LA, if not exactly our "lady" (in the words of Randy Newman), is certainly proving to be quite friendly. Of course, almost anything is appetizing next to Las Vegas, where one can become destitute AND die of heat stroke in the same five minutes. It was 113 there when we left, and I was still glad to go. Happy the Honda made it through the Mojave Desert without a hiccup (I bought "spare in a can" just in case), and we arrived in LA Wednesday exuding an almost-hysterical buoyancy. Kate sang a song of victory on the beach in Santa Monica, something I captured on tape. (Viewings are $5 each, $20 for relatives.)
The good: After much hoofing/driving, Kate and I actually applied for an apartment today, a cute little number in Santa Monica so close to the ocean I can practically pee into it from the balcony. (Not that I would.) We are sacrificing lambs--and, as I originally typed, lamps--to the Gods of Real Estate, in the hopes of getting it. Wish us luck.
The bad: so we checked into the Sofitel Beverly Hills on Wednesday, one of our favorite hotels. Great location, decent decor, excellent food, nice staff, high percentage of amusing accents. Within our first 24 hours, the internet in our room goes down. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a concern; but in the midst of a 21st Century apartment blitzkrieg, no internet is a serious problem. I won't go into details, so as not to trigger post-traumatic stress flashbacks in my lovely bride, but it was an experience none of us is likely to forget (and I include the staff of the Sofitel in this, too).
The ugly: Las Vegas. This from an email written the evening of our stay: "Las Vegas is incredibly repellent--I just walked the casino floor and everybody seemed utterly miserable. There were none of the sounds people make when they're having fun; just a blizzard of computer-generated noise. Even a couple who had apparently won $250 seemed subdued. Big money is idolized and pursued with a zombie-like doggedness, while little money is disdained--as if the two didn't have anything to do with each other! I played a dollar each at three or four slot machines, didn't see the point of it, and walked back upstairs. Vegas is calibrated to entice the desperate and/or bored, and after spending the last two days surrounded by massive nature (the Rockies, Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon, memories of my brother Jack), it comes off as incredibly tawdry, decadent without any beauty or refinement. The whole joint looks like a mobster's idea of the good life, which is exactly what Vegas is."
On to happier thoughts: Our time in LA has been lovely, if fantastically busy and physically quite draining (bedtime is 10pm, no kidding). Having explored NYC and Chicago, it's excellent to be investigating the third distinct flavor of big-city life, American-style. We're flying out late tomorrow night, back to Chicago and our empty apartment, filled with dust-kittens, presentation copies of Barry Trotter, and three very pissed-off cats. If we meant to see you while in LA, apologies--the apartment search became all-consuming, as such things tend to do. And anyway, we will see you when we land for good. Either in this Santa Monica apartment, or a refrigerator box positioned as close to USC as the campus cops will allow.
Now, I must go practice pronoucing "La Cienega"...and pump Kate for juicy details from HP6. (I finagled one out of the local Borders--anybody read it yet?)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
The Grand Canyon was astonishing, although perhaps not the way that most people mean. For starters, a lightning strike had started a fire in Bright Angel Canyon, which produced an enormous amount of smoke, obscuring probably 60% of the canyon. Surprising too how many people seemed to feel like the entire thing was a waste of time because they couldn't see the South Rim (or even half the way to the South Rim.) If you're on the North Rim (which I recommend--it's fairly uncrowded, considering, and the lodge is v. cool), clearly you've chosen NOT to visit the South Rim. A number of people were angry because, even though they were actually on the edge of the Grand Canyon, they couldn't see the part they opted not to visit.
(The hat is another startling development. We both bought hats in Durango--not matching, thank God, although we came close to it at one point. A wide-brimmed straw hat is a ridiculously useful thing to have in the hot sun. I plan to wear mine tomorrow (Thursday) when we begin the apartment search.)
My own personal moment of shock--and if you know me well, I hope you're sitting down for this. I got up at 4:30 a.m. to watch the sunrise. No, really. Didn't even need an alarm clock--just woke up of my own accord. Above, photographic proof. I also have a couple shots *from before the sun came up.* (Okay, now I'm just bragging.)
Most astonishing of all: Michael standing at the edge of the canyon. I took this picture and I still don't believe it.
It takes a lot of courage to walk, much less stand, at the edge of a mile-deep hole in the ground, with a sense of balance that's perpetually out of wack and long history--thanks to his gait--of tripping over things. It's like walking a gang plank after three stiff martinis, with your shoe laces tied together. If it were me, I'd have stayed in the car until we left.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
News from Points West
How can it be Wednesday, July 13 already? I can't believe how quickly this trip has gone--and I can't believe I can actually say that after such adventures as Through the Desert on Four Hours of Sleep and Finding a Whole Lot of Deer Very Very Late at Night in the San Juan Mountains.
We're in Vegas, keeping our distance from the g----ling. I don't even like to say the word, honestly. It is a minor quirk of mine that I will happily spend money on a microfragment of goose liver, but not on games of chance.
More to come--the photos below will have to tide you over until one of us gets around to blogging at more length.
A brief practical note: If you've ever seen an episode of Oz on HBO, particularly one where the gentle guy serving time for a DUI suffers horribly at the hands of the Aryans/Black Muslims/that one guy with the beanie who killed someone with a spork, then you have a pretty good idea of the relationship between us and Cingular Wireless. (Hint: We're not the Aryans.) After the AT&T Wireless/Cingular merger, both our calling plans became permanently locked and cannot be changed unless we buy new phones. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that when we left our home calling area, we entered something Cingular calls "the 99 cents a minute zone", also known as "the rest of North America."
A solution of some kind will be forthcoming, but if you're wondering why we haven't called recently, blame Cingular. We do.
We're in Vegas, keeping our distance from the g----ling. I don't even like to say the word, honestly. It is a minor quirk of mine that I will happily spend money on a microfragment of goose liver, but not on games of chance.
More to come--the photos below will have to tide you over until one of us gets around to blogging at more length.
A brief practical note: If you've ever seen an episode of Oz on HBO, particularly one where the gentle guy serving time for a DUI suffers horribly at the hands of the Aryans/Black Muslims/that one guy with the beanie who killed someone with a spork, then you have a pretty good idea of the relationship between us and Cingular Wireless. (Hint: We're not the Aryans.) After the AT&T Wireless/Cingular merger, both our calling plans became permanently locked and cannot be changed unless we buy new phones. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that when we left our home calling area, we entered something Cingular calls "the 99 cents a minute zone", also known as "the rest of North America."
A solution of some kind will be forthcoming, but if you're wondering why we haven't called recently, blame Cingular. We do.
We decided to drive through the Rockies! Awesome! Everybody loves the Rockies! Look! How pretty! But you know what they don't tell you? If you drive through the Rockies, it will take you EIGHT HOURS TO DRIVE TO DURANGO! The wiser move is to skip the purple mountain majesty and drive south through Denver, using only major interstates the whole way. We do not, I regret, have a picture of Michael holding onto his sanity at 2:30 a.m. as we drove through the San Juan mountains at 15 miles an hour. Or of the 20 or so deer we saw on the way. Maybe it's better that way.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
My two cents...
...while KP is in the shower and cannot stop me!
Illinois:
We went by Dixon, the birthplace of Ronald Reagan. I really wish it had been glamorous enough to keep him there, but such are the vagaries of history. By the way, it seems we've been on a Journey of Mediocre Presidents without knowing it. In Iowa, we could've turned off at the Herbert Hoover Presidential Museum, and outside Omaha we could've spent a lovely seven-and-a-half minutes at the Gerald R. Ford birthplace. We could've, but we didn't.
We saw a UFO, or a blimp. We decided it was an alien craft, though what they were doing in Western Illinois was anybody's guess. (Growing horrible Republican presidents of the future, perhaps.)
Iowa:
Surprisingly hilly, and surprisingly pretty, too. I bet it's incredibly cold in the winter. Any Iowans able to comment? Passing through Iowa City, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the marching bands of Big Ten schools (hi Jer and Whit!) that have to haul ass all over the Midwest every fall/winter.
There were some windmills in Iowa, and a few more in Nebraska. And our restaurant here in Boulder touted itself as "wind-powered." (I myself was "wind-powered" after eating at Jesse's Embers in Des Moines Friday night.)
Nebraska:
I thought here, as I did in Iowa, that the native Americans must've really lived la vida loca here. Lots of forest, animals (if roadkill is any measure) and soil so rich that if you spit in it, a loogie tree grows. Party on, Indians!
Colorado:
...is beautiful. You should come here. The terrain changed as soon as we crossed the Nebraska state line; it was striking, like a sudden moratorium on boring flatness. Boulder is even better. It's becoming one of my favorite towns. The altitude makes me a little disoriented, in a good way.
Stray Thoughts:
There are lots of homely last names on things here. Things like "Stuhr." (Apologies to any Stuhrs reading.) I am beginning to believe that people must've headed west to get away from people making fun of their names.
Kate said at one point, "I'm starting to feel actively angry towards Nebraska."
We saw some Amish people. I wonder if they say things like "retardeth."
I think the same relationship exists between an SUV covered with flag stickers as with sports cars and penis size. A real American would never drive an SUV.
I have spoken!
Illinois:
We went by Dixon, the birthplace of Ronald Reagan. I really wish it had been glamorous enough to keep him there, but such are the vagaries of history. By the way, it seems we've been on a Journey of Mediocre Presidents without knowing it. In Iowa, we could've turned off at the Herbert Hoover Presidential Museum, and outside Omaha we could've spent a lovely seven-and-a-half minutes at the Gerald R. Ford birthplace. We could've, but we didn't.
We saw a UFO, or a blimp. We decided it was an alien craft, though what they were doing in Western Illinois was anybody's guess. (Growing horrible Republican presidents of the future, perhaps.)
Iowa:
Surprisingly hilly, and surprisingly pretty, too. I bet it's incredibly cold in the winter. Any Iowans able to comment? Passing through Iowa City, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the marching bands of Big Ten schools (hi Jer and Whit!) that have to haul ass all over the Midwest every fall/winter.
There were some windmills in Iowa, and a few more in Nebraska. And our restaurant here in Boulder touted itself as "wind-powered." (I myself was "wind-powered" after eating at Jesse's Embers in Des Moines Friday night.)
Nebraska:
I thought here, as I did in Iowa, that the native Americans must've really lived la vida loca here. Lots of forest, animals (if roadkill is any measure) and soil so rich that if you spit in it, a loogie tree grows. Party on, Indians!
Colorado:
...is beautiful. You should come here. The terrain changed as soon as we crossed the Nebraska state line; it was striking, like a sudden moratorium on boring flatness. Boulder is even better. It's becoming one of my favorite towns. The altitude makes me a little disoriented, in a good way.
Stray Thoughts:
There are lots of homely last names on things here. Things like "Stuhr." (Apologies to any Stuhrs reading.) I am beginning to believe that people must've headed west to get away from people making fun of their names.
Kate said at one point, "I'm starting to feel actively angry towards Nebraska."
We saw some Amish people. I wonder if they say things like "retardeth."
I think the same relationship exists between an SUV covered with flag stickers as with sports cars and penis size. A real American would never drive an SUV.
I have spoken!
Dancers Start at Noon
On the road for a full 24 hours now. Cripes, who the hell decided Nebraska should go on for 400+ miles? If they cut 1oo miles off the western border, nobody would even notice.
We're currently sleeping off an insane amount of driving at the Hotel Boulderado, in lovely Boulder, CO. But while we sleep, please enjoy this brief recap of our accomplishments thus far:
* taking a photo every 100 miles, except during nightfall or when the windshield is covered with too many bugs to make it worth while.
* keeping a complete list of odd town names, including Tiffin, Iowa (sounds like a Dickens character); Brooklyn, IA (very disappointing for the lost tourist); Montezuma, IA (ditto); Sarpy County, NE and Ovid, CO.
* eating a fantastically good steak at Jesse's Embers in Des Moines, IA. Jean and Michael Stern's "Roadfood" is worth its weight in sirloin.
* subsequently eating a fantastically good veal chop at a Boulder, CO restaurant called The Kitchen. Also some kind of mild cheese that I remember as Hakuna Matata, which surely is the dessert wine talking. And a very good sticky toffee pudding.
* staying at the historic Omaha Sheraton, which has the nicest desk staff ever, although there are a few kinks still needing to be worked out. Like someone short-sheeted our bed. I thought that only happened at summer camp.
* establishing matching his and his epitaths for Michael and his dad. Greg Gerber:"I just want to catch the score." Michael: "Did the Cards win?" (I think Trish put in a vote recently for "Doesn't it smell like heaven?") Possible option for Kate: "Do you have a dessert menu?"
* living through the absolutely most foul cattle farm ever. Like a litter box/newt tank that has never been cleaned since the start of time. We smelled plenty of cow and pig and horse on our trip. This was different. It was like the planet was rotting from the inside out.
* discovering that Omaha is a heck of a town. Below, a brief photo essay of our travels thus far.
We're currently sleeping off an insane amount of driving at the Hotel Boulderado, in lovely Boulder, CO. But while we sleep, please enjoy this brief recap of our accomplishments thus far:
* taking a photo every 100 miles, except during nightfall or when the windshield is covered with too many bugs to make it worth while.
* keeping a complete list of odd town names, including Tiffin, Iowa (sounds like a Dickens character); Brooklyn, IA (very disappointing for the lost tourist); Montezuma, IA (ditto); Sarpy County, NE and Ovid, CO.
* eating a fantastically good steak at Jesse's Embers in Des Moines, IA. Jean and Michael Stern's "Roadfood" is worth its weight in sirloin.
* subsequently eating a fantastically good veal chop at a Boulder, CO restaurant called The Kitchen. Also some kind of mild cheese that I remember as Hakuna Matata, which surely is the dessert wine talking. And a very good sticky toffee pudding.
* staying at the historic Omaha Sheraton, which has the nicest desk staff ever, although there are a few kinks still needing to be worked out. Like someone short-sheeted our bed. I thought that only happened at summer camp.
* establishing matching his and his epitaths for Michael and his dad. Greg Gerber:"I just want to catch the score." Michael: "Did the Cards win?" (I think Trish put in a vote recently for "Doesn't it smell like heaven?") Possible option for Kate: "Do you have a dessert menu?"
* living through the absolutely most foul cattle farm ever. Like a litter box/newt tank that has never been cleaned since the start of time. We smelled plenty of cow and pig and horse on our trip. This was different. It was like the planet was rotting from the inside out.
* discovering that Omaha is a heck of a town. Below, a brief photo essay of our travels thus far.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Where Are Kate & Mike?
July 8-10, we're driving out of Chicago, west to Omaha and staying at the Sheraton (402 - 342-2222.) Lunch somewhere in Iowa, maybe someplace specializing in these "loose meats" I hear so much about. Or Smitty's, a Des Moines joint specializing in deep-fried pork tenderloins. (Those may be the four most beautiful words in the English language.) Dinner maybe at the Flatiron? Unclear whether I'll ever eat again after Smitty's. Total hours driving: 7.
July 9-10, we're at the Hotel Boulderado in Boulder, CO (303- 442-4344). In a bold experiment, I've made reservations for 9 p.m. at The Kitchen, even though it's a 7 hour drive from Omaha. Sure, it should be enough time, but WILL IT? I am almost more excited about dinner at The Kitchen and brunch the next day at the hotel (featuring something called "batter-dipped apples") than the actual getting of an apartment in L.A. Draw your own conclusions. Total hours driving: 7.
July 10-11, we're at the Strater in Durango, C0 (970) 247-4431). Having gorged on batter-dipped apples, I will probably just order celery sticks from room service, but I'm thinking Mike might enjoy the Durango Diner's Bonus Burger Deluxe. If we make good time, we might drive down the road to Mesa Verde National Park (mmm...cliff dwellers). So if we mysteriously disappear, that's a good place to start the search party. Total hours driving: 6 1/2.
July 11-12, we're staying on the North Rim at the Grand Canyon Lodge (928/638-2611.) Again, a slight race against time is involved, since I'd like to cruise through Monument Valley (mmm...John Ford-esque) on the way (and see Mesa Verde if we haven't already) and we have dinner reservations at the Lodge at 9. And the next restaurant is about 75 miles away. Total hours driving: 8, plus however long we spend driving through Monument Valley, making up lyrics for the little-known Sir Mix-a-Lot song "I Like Big Buttes."
July 12-13, we're in Las Vegas, baby! (Federal law requires the addition of a "baby!" after each mention of Aslay EgasVay.) In the morning, walking around the North Rim and making astonished remarks about the largeness of the Canyon con Mucho Grande. In the afternoon, a cruise through Zion Canyon, and thence to you-know-where. Some people go to Vegas (BABY!) for the blackjack, I go for the sweetbreads. You heard me, sweetbreads. We have 9 p.m. reservations at SteakCraft, run by the same mad, mad genius who put braised bacon on the menu at Gramercy Tavern. (What is braised bacon? A fist-sized slab of unsliced bacon, cooked until tender. Drooooool.) After dinner, I will be in a fat-coma in our room at the MGM Grand (877-880-0880.) Mike will be on the phone with the paramedics and holding a mirror to my mouth. Total hours driving: 5, plus however long we spend circling Zion National Park looking for a bathroom.
July 13-18, we're in Los Angeles (finally!). Staying at the Sofitel (310- 278-5444) and searching furiously for an apartment, ideally a 2 bedroom jobbie with a cat-friendly landlord and a Whole Foods in the neighborhood, renting for under 2 K. Even better if it's in Santa Monica, has on-site laundry, covered parking and some kickin' vintage architecture. If it has a dishwasher, hardwood floors and central air, I will probably weep tears of joy. Well, somebody will weep. Mike and I've washed enough effing dishes to last us to our dying day. Total hours driving to L.A.: 5 1/2. Total hours driving in Los Angeles, looking for an apartment: Eleven bajillionity.
July 18-Aug 2, we're in the Midwest somewhere. We come back on a red eye American flight 7/18, landing in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Mostly, I suspect we'll be in Michigan, since our apartment will be a barren wasteland, containing only cats, internet access and an Aerobed. August 2, the Furry Girls and we are flying back out to L.A., where, God willing, we will have an actual, honest-to-God apartment waiting for us.
July 9-10, we're at the Hotel Boulderado in Boulder, CO (303- 442-4344). In a bold experiment, I've made reservations for 9 p.m. at The Kitchen, even though it's a 7 hour drive from Omaha. Sure, it should be enough time, but WILL IT? I am almost more excited about dinner at The Kitchen and brunch the next day at the hotel (featuring something called "batter-dipped apples") than the actual getting of an apartment in L.A. Draw your own conclusions. Total hours driving: 7.
July 10-11, we're at the Strater in Durango, C0 (970) 247-4431). Having gorged on batter-dipped apples, I will probably just order celery sticks from room service, but I'm thinking Mike might enjoy the Durango Diner's Bonus Burger Deluxe. If we make good time, we might drive down the road to Mesa Verde National Park (mmm...cliff dwellers). So if we mysteriously disappear, that's a good place to start the search party. Total hours driving: 6 1/2.
July 11-12, we're staying on the North Rim at the Grand Canyon Lodge (928/638-2611.) Again, a slight race against time is involved, since I'd like to cruise through Monument Valley (mmm...John Ford-esque) on the way (and see Mesa Verde if we haven't already) and we have dinner reservations at the Lodge at 9. And the next restaurant is about 75 miles away. Total hours driving: 8, plus however long we spend driving through Monument Valley, making up lyrics for the little-known Sir Mix-a-Lot song "I Like Big Buttes."
July 12-13, we're in Las Vegas, baby! (Federal law requires the addition of a "baby!" after each mention of Aslay EgasVay.) In the morning, walking around the North Rim and making astonished remarks about the largeness of the Canyon con Mucho Grande. In the afternoon, a cruise through Zion Canyon, and thence to you-know-where. Some people go to Vegas (BABY!) for the blackjack, I go for the sweetbreads. You heard me, sweetbreads. We have 9 p.m. reservations at SteakCraft, run by the same mad, mad genius who put braised bacon on the menu at Gramercy Tavern. (What is braised bacon? A fist-sized slab of unsliced bacon, cooked until tender. Drooooool.) After dinner, I will be in a fat-coma in our room at the MGM Grand (877-880-0880.) Mike will be on the phone with the paramedics and holding a mirror to my mouth. Total hours driving: 5, plus however long we spend circling Zion National Park looking for a bathroom.
July 13-18, we're in Los Angeles (finally!). Staying at the Sofitel (310- 278-5444) and searching furiously for an apartment, ideally a 2 bedroom jobbie with a cat-friendly landlord and a Whole Foods in the neighborhood, renting for under 2 K. Even better if it's in Santa Monica, has on-site laundry, covered parking and some kickin' vintage architecture. If it has a dishwasher, hardwood floors and central air, I will probably weep tears of joy. Well, somebody will weep. Mike and I've washed enough effing dishes to last us to our dying day. Total hours driving to L.A.: 5 1/2. Total hours driving in Los Angeles, looking for an apartment: Eleven bajillionity.
July 18-Aug 2, we're in the Midwest somewhere. We come back on a red eye American flight 7/18, landing in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Mostly, I suspect we'll be in Michigan, since our apartment will be a barren wasteland, containing only cats, internet access and an Aerobed. August 2, the Furry Girls and we are flying back out to L.A., where, God willing, we will have an actual, honest-to-God apartment waiting for us.
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