on the keyboard. This was all very cool, but it did make me want someone to turn to to say, "Hey, check this out!" or to watch them (preferably a them with actual musical talent) rock out as well. Still, I experienced it and then I headed off for a lesson in the growth of grunge.
The EMP is connected to the Science Fiction Museum. I'd never heard of the Science Fiction museum, but I decided to check it out. The nerd in me wasn't that impressed. The museum lacked something. Or maybe I was just annoyed that a little girl pushed me out of the way so that she could continue her adoring commentary of an ET doll.
From science and music, I made my way to fish and markets. I stopped in for some tasty schwarma before tackling Pike Place Market. The market was everything that I expected it to be. Maybe I watched The Real World: Seattle too closely. I looked around. I took a few pictures. I tried to figure out if I could catch some fish and then I walked on.
I made my way up to the Pioneer square area where I discovered a really nice bookstore. The Elliott Bay Book Company was welcoming and I spent an hour browsing and picked up two books on sale. I took my books to a nearby park where I read and rested and considered my dinner options. I decided to return to the bookstore and hear Mishna Wolffe read from her book I'm Down. The book is about having a father who acts like he is black. It's a memoir and Mishna was quite white. During the question and answer portion of the reading someone asked about where her father was and what he thought of the book. Mishna pointed to the corner of the room and said, "He's over there and I think he's proud of me." There was an electricity in the air as the whole room shifted their attention. The African American woman in the corner was quick to point out that she was not the woman in the stories that we'd heard.
I found a Mexican restaurant for dinner and enjoyed enchiladas by Seattle sunset. I returned to the Moore about 13.5 hours after I'd left that morning and headed to bed satisfied with my walking tour of Seattle.
The next day my wandering style proved less fruitful. I'd picked out the Fremont area as my goal. I went for a run hoping I might stumble on the area, but lost my way. I checked out of the hotel, referred to my map, and again pointed toward Fremont. With my big blue backpack weighing me down, I ignored the buses and continued my trek toward Fremont. It was to be a land of hippies. I was compelled to visit. I walked through several neighborhoods and up and around a rolling hill. After an hour or more of walking, I finally arrived in Fremont. Nervous about the train I had to catch, I only had time to glimpse a commercialized Fremont, grab a bite from Whole Foods, and catch the bus back into town.
Amtrak was my ride to Portland. It was a 3.5 hour train ride through some good-looking and green Northwestern countryside. More on Portland with Jeff- coming soon.
My plane arrived late to Seattle. I had missed my chance to take public transportation to my hotel, but I was too tired to worry about it. I took a cab to the Moore. What it lacked in class it made up in interesting carpet, but I wouldn't find that out until the next day when I used the stairs. My room had a view, if a bay off in the distance and the buildings that once made up the factory district can be considered such. I slipped quickly into a Northwestern slumber. I woke up early, strapped my camera and some snacks into my hip pack and ventured into Seattle. I only had a few places in mind to visit and I knew I'd get to them eventually. For now, I was just walking. I walked along with morning traffic for a while before noticing a park. I walked up hill through the park and then just kept going up. After about an hour of walking without direction, I seemed to hit the crest of the hill in the Queen Anne neighborhood. As I walked by a joint called The 5 Spot, I saw their sign, "It's all down hill from here." It seemed like a fine place for breakfast, so I ate there and enjoyed chorizo in my omelet. The waiter seemed troubled when I didn't order coffee, but he soldiered on.
Breakfast had been a fine destination, but I still had little direction. After wandering through more of the Queen Anne area, I spotted the Space Needle down the hill. I'd already decided that I didn't need to go up in the Space Needle, but I did want to go by it and visit the nearby EMP. The Experience Music Project (and Jimi Hendrix museum) captured my attention when I heard about its opening in 2000. It obviously wasn't the highest of my priorities, but I did intend to make a stop. I pointed my walking shoes toward the needle and descended. I arrived at EMP, next to the Needle, just in time for the doors to open. I bought a ticket and got to experiencing music. The Hendrix exhibit lacked the volume of Graceland, though I suppose Hendrix may have lacked the impact of Presley, but it still provided a lot of interesting guitars, garb, and facts that I'd previously been unaware of. Hendrix was the face, but the music experience was this museum's calling card. I got to bang on drums. I got to play the guitar with lights pointing me to the correct fingering. I even got to play a few riffs of famous rock songs on the keyboard. This was all very cool, but it did make me want someone to turn to to say, "Hey, check this out!" or to watch them (preferably a them with actual musical talent) rock out as well. Still, I experienced it and then I headed off for a lesson in the growth of grunge.
The EMP is connected to the Science Fiction Museum. I'd never heard of the Science Fiction museum, but I decided to check it out. The nerd in me wasn't that impressed. The museum lacked something. Or maybe I was just annoyed that a little girl pushed me out of the way so that she could continue her adoring commentary of an ET doll.
From science and music, I made my way to fish and markets. I stopped in for some tasty schwarma before tackling Pike Place Market. The market was everything that I expected it to be. Maybe I watched The Real World: Seattle too closely. I looked around. I took a few pictures. I tried to figure out if I could catch some fish and then I walked on.
I made my way up to the Pioneer square area where I discovered a really nice bookstore. The Elliott Bay Book Company was welcoming and I spent an hour browsing and picked up two books on sale. I took my books to a nearby park where I read and rested and considered my dinner options. I decided to return to the bookstore and hear Mishna Wolffe read from her book I'm Down. The book is about having a father who acts like he is black. It's a memoir and Mishna was quite white. During the question and answer portion of the reading someone asked about where her father was and what he thought of the book. Mishna pointed to the corner of the room and said, "He's over there and I think he's proud of me." There was an electricity in the air as the whole room shifted their attention. The African American woman in the corner was quick to point out that she was not the woman in the stories that we'd heard.
I found a Mexican restaurant for dinner and enjoyed enchiladas by Seattle sunset. I returned to the Moore about 13.5 hours after I'd left that morning and headed to bed satisfied with my walking tour of Seattle.
The next day my wandering style proved less fruitful. I'd picked out the Fremont area as my goal. I went for a run hoping I might stumble on the area, but lost my way. I checked out of the hotel, referred to my map, and again pointed toward Fremont. With my big blue backpack weighing me down, I ignored the buses and continued my trek toward Fremont. It was to be a land of hippies. I was compelled to visit. I walked through several neighborhoods and up and around a rolling hill. After an hour or more of walking, I finally arrived in Fremont. Nervous about the train I had to catch, I only had time to glimpse a commercialized Fremont, grab a bite from Whole Foods, and catch the bus back into town.
Amtrak was my ride to Portland. It was a 3.5 hour train ride through some good-looking and green Northwestern countryside. More on Portland with Jeff- coming soon.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Vacation as a series of opportunities to eat and other adventures in four or so parts
It wasn't the defining moment of the trip or even really the defining moment of the first of four parts, but it seems telling. Margo and Tom had already been married for some twelve hours. I found myself in the mother of the bride's kitchen the day after the wedding. I wasn't in the wedding party. The bride and groom had already left for a pre-honeymoon nap. We'd said our goodbyes. I was waiting around to catch a plane of my own. Attendants came and went. One had just left for the train station. One was upstairs packing. Fine china and good silver from brunch were stacked in and around the sink.
On the corner of the counter, under a dessert plate and a long knife, in a box opened just slightly, rested a quarter of the wedding cake. The wedding cake was really really tasty. As I removed the plate and the knife from the box top, I momentarily worried that I might be scooping up what should be saved for anniversary one. Preposterous, I soothed myself, that piece is long ago wrapped and protected elsewhere.
I cut myself a slice of deliciousness. Rather than dirty more plates and utensils, I decided to stuff cake directly into my mouth while standing over the sink. Yes, Margo's mom could appear in the kitchen at any moment. Yes, my mom is cringing as she reads this, but sometimes the right thing to do gets overtaken by really good cake and efficiency.
Part 1: Midwest Wedding
There was a time when I could count the number of plane trips I'd taken in my life. These days I have trouble counting the number of plane trips I've taken in a year. Much of the airplane travel ritual has become standard, but the flight to St. Louis was special. It wasn't Southwest airlines with their new found touchy-feeliness, although the lack of a checked bag fee never hurts, that made this leg of the trip a winner. No, the winningness was all due to Kim. It had been a long time since we'd been on a trip. Motherhood has kept her busy. We talked the whole flight, only pausing to consider that our life vests were under our seats and to take thoughtful conversational pauses.
Monika and J picked us up at the airport and our triumphant return (for 75% of us) to the Midwest was fully under way. The eating highlight, other than the previously mentioned cake, would prove to be the City Coffee House & Creperie in Clayton, Missouri. The menu had more delectable-sounding crepes than most teams had goals in the World Cup. It was so good that we ate there twice. If I lived near the place, I'm not sure I'd go anywhere else. I'd probably end up working there and swiping table scrap crepes from the tables I bussed. That dream was put on the back burner though, because I had a wedding to attend.
Margo and Tom were getting married. Up to that point I had three distinct memories of M & T as a couple. The first was when M and I were talking and she told me she was dating Tom. "Hmm," I thought. "I remember him from FARC." FARC, my college dorm, holds a vast power over its past residents. Few can even speak the name without a twinkle in their eye. The second memory came in a blink some months later when M was asking me what I thought of Tom. After fumbling about for a while, I finally settled on, "It's been more than 8 years since I saw him. If he makes you happy, I'm happy." The third memory was of an M & T visit to DC. Tom had Margo in stitches. It's true that she laughs a fair amount, but she certainly seemed happy.
Now, I have more memories to fondly add to the catalog. Their smiles as they surveyed the church at their wedding were enormous and wide. Tom has a naturally big smile, but neither of their faces seemed able to contain the joy they felt. It was contagious. By the time it caught up with me, I was ready to dance. My table of many former FARCers joined forces with some of the attendants to carve up a little corner of the dance floor. With flashes of college mixed in with a more grown up confidence, we danced. Sometimes it was a reckless tango with Hava, other times it was a slow motion tennis match with Kim. We interpreted individually or as a group, sang along, and let the joy spill from our dancing shoes. Jen and Dan cut the rug gracefully while Monika and J started out reluctantly before catching fire. We missed some of those FARCers who weren't able to dance with us. I sometimes found myself looking around for Matt as he's always been an inspiration to this particular breed of dancing, especially in that company. Our energy was easily matched by the bride's family. It was party and I was digging it.
Before the party could wrap up, a few of us slipped away to a fading beach party in the middle of a street, a limbo contest that didn't end, and a short visit to the bride and groom's house. They were absent, but we ate Doritos in their living room in their honor. It was a joyful start to an excellent vacation.
Part II: Independent Seattle- coming soon
It wasn't the defining moment of the trip or even really the defining moment of the first of four parts, but it seems telling. Margo and Tom had already been married for some twelve hours. I found myself in the mother of the bride's kitchen the day after the wedding. I wasn't in the wedding party. The bride and groom had already left for a pre-honeymoon nap. We'd said our goodbyes. I was waiting around to catch a plane of my own. Attendants came and went. One had just left for the train station. One was upstairs packing. Fine china and good silver from brunch were stacked in and around the sink.
On the corner of the counter, under a dessert plate and a long knife, in a box opened just slightly, rested a quarter of the wedding cake. The wedding cake was really really tasty. As I removed the plate and the knife from the box top, I momentarily worried that I might be scooping up what should be saved for anniversary one. Preposterous, I soothed myself, that piece is long ago wrapped and protected elsewhere.
I cut myself a slice of deliciousness. Rather than dirty more plates and utensils, I decided to stuff cake directly into my mouth while standing over the sink. Yes, Margo's mom could appear in the kitchen at any moment. Yes, my mom is cringing as she reads this, but sometimes the right thing to do gets overtaken by really good cake and efficiency.
Part 1: Midwest Wedding
There was a time when I could count the number of plane trips I'd taken in my life. These days I have trouble counting the number of plane trips I've taken in a year. Much of the airplane travel ritual has become standard, but the flight to St. Louis was special. It wasn't Southwest airlines with their new found touchy-feeliness, although the lack of a checked bag fee never hurts, that made this leg of the trip a winner. No, the winningness was all due to Kim. It had been a long time since we'd been on a trip. Motherhood has kept her busy. We talked the whole flight, only pausing to consider that our life vests were under our seats and to take thoughtful conversational pauses.
Monika and J picked us up at the airport and our triumphant return (for 75% of us) to the Midwest was fully under way. The eating highlight, other than the previously mentioned cake, would prove to be the City Coffee House & Creperie in Clayton, Missouri. The menu had more delectable-sounding crepes than most teams had goals in the World Cup. It was so good that we ate there twice. If I lived near the place, I'm not sure I'd go anywhere else. I'd probably end up working there and swiping table scrap crepes from the tables I bussed. That dream was put on the back burner though, because I had a wedding to attend.
Margo and Tom were getting married. Up to that point I had three distinct memories of M & T as a couple. The first was when M and I were talking and she told me she was dating Tom. "Hmm," I thought. "I remember him from FARC." FARC, my college dorm, holds a vast power over its past residents. Few can even speak the name without a twinkle in their eye. The second memory came in a blink some months later when M was asking me what I thought of Tom. After fumbling about for a while, I finally settled on, "It's been more than 8 years since I saw him. If he makes you happy, I'm happy." The third memory was of an M & T visit to DC. Tom had Margo in stitches. It's true that she laughs a fair amount, but she certainly seemed happy.
Now, I have more memories to fondly add to the catalog. Their smiles as they surveyed the church at their wedding were enormous and wide. Tom has a naturally big smile, but neither of their faces seemed able to contain the joy they felt. It was contagious. By the time it caught up with me, I was ready to dance. My table of many former FARCers joined forces with some of the attendants to carve up a little corner of the dance floor. With flashes of college mixed in with a more grown up confidence, we danced. Sometimes it was a reckless tango with Hava, other times it was a slow motion tennis match with Kim. We interpreted individually or as a group, sang along, and let the joy spill from our dancing shoes. Jen and Dan cut the rug gracefully while Monika and J started out reluctantly before catching fire. We missed some of those FARCers who weren't able to dance with us. I sometimes found myself looking around for Matt as he's always been an inspiration to this particular breed of dancing, especially in that company. Our energy was easily matched by the bride's family. It was party and I was digging it.
Before the party could wrap up, a few of us slipped away to a fading beach party in the middle of a street, a limbo contest that didn't end, and a short visit to the bride and groom's house. They were absent, but we ate Doritos in their living room in their honor. It was a joyful start to an excellent vacation.
Part II: Independent Seattle- coming soon
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