Yellowstone Vacation part B

 

It’s been about six weeks since our Yellowstone vacation. Needless to say, time has gotten away from me. I wondered if I should scrap writing about it. Maybe it’s no longer relevant. Maybe you’ve read about so many others’ summer trips to the national parks that you’re bleary-eyed. Maybe you’ve heard too many stories about campers being attacked by bears (one particularly gruesome story in Russia caught my attention this past week). Maybe you’re just scrolling through, completely unmoved by pictures of wild animals or scenic mountaintops. And maybe you’re right, maybe it’s lost its relevance.

But I’ve been reading the headlines lately, and it’s not very cheerful. If you’re feeling down about the current state of affairs, you’re not alone. I was reminded of my favorite poem by Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

So…it is in this spirit that I present the rest of our journey to the “peace of wild things.”

Day 4

On our fourth day, having gained an hour by traveling into the mountain time zone worked to our advantage. Sarah told us to pick her up by 5:30 am to get into the park by 7:00 am. This would ensure we would see the animals at their morning feeding time. We would be doing a big route today, entering Yellowstone’s northern entrance, then turning east to go through the Lamar Valley. After Lamar, we would exit the park through the northeast entrance to go through cute little Cooke City, then we would head north on the Beartooth Highway to go over the Beartooth Pass. At around 11,000 feet in elevation, the pass had been covered in snow only three weeks before. We were hoping for fantastic views. (We would not be disappointed.)

This day was hands down my favorite day of our trip. Early morning in the valley, with woods and flowers and snow-tipped peaks; with birdsong and bubbling brooks and expansive rolling vistas covered with a light mist? There is no better time of day. As per tradition, we entered the park through the Roosevelt Arch. And as if on cue, the “welcoming committee” of pronghorn antelope appeared, too quickly for us to even snap a picture before we had to line up at the entry gate. We had less than a five-minute wait to enter the park, and we were on our way.

We’re Back! And We’re Traveling Again!

I know that I am not alone in feeling that the Covid-19 pandemic has made us feel as if our lives were suspended for over a year. And I know that I am not alone in wanting to burst out of my confinement in a big way! The pandemic is not over, not by a long shot, but the vaccination has given us a new hope, and a new means to explore our world once again, albeit carefully.

And for many of us, that means escaping to the great outdoors. Which is just what we did.

I had always wanted to go to Yellowstone since hearing about Old Faithful wayyyy back in grade school, but had never had the opportunity to go. We decided to make it a priority this year. Our recent trip was epic enough for me to dust off this sadly underused blog platform, rev it up, and take it for a whirl again. I hope you enjoy!

Day One

It felt like we would never leave. We had been preparing for weeks, exploring maps, contacting friends, making reservations, searching Amazon for Camelbaks and bear spray, writing out instructions for plant-watering, etc. Finally, the day came and we were off! It was exhilarating to hit the open road after so many months. We headed from our home in Stillwater, Oklahoma to our first stop in Evergreen, Colorado. We would be spending the night with my dear friend from high school, Michelle. She and her family graciously hosted us and fed us like kings, and it was a joyous reconnection after way too many years! Hopefully the next time won’t be so long…

Day Two

We left from Evergreen after a scrumptious breakfast and headed for our reserved hotel in Pinedale, Wyoming. Pinedale is a small town located at the edge of the Bridger-Teton mountains, and within a short drive to the Grand Tetons National Park. On our way we began to see signs that we were really in the West. Real, live cowboys!

In Pinedale we found a brew pub for dinner with a local selection of beers from Wind River Brewing. We also discovered that apparently dogs can drive in Wyoming. Who knew?

Day Three

We left early and drove through Hoback Junction and Jackson to get to the Grand Tetons. Upon the advice of our dear friend Sarah (who has recently relocated to Montana, and who is, by all accounts, an expert guide to the area), at the entrance to the Grand Teton National Park we purchased a year-long pass, good for entrance to any national park for one year. $80 is a minor investment if you are going to be visiting more than one park in a year. Just entering Grand Teton and Yellowstone with a weekly pass is $35 each park, $70 total. It makes sense to purchase the annual pass.

My one regret of the trip is to not have devoted more time to the Grand Tetons. The views are stunning, and I would have loved to do some shorter hikes. We did get our first black bear sighting here, two half-grown cubs playing in a meadow. I longed for a telephoto lens (and it wouldn’t be the last time I did) to record the event, but just watching them tumble and chase each other was such a thrill.

Unfortunately we had to stick to our schedule, which meant we had to drive through Yellowstone from south to north in order to get to our Airbnb in Livingston by evening. We could have driven around the park to avoid the inevitable traffic jams, but we wanted a first glimpse of what the park had to offer. Sarah, who lives in Livingston and frequently visits Yellowstone (known locally as simply “The Park”), recommended a spot overlooking Lake Yellowstone for our picnic lunch. Distances may not be great, but the speed limit is 45 or below throughout the park, and there are many, many people on those roads who are slowing down periodically to view wildlife or pull into one of the many roadside points of interest, not to mention the occasional “buffalo jam” involving herds that aren’t in a hurry to get anywhere. Traveling through the park requires more than an average dose of patience and focused driving attention.

Yellowstone is mostly in Wyoming, but has parts in three states—Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. So you have an idea of the scope (distances are in miles), here’s a simplified map of the park that Sarah sent us (source unknown):

We took the eastern route towards the Fishing Bridge, and stopped at a place called Gull Point Drive overlooking Yellowstone Lake for our picnic lunch. After lunch we continued driving towards the Canyon Village area, stopping off to see the Mud Volcanoes.

I began to wonder what it must have been like for the first person to happen upon Yellowstone’s belching, fuming, sulfurous boiling mud pits, hot springs, and geysers. The smell alone would repel anyone from afar. The noises are mildly terrifying. 

After the Mud Volcanoes, we headed up to the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone where there are lookout points for the Upper and Lower Falls. By this time of the afternoon, the parking lots were completely packed, and the lookout platforms were jammed with tourists trying to get the most optimal view, taking selfies and family pictures en masse. After 16 months of pandemic, I began to feel like society has forgotten how to act in public. The crowds felt uncomfortable, so we quickly took our snapshots of the breathtaking falls and made a getaway. I do wish I’d had more time here, because the canyon is truly impressive.

On our way to Norris we came across this guy. I never knew that elk were so imposing.

As we headed north to the the Mammoth Hot Springs and North Entrance, we saw a few of his lady friends hanging around the buildings there.

After traversing two major national parks in one day, we were spent. We decided to skip Mammoth Hot Springs and headed to Gardiner, Montana, just outside the North Entrance. From Gardiner to Livingston was an easy but gorgeous 52 mile drive, and we arrived at our Airbnb in time to freshen up a bit, call Sarah, and go to a local bar for a late dinner.

Day Four

Sarah had wisely advised us that after such a long travel day, this day would be a good one to go soak in the hot springs at Chico, a local resort. We packed a lunch for later in our cooler, drove for barely a half-hour, and under a brilliant blue sky we soaked our sore shoulders and travel-weariness away in a pool of water fed purely from hot springs. Looking at it you would say it’s just a swimming pool, but there’s no chlorine or other additives, and the water is blazing hot. You can’t help but relax! 

After Chico, we set off for a relaxing drive down Mill Creek Road. We ate a picnic lunch next to Mill Creek at a turnout, enjoying a little shade and breeze from the creek in the midday heat. The drive took us east through a lush valley, deep woods, and then into a rocky canyon. Around each bend was a new and surprising vista.

We returned to Livingston in time to take a walk around the historic neighborhood, then went to Gil’s Goods, a nice little bistro and bar with outdoor seating. The weather remained perfect!

Stay tuned for Days Five through Eight!

Best of 2015 Travel, Part 1: Spring Break in Starved Rock

This weekend we are headed to our last trip of the summer—Michigan.

And I have been remiss.

I now find myself having to quickly rewind and review for you the Travels of 2015. I could try to excuse myself or explain that summer went too fast, or that keeping up on blogs and having a kid home during the day don’t mix, or that I neglected to take any decent photographs, or that Facebook was a much more expedient version to use to “report back” on where we’d been…and all of that is true. But, at the heart of the matter is the fact that although I enjoyed our travels, I somehow believed that our little domestic trips this spring and summer were pale and anemic compared to 2013’s seven weeks in Europe, or 2014’s Costa Rica and New York City trips. Not blog-worthy. No one wants to hear about our trip to Starved Rock, a tiny park perched on the edge of the Illinois River. Right?

But, it suddenly dawned on me that, although the trips weren’t to exotic locales, the experiences we had were important, noteworthy, even. Starved Rock in mid-spring gave us a much-needed break and a glimpse of warmer weather after winter’s blahs. Little Columbus, Indiana was a surprise jewel, and afforded us a great opportunity to see how the dog travels. I attended my first Iowa Summer Writing Festival in Iowa City (see previous blog post). And after that, my son dipped his toes in the Atlantic (in Florida) and the Pacific (in Washington) in the same summer. How cool is that for a 12-year-old?

So, at the risk of underwhelming you with 2015’s travel so far, I bring you, in chronological order:

Best of 2015 Travel, Part 1: Spring Break in Starved Rock

Over spring break, we decided to take a few days and do something I’ve always wanted to do: stay at the Starved Rock Lodge. Starved Rock is the most visited state park in Illinois. According to Wikipedia, it is so named because “after the French had moved on, according to a local legend, a group of Native Americans of the Illinois Confederation (also called Illiniwek or Illini) pursued by the Ottawa and Potawatomi fled to the butte in the late 18th century. The Ottawa and Potawatomi besieged the butte until all of the Illiniwek had starved, and the butte became known as ‘Starved Rock’.” Of course, standing on the butte itself over the Illinois River, one has a hard time accepting the reality of this story, but it does make the experience of climbing to the lookout and gazing down over the river and surrounding landscape more thrilling. After checking into the lodge, a sprawling resort overlooking the river and hillsides, we took a long hike, first to the butte, then on to the other trails. The peak gave us a view of the dam and locks that now sit directly below.

The binoculars gave us a detailed view of all the garbage that people dump in the river, everything from thermoses to mattresses to construction materials. Depressing. Perhaps the most exciting part of the hike was watching thrill-seekers trying to climb the ice-covered waterfalls in the many canyons nature has wrought out of the limestone. (I was wondering how rescue vehicles would get there, not doubting that at least one or two of those climbers would slip on the melting ice and fall off the precipice.)

It was a gorgeous, warm day, and we started to shed our jackets as we climbed; the first swarms of little gnats signaled the new season.

Dinner was at the Lodge, and overpriced, of course. My son, ever in a growing period these days, ate an appetizer, an entrée, extra bread, and dessert. I sampled a local wine; it wasn’t terrible, but there’s a reason Illinois is not known for its wines. Later that evening my son was glued to the Cartoon Network (we generally don’t watch TV at home, so hotels are a cartoon-binge-watching opportunity for him), and my husband and I went for a stroll outside. We watched a raccoon boldly search for human throw-offs while guests taking a break from wedding festivities milled around on the patio. A young musician started chatting with my husband, and we were actually invited to the reception, or at least a drinking sing-along at a neighboring campsite after the reception died down. We respectfully declined.

The next day was sunny, but colder. After eating an overly greasy breakfast in a locally esteemed diner (named Joy and Ed’s, I believe; no relation), we drove a bit of the countryside, looking for fun and interesting antique stores. My husband bought a pair of Civil War-era eyeglasses. We ate ice cream for lunch, a sure sign that we felt we were on vacation. A longer drive to find another store (that was hardly worth the effort) was putting my son in a bad mood (ironically, he chose an antique-y looking sign at one of the stores for his trip souvenir which stated, “Attitude is Everything; Pick a Good One.”), so we headed back to the lodge to spend the rest of the afternoon in the pool. Not a big hiker nor antiquer, my son probably would recount the time in the pool (and his introduction to the sauna) as his favorite part of the vacation. 

That evening we drove around even more to find a good restaurant. OK, even a decent restaurant. The nearby towns of LaSalle, Peru, Ottawa, and North Utica were our best bet (and frankly hard to figure out which one you’re in, as they seem to run into each other). Eventually, after what seemed like ages to our empty stomachs, we found a pizza restaurant called La Grotto (which seemed more truck stop than cave) with a very full parking lot. Luckily, they were able to seat us right away. It wasn’t the best pizza, and the televisions were blaring, but we were less picky the hungrier we got.

We were to leave the next morning. We had been lucky with unseasonably warm weather. Our luck would change. We awoke to this outside our window.

Ah, March in Illinois. Ever a surprise. We spent the morning reading in front of the massive fireplace in the almost empty hall, sipping coffee. 

As luck would have it, friends I had not seen in almost 20 years (and my husband had never met) would be passing through Starved Rock the day we were planning to leave on their way from Arizona to a family wedding in Chicago. Scott and I used to work at the same café and drink at the same bars a lifetime ago, and have recently reconnected, to my delight. His wife Judy is a veterinarian, and they have a smart, sweet daughter a little younger than my son. We were planning to check out and leave that morning, but agreed to stay and have lunch together at the lodge. It was wonderful to catch up a bit, but way too short. Guess I’ll have to add Arizona to my places to visit!

Fortunately, the snow had mostly melted by the time we left, and we made great time getting back. We were anxious to rejoin our big ball of fluff, Persimmon, and relax a bit before returning to work and school the next day.

And, there you have it. The beginning of travel season. A beautiful hike, decent food, great weather, swimming, shopping, ice cream, meeting up with friends. What more could one ask for on such a short trip?

Part 2, coming soon.

The Iowa Summer Writing Festival

Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of the passing of my friend Glenn. Seeing all the tributes on Facebook for this remarkable, lovable man made me reflect on the things that are most important to me:  my family and friends, writing, travel. Glenn would never pass up an opportunity for a new experience. He would have spent his last dime on adventure in an exotic locale, or having fun closer to home with family and friends. I realized that the best way to honor his memory—and the memory of all my loved ones who have gone before—is to stay true to my goals:  to write and to travel, and to grab each and every opportunity which comes my way. 

To that end, last weekend’s travel adventure was not far away in actual distance, but represents a dream that was many years in the making. I have always wanted to be a part of the world-renowned Iowa Writers’ Workshop somehow, ever since I knew that it was such a well-known and distinguished program. And then, I found out that they have a summer writing festival where you can attend short workshops. Oh, joy! But even though my friend Rebecca has lived there for several years—which meant free room and board—I never had the time at that time of the year or the money to attend. I promised myself that once I quit my job and started writing, I would make it a priority to get to at least one workshop.

And 2015 is the year it finally happened.

I signed up for a workshop entitled, “An Illustrated Field Guide to Nonfiction.” I had feared some sort of competition, some sort of writing sample to be submitted, but no! All I had to do was sign up and pay! The workshop promised to whip into shape and form any rough draft or idea we had generated for a nonfiction project. I had three such rough ideas in the works. Perfect. When I discussed this with my writing group, as luck would have it, my friend Umeeta would be going there the same weekend for a workshop, and she and I would drive to Iowa City together. Perfect.

Unfortunately, my friend Rebecca wouldn’t be in Iowa that weekend, so no free room and board; it worked out for the best, however, because the Iowa House where I stayed was in close proximity to the workshop classrooms, and all the shops and restaurants of downtown. I could pop back to the room quickly between sessions to get freshened up or take a quick nap; I could also close myself off from other humans without guilt when it was time to do homework, which others had warned me about. The Iowa House was reasonably priced and right on the river, making for nice evening strolls. Perfect.

The drive to Iowa was delightfully uneventful. Umeeta is a charming chatterer, but also a good listener, so the four hours melted away. She was attending a weekend workshop, then a weeklong workshop, after which her partner would be joining her in Iowa City to see the town, and then driving back together. She asked me if it was OK that we were meeting Carol Spindel for dinner; Carol is a good friend of hers, a writer, and also the teacher of my workshop! I was excited to meet her, and hoped it wouldn't be weird. I shouldn't have worried. We met at the hotel, and then walked into campus to a sushi restaurant, and the conversation was easy; we talked about books, vacations, her children, cars, yoga, and a myriad other things. Afterwards, we walked to the local co-op and stocked up on breakfast items, since Carol told us that the hotel breakfast wasn't great. After coming back, I was so wound up it was hard to get to sleep, but I knew I should save my energy for the next day.

At orientation in the Old Capitol building the next morning, there were probably about 150-200 people taking workshops that weekend. That was the only time it felt crowded. Iowa City has a beautiful campus and a lively downtown, but the summer pace is slow and relaxed. We met our group in our classroom, and what an interesting group they were. Mostly middle-aged white women, of course, but we also had two men--Hillel, an older neuroscientist from Israel, and Scott, a youngish commodities trader from Chicago (who we later found out is interviewed on CNBC a lot). I fully expect to see published works from at least a third of this cast of characters. An angular woman from Ft. Collins, Colorado, with gray pageboy cut, wearing Keens and knitting throughout the class, was writing about sheep and how the demise of various breeds reflects the homogenization of our culture. She unraveled everything she'd knitted for two days in the last 20 minutes of class on Sunday, which makes me think that knitting was more of a coping mechanism. A schoolteacher from Texas was writing about the lost literary works of a writer named Evelyn Scott; her name was Patricia, and she was a somewhat loud, boisterous character that often talked over others. A nervous, twitchy homemaker with incredibly fast, clipped speech (somewhat appropriately named "Edgy") from Kansas had written over a thousand extremely short pieces of her upbringing being the 7th of 9 children whose family was so dysfunctional they were almost separated into foster care several times. Another retired teacher wrote of her sexual assault in Zaire when she served in the Peace Corps in the 1970s. Her friend from Madison, Wisconsin spoke in that quintessential northern Midwest lilt (think, "Fargo"--that singsongy "you betchya" and "oh, how niiiice," with all those shortened, tight, high vowels), but I had no doubt that she could deliver some zingers in that sweet singsong. She used everyone's first name when addressing him or her from the first five minutes or so of class; unfortunately, I’ve already forgotten her name. She was writing about her great-great grandfather who was somewhat of a mystery in his little hometown in rural Wisconsin. A very young Indian-American woman named Priscilla who is an international social worker and therapist was writing the story of traveling the world then settling down with a boyfriend in Morocco while first exhibiting signs of her bipolar disorder. Scott was writing about being able to predict the next financial crisis, and Hillel was writing about his two great-great-grandfathers (who were living in the U.S. at the time) who together formed an experimental agricultural community in the 1870s in Palestine, which may or may not have been the very first kibbutz, way ahead of its time. A retired Jewish attorney from Manhattan (probably in her 80s) wrote of her dilemma when her daughter met and married a Greek man whom she thought completely wrong for her daughter. She regaled us with stories over lunch about graduating from law school and trying to get a job in the 50s, and her new boyfriend she was living with in San Diego--an ugly man, dying of cancer, who has lived his life as a devout womanizer.

And I could go on...

Carol is an extraordinary teacher. Our assignment was to first workshop others' proposals and ask leading questions that would help them find their framework, story arc, and cast of characters. Then that evening our homework was to come up with our own framework, to make a table of contents or a visual representation of the organization. I discovered so much during this process! My story of our four-month “honeymoon” in Brazil is what I chose, and I actually was able to hammer out the organization, and choose the scenes I would use. Wow! But...I'm neglecting the chronology. I went by myself after class for a walk, then sat down at a tapas place with a glass of wine and some octopus that was delicious. I then walked across the street and met Umeeta for a poetry and prose reading at a café. Wow. I didn't read, but I heard some amazing poems, and Umeeta read a piece she'd read before at our writing group that I loved about childhood discovery and shame. I thought that maybe someday I'd have the guts to stand up there and read something that I'd written. Someday. Umeeta and I walked around the downtown, got some gelato, and then walked back to our hotel, which was on the river. We walked along the river and across the bridge, enjoying the sunset and the lights, and the clouds. We had a lovely talk about kids; although she doesn't have kids of her own, she has twin nephews that are a little older than my son, and they had been visiting the previous week, as they do every summer. She calls it "Aunty Camp;" they go for putt-putt and museums, and visiting campus, and doing things that 12-year-olds find fun. They sound like amazing kids, and I really missed my own then.

I returned to the hotel room energized. I had figured I'd be too tired to do the homework, and since we wouldn't meet until 10 the next day, I could do the homework in the morning. But I started in, and couldn't stop. I finished it at about 12:15, and crawled into bed exhausted. We had to present our ideas to the class the next day, and since the previous day we didn't know each other and there seemed to be some tension in the class (such strong, opinionated players!), I was nervous about it. But the personalities seemed to gel a bit better, and the ideas flowed. I spent part of the lunch break at the Prairie Lights bookstore, a tiny, but impressive place where I wanted to buy everything. I stood looking for Carol's book in the Iowa Writers' Workshop section (it's called In the Shadow of the Sacred Grove, if you're ever interested; I’ve just started reading it, and it’s wonderful), and was just overwhelmed by the names I saw; Ann Patchett, Flannery O'Connor, Raymond Carver....and others, like Carol, who were teaching there and had books out. It was humbling and awe-inspiring. I bought Carol's book, and a memoir just out from Tom Robbins, and then came across Terry Wahls' book. My friend Rebecca who lives in Iowa City had told me about this book years ago. Terry Wahls is a doctor and professor of medicine in Iowa City (there's a huge medical school there). A few years ago she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, and it quickly progressed to the point she was in a wheelchair and unable to function, unable to keep up with work. Long story short, she researched many diets, and came up with her own diet, and has been able to reverse her symptoms! Now, as I’ve researched my own autoimmune disease, these claims, these stories are common; but Dr. Wahls decided to back it up with clinical research, and has done so in a very controlled scientific study through the University of Iowa. Her book (a signed copy) The Wahls Protocol, was sitting on the shelf, innocently calling to me just as I was ready to leave the bookstore. I had to take a look. (Her TEDx talk is worth a look-see, even if you don’t read the book).

We finished with the workshop a bit early, and I was anxious to return, full of ideas; but the Wahls Protocol book was calling to me too, and I realized how much I was craving just cuddling up with a good book. Or three. Needless to say, after a similarly uneventful drive back to Champaign-Urbana Sunday night, I did just that. I've read about 160 pages of the book so far, and it has convinced me to try the diet. Because, while my brain was being fed with wonderful literary ideas, my body was being filled with a lot of carbs. I managed to eat decent meals, but I also managed to snack a ton--at midnight, while feverishly finishing up my homework; at lunchtime, when I was nervously waiting for class to begin again; after dinner, when I really hadn't eaten enough to satisfy me, or I'd had two glasses of wine I needed to "soak up;" in the car, in the car, in the car....bread, yogurt, chips, granola bars.  All the wrong things. And my body has been telling me this is a bad idea. The combination of sitting in a car then in a class for extended periods of time, with bad diet, with lack of exercise has ensured that I am in pain. I am tired of pain. I am tired of medication. I am tired of the medication/steroid cycle. I am tired of being tired.

So…filed under Things On My Mind To Do In The Next 30 Days:

1) writing the book I've mapped out

2) changing my diet

And…because I don’t do anything in a wise, measured manner, more travel!  It’s summer, so keep an eye out for our two (two!) exciting trips to come!  Hint: For one of these trips, I'm trying to ignore the recent New Yorker article predicting the destruction of the populated areas of the Pacific Northwest by earthquake and tsunami in the near future.

I leave you with some glimpses of Iowa City…

Iowa City is a very writerly city. These sidewalk scenes grace Iowa Street (avenue?)

I can never seem to wait to take a picture before digging in and making my food all messy on the plate; sushi dinner our first night

The Old Capitol

View from the chapel below of the Old Capitol building

Small chapel on the river next to the Iowa Memorial Union

Amazing architecture along the river; amazing to think that all these buildings were half under water in the flood of 2008

The lovely Iowa River at sunset, well within its banks

Yes, Chef! and Seven Women, or Making a Dream into Reality

So…my non-fiction book club took a trip to New York City last weekend, and I’m exhausted.  It’s only the second time I’ve been to this intriguing place; the first time was for a conference, which doesn’t really count.
Nobody from our book club remembers whose Very Good Idea it was.  All we can remember is the conversation coming back to Marcus Samuelsson’s memoir, Yes, Chef! at a meeting for another book, and saying how much fun it would be to go to visit his restaurant, Red Rooster, in Harlem.  We don’t remember who ventured  “well, we could take a long weekend out there.  Why not?”  But thus the Very Good Idea took root.Thank the heavens for planners.  I am usually the planner of my family, and as I’ve mentioned before, if I don’t plan the trip for my family, we will never get out of east central Illinois.  But this time I was content to have these wonderful women do most of the planning for me while I tried to maintain the rest of my life, which was becoming unhinged.  They called restaurants to make reservations.  They found cheap plane tickets, and we all purchased them around six months prior to our trip.  They found Broadway tickets online.  They sent out links to menus, maps, lists of prices, musical reviews, magazine and newspaper articles, accommodations websites, and so on.  They arranged taxis and tour guides, they researched, they haggled.  Occasionally we met after book group (as a subset of our larger club) to go over planning details.  I volunteered to research airport shuttles and call for our first night dinner reservations, but mostly I was content for once to stand back and enjoy the generous spirit and loving energy of our group.  I didn’t have to be in charge.  I didn’t have to herd anyone, or persuade anyone, or override anyone’s objections, as I usually have to do before a family trip.  I hoped my book club friends didn’t think I was letting everyone else do all the work….but, in fact, that’s what was the most fun for me, was for once letting everyone else do all the work when I most needed it.
And, suddenly, the time had arrived.  I would leave my sleeping son, stepson, and dog, and begin picking everyone up at 4:45 a.m. to drive to our local airport.  We were groggy, but excited, when we arrived.  The flights to New York’s LaGuardia were easy and the connection in Chicago was seamless.  Checked bags were picked up in New York before everyone had a chance to use the restroom.  Two yellow cabs shuttled us to 115 119^th Street in Harlem’s beautiful, historic neighborhood.  The remodeled brownstone was between Malcolm X (Lenox) Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard. 















The weather was perfect, and after we installed ourselves into the second floor apartment with 9-foot ceilings, carved fireplaces, antique fixtures, and gorgeous pocket doors, we were ready to hit the streets for lunch, then a walking tour of Harlem.

Tom

Our tour guide was Tom, a young, good-looking import from Florida who had spent the last six years getting to know his new home in New York City.  He had been an attorney, but then decided to abandon that lifestyle—with its income and promise of upward mobility—to try his hand at standup comedy, and to supplement his income with giving tours of his beloved city.  His knowledge of the architecture and history of the area were vast, and it’s clear he’s no slacker when it comes to research, both in the library and on foot.  We toured the area of the Harlem Renaissance, the rent parties, the hey-days of yore.  We saw the hotel where Fidel Castro had stayed with an entourage that included chickens.  We took a group photo in front of the Apollo Theatre, which has seen the performances of almost all the notable entertainers of Motown, Jazz, R & B, and even Michael Jackson’s pop. 

We walked the streets that had been renamed as Malcolm X Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and past the Abyssinian Baptist Church where so much history had been made in the black community.  He gave us a brief but important history of the development of the island of Manhattan.  Though hot, sweaty, and tired at the end, we knew this was the best introduction we could have had for our trip. We revived ourselves with a bit of wine and conversation on the balcony of our brownstone.

Dinner was Ethiopian, at a place called Zoma.  This was my first experience eating Ethiopian food, and I loved every minute of the spicy, hands-on (literally) experience.  We shared a plate of meat and vegetable stews piled onto a large flat bread not very different from French buckwheat galettes, the savory crepes from Brittany.  Torn off pieces of the bread are used to scoop up the stews.  There’s something terribly satisfying about having to use your hands.

Too dark, but you get the idea

Friday morning we were refreshed, despite sharing a room (and one bathroom among seven women!).  After breakfast, we went our separate ways.  Molly ventured to the Morningside Park area; Linda and Casey met a niece for coffee; the rest of us followed Jennifer who knows the city well after having lived here for two years. 

Yum!

We took the subway to the East Village and wandered around to the NYU campus, to a heavenly bakery for cannoli and pastries, to Soho, past an Italian festival, then finally to Chinatown to meet the others for lunch. 

My pork dumpling soup

After an authentic, tasty lunch, we wandered further south to City Hall, Wall Street, Trinity Church, then finally to Battery Park and the famous Staten Island Ferry.  The views of Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and the post-9/11 skyline gave me chills that didn’t necessarily come from the Atlantic breezes.


And then it was time to return to our lodging and get ready for the main event:  Red Rooster!

Reservations for Marcus Samuelsson’s Harlem restaurant can be made no more than a month in advance, so until August we had been sitting on tenterhooks, hoping that our trip to New York wouldn’t be spoiled by not being able to eat at the restaurant.  We were so relieved when Linda emailed out the news in late August that we were in!  Our Red Rooster visit really made me realize the importance of atmosphere and perspective in the dining experience.  The food was wonderful, of course, but my appreciation of it increased exponentially by three factors:  the décor and environment, knowing the owner’s story, and—last but in no way least—the company.  Red Rooster is an eclectic combination of urban sophistication meeting home-cooked “grandma-made-with-love” meals. 

The interior; smaller than we imagined

Those who don’t know Mr. Samuelsson’s background would find it difficult to understand why Helga’s [Swedish] Meatballs (inspired by his own grandmother’s recipe) would be on the same list of entrées as Fried Yardbird and Shrimp & Grits.  I encourage you to read the book if you’re intrigued!  We shared cornbread, a watermelon and heirloom tomato salad, and chicken and waffles (with chicken liver butter and bourbon maple syrup—gracious!) for appetizers.  I had Helga’s Meatballs, with a side of mashed potatoes and lingonberry jam as an entrée. 

A table crowded with glorious food

All this accompanied by a “white sangaree”—sauvignon blanc, St. Germain liqueur, peaches, and sage.  Oh, my.  And then we splurged on dessert.  My favorite (always a peanut girl) was the black-bottom peanut pie with bourbon ice cream.  There was a green apple confection and some cookies to die for as well.  All of this with a visit from the manager who heard we were visiting from Illinois (a delightful woman from Cleveland who looked way too thin to ever have sampled these delectables), and who told us that unfortunately Marcus was away taping a television show in L.A., and couldn’t be with us.  Our tummies and palates were so happy, we took it in stride.
We returned to the apartment and were invited to have wine with the other guests, two older women visiting from Austria, on the lower patio.  Some of us (OK, maybe I will include myself in that) stayed up too late, but thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and meeting new people.
Saturday morning we split up again, a couple of us to a museum, one to meet a cousin for brunch, and the rest of us on the subway to downtown again.  I desperately wanted to see the 9/11 memorial, though I knew it would be a sobering way to spend a gorgeous Saturday in New York.  No matter, it was necessary, and I knew I’d never forgive myself if I hadn’t seen it.  I could skip 5^th Avenue, a glimpse of Grand Central (you just can’t do it all, can you?), and even strolling in my beloved “nature” in Central Park.  But I couldn’t miss the chance to see in person that place we all saw on television over and over that day in a beautiful September like this one in 2001.  I tried in vain to quickly find the name of my former student, an ESL student from Thailand, inscribed on the list; it is enough that I know her name is there, and that it was a life cut too short.

The new One World Trade Center

9/11 Memorial

Time and crowds were not on our side, and after a late-ish breakfast, we all had to be content with a pit stop at Starbucks in mid-town before getting in line for our 2:00 p.m. performance of Kinky Boots.
I haven’t seen the movie, and didn’t really know anything about the show, except that it had won several Tonys, and that Cyndi Lauper had done the score, so I was open-eyed and ready for a wild ride.  Kinky Boots did not disappoint.  To say that Billy Porter was amazing is a gross understatement.  What a show!

We had just enough time to fight the Saturday night Times Square crowds to get to our Italian restaurant, 44 Southwest.  It had been recommended by Linda’s dentist, and I would recommend it to anyone else in turn.  It would be traitorous of me to say that this was better food than Red Rooster, but let’s just say it ranked right up there.  It helps, of course, that I’m a sucker for almost any dish with pasta (low-carb diets be damned!); also, for almost any dish with seafood.  Combine the two, and put some garlic with it, and I’m in heaven. 

Is your mouth watering yet?

We had a sassy waitress, a friendly bartender, and a European feel to the restaurant open to the street.  It was here that we drank a toast to Glenn, my friend who passed away this summer before he had the chance to celebrate his 50^th birthday.  I posted the photo on his Facebook page as one of hundreds of similar photos taken around the world; I hoped his twin sister was finding a way to celebrate their lives.  We also called Jan, our book club’s founder, and toasted her for starting the book group in the first place.
On to the next show!  Gluttons, we were, to think we’d have all this energy.It’s Only a Play was a bit of a letdown; despite the star-studded cast--Nathan Lane, Matthew Broderick, Megan Mullally, Rupert Grint, F. Murray Abraham, Stockard Channing (for whom we saw the understudy)—the play, still in previews, was a bit slow and draggy.  Or maybe it’s just that we were slow and draggy.  We managed to find our way through the night-is-day Times Square again to get the subway back to Harlem afterwards. 

Times Square, a bit blurry; or was it my eyes?

We took turns in the single bathroom for showers, and packed up our belongings and our memories for the trip back to Illinois early Sunday morning.  Though tired and groggy once again, I experienced the bittersweet combination of regret of not seeing and doing more in our short time, and the relief of coming home.
That’s the thing about travel; you can always think of a million reasons why you shouldn’t/can’t/are afraid to go somewhere.  It’s expensive.  It interrupts your quotidian existence; you need to find pet care, childcare, someone to water your plants. You have to put up with the TSA and packing efficiently.  It’s tiring.  Your feet, your back, your head end up hurting.  Your digestive system may or may not cooperate.  But the benefits of travel ALWAYS outweigh the trouble, at least in my book.  And sometimes the momentum of a group of like-minded folks tips the scales, and you find yourself actually touching the thing you’ve only read about, seeing the show in person you’ve only heard about, tasting the food you’ve seen some expert chef preparing on television.  We started out not knowing each other very well, but found so much in common.  All seven of us are very different personalities with very different backgrounds, but we were united on one thing:  making a book-inspired dream into a reality.  And that, dear friends, is the essence of travel.