Travelogue » Ridin' the Rails with Rudolph

Water, Water Everywhere (But Don’t Count On It)

One of the most important items I forgot to mention re: being prepared for India is WATER. It’s an entire logistical problem unto itself, both for the traveler and Indian nationals–especially since this year’s monsoon rains were late and sparse, seen as a sign of global warming with possible permanent impacts on India’s rural subsistence farmers.

Rural pawpaw stand and trees, Aurangabad-Pune highway, India

Water is an issue here. As a tourist, one is advised to not only to avoid drinking from taps or opening one’s mouth in the shower, but to be mindful that one hasn’t been rooked into buying bottled water in a refilled bottle sealed with SuperGlue (apparently a big business). Due to rivers, wetlands, and rains, mosquitoes abound, so malaria prevention becomes a mandate. High-volume rainstorms bluster in quickly so raingear and camera bags need to be kept handy–a novelty for those of us from SoCal, where “rain” is just drizzle that makes your car sticky and dusty-looking.

Once one has drinkable water, one has to drink it. Obvious, but it’s easy to get dehydrated in the 90+ degree heat with equally high humidity, especially when sightseeing. I got caught short without enough water when we toured the World Heritage Site temple caves in Aurangabad and paid for it for the next twelve hours. Dehydration is a painful drained feeling that’s hard to describe, a combo of headache, lethargy, and nausea, and it can take a long time to recover even after water is administered.

Our hotels provide two small water bottles for free each day, but we realized after this event we needed to pony up for more. Samuel now nags me several times a day to drink more, especially when we’re running around in the heat.

The monsoon is technically over (though we were rained out of a lovely outdoor dinner the other night) so Indian wedding season has begun and billboards featuring wedding sarees and jewelry are everywhere. Tonight is the mehndi party, the official beginning of the wedding itself, where the women’s hands are painted with ritual designs.

We’re trying to get our act together–it’s a fairly formal evening affair, and Samuel’s new party outfit has gone astray between here and the tailor. We need to retrieve it somehow in the next few hours or Samuel will need to wear his wedding kurta to the mehndi, evidently an Indian party foul.

It’s tough to communicate with our hosts with sim-card craziness and constant schedule shuffling, plus now being into the wedding events proper we don’t want to cause a bother. Will let you know if we solve the Mystery Mehndi Clothing Problem soon!

Dust, Dancing, Shopping, and Sugar: Our First Days in India

Howdy (or Namaskaar, or Namaste) y’all:

We’ve been here a week and have been too busy/exhausted/sick to post, but today we have a free morning and I’m taking a minute to post an update so you don’t worry we’re dead.

The flight from L.A. was long and (for me) particularly brutal as I got a Big Banger of a headache that lasted pretty much the whole way. Overpreparer that I am, I had Advil and protein bars at the ready in my carry-on, so I was able to take the pain down to a dull roar for most of the flight. I regretted not bringing a neck pillow, as “sleeping” cramped in a coach seat was frustratingly uncomfortable; once our section was finally asleep, everyone was awakened by a loud, long conversation in the aisle right next to us. Many were more than grumpy but no one said anything, mostly because we weren’t sure what would be effective.

Between the sleepless crankies, the headache, and United’s crappy selection of hundreds of mediocre movies, the flight became a floating steel-encapsulated living Hell. This was not an auspicious start to our adventure, but we tried to remain as upbeat as our exhaustion allowed.

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We were late into Mumbai, arriving at about 9:30 pm, but our hosts were awaiting us at the airport with flowers nonetheless, along with drivers to take us to our hotel. We had to wait another couple hours for the bride and groom’s flight, also late; we finally staggered into the van headed for Pune around 1 am.

After 24 hours in air transit you’d think 3-4 hours more on the road would be a mere annoyance. IT WAS TERRIFYING. Everything you’ve ever heard about driving in India is true–probably even worse than you’ve heard.

Most drivers start their journeys at night (due to the heat, most trucks are not air-conditioned) so the road was packed, with dust and exhaust fumes swirling in the headlights as we careened towards our hotel.

Soon my airplane headache was compounded by carsickness and the dreadful certainty that we would die. In India, lane markings are simply ignored. Trucks cut traffic between lanes at high speeds while honking repeatedly to cue other vehicles to edge away. Motorcycles zip from one lane to another while larger vehicles brake and swerve with mere inches of clearance. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles stop randomly in the middle of the road for a smoke-o while others drive on the dirt shoulder at full speed to get around them. We were not surprised to learn that India has the highest traffic mortality rate in the world. We were surprised we didn’t end up as part of that statistic.

Note: I managed to get some footage to be used as forensic evidence should we all die en route, but sadly I won’t be able to upload it until I get back due to an operating system issue. Look for exciting action-packed commuting videos on Facebook after our return!

We got into our hotel around 4 am and slept a little. Trying to negotiate a developing nation on a couple hours sleep is no picnic. Still, we had a schedule so we did what we had to do.

Bleary-eyed, we poked around the hotel in the morning as a) we were exhausted and b) had been warned not to go anywhere without an Indian escort (if you think driving in India is bad, try crossing a street). We’re staying at what’s considered a mid-level hotel, but some words of advice if you should attempt India in future:

1. In addition to providing flowers, our hosts put a gift basket in our hotel room with cookies and Indian snacks like moong dal, or deep-fried lentils. This was helpful, as the hotel restaurant was open limited hours and access to food/caffeine was restricted.

2. Food access becomes an issue if you are taking Malarone (anti-malarial pills) as the drug messes with your gut during its entire transit through your system. ‘Nuff said.

3. Speaking of guts: bring your own toilet paper, bar soap, toothpaste, sewing kit, shampoo, etc. Most of the stuff you take for granted at a motel in the States you’re not assured here even in a “business hotel.” Thankfully our rooms had Western-style toilets, not the case at many of the historic sites we visited.

3. Indian food contains a lot of grease and starch and can make one feel pretty bloaty, an effect amplified if you are (wisely) avoiding raw food. Most places have tons of “veg” items; you’re not going to see beef or pork anywhere–only chicken, lamb, and sometimes fish.

Hotels serve alcohol but most places won’t have it as it’s strictly regulated (and many religiously observant folks don’t drink). You can find Starbucks in the bigger cities, but most coffee you’ll encounter is instant. Tea is normally served mixed with hot buffalo milk so it’s also quite rich.

Finally, Indians love their sugar but their treats have different tastes and textures than ours (especially the chocolate, so bring your own if you know you’ll have a craving for a specific something). I can leave most of the pastries alone–there are English style cookies, thanks to Empress Victoria and the Raj, wot wot–but I have fallen in love with chikki, the Indian version of peanut brittle made with jaggery, or unrefined sugar.

4. Our room was fitted with a “magic eye,” i.e. a video camera that allows women who are staying alone see who is knocking at the hotel room door. This is helpful in a country notorious for violence against women–and recently, for horrible rapes of foreigners–and for religious females (like the one on our plane who requested to be reseated because she was sitting between two men).

5. Reading the locally-produced newspaper is helpful for starting conversations with the locals, who are usually happy to contextualize news items you’re interested in. They usually appreciate your interest in their country and culture too. It’s sad how many tourists resist getting their feet wet, culturally speaking (though often they end up doing so in Asian “starting block”-style toilets. Bring your own TP for those too.)

6. Tech here is really, really spotty. Our hotel had a “business center” and wireless service in-room, but the connections weren’t reliable and download speeds very slow. Part of the reason we’ve not been posting is that every page download takes forever.

As a result, most hotel records are kept on paper; we had to provide passport and visa copies a couple times upon arrival even though they had been submitted in advance.

7. Indians are for the most part friendly, polite, and gracious, but if you’re out in public you have to watch your wallet and belongings like a hawk (we keep our documents and cash in a neck wallet under our clothes; our hosts thought this was such a good idea they bought their own).

Also when you’re in public expect to have people stop you and ask to take your picture–they often just take your picture without your permission anyway. Then expect to have anyone else in the vicinity to pile in for their own photos, delaying your progress.

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SHOPPING, DANCING, PHOTOS

The next day we went wedding clothes shopping for the groom and male guests. It was intense and exhausting. I took a lot of photos before I noticed the “No Photography” sign in the store (they’re in most clothing stores)–whoops. My hostess said nobody really cares, but I hate giving the nationals more contempt for stupid Americans. I got a few nice photos in exchange for the dose of embarrassment, I guess.

It was also the last day of Navratri, a nine-day festival celebrating the victory of the goddess Durga over the demon Mahishasura. On that night is the Dandiya, a colorful folk dance from Gujarat, where you dance with sticks and clack them together as you whirl around. Large dances are organized with competitions for the best dancers. We saw much great happy clattering and spinning around, and some of us were invited to join in. The young dancers we encountered were all very sweet and seemed to have fun teaching us the moves.

The tenth day of the festival is Dussehra, where businesses and tools of trade are decorated with leaves and garlands.

Here are some photos of those holiday doings, and I’ll post more about our recent adventures soon. We’re in Aurangabad now but have to get up really early to get back to Pune tomorrow for the final wedding preparations (Mehendi!)

View from our hotel. The blue barrels catch rainwater, and we could see the women fetching buckets to take indoors in the morning.

Political rally. State parliamentary elections are next week and it’s fierce. Women marched separately from men.

Roadside stand selling garlands and flower petals for the holiday.

Poster for wedding kurtas for men.

Western style meets Desi wear. Note ornamental “pocket square” for wedding kurta.

More wedding kurtas for men.

These two ladies work at the clothing store and have just completed this beautiful mandala made with flower petals and sand. Many businesses create these at the entrance for holiday blessings.

Motorcycles in front of the store decorated with garlands (most cars, trucks, and entrances to businesses are garlanded too).

Dandiya. I think I have film of this too, but will know after I get home. See the sticks? It was fun.

A group of young dancers who graciously invited us into their circle and taught us the moves. The dance and the attire come from the state of Gujarat, to the north of our present position in Maharashtra (“The Great State”).

Roadside shrine to Durga, set up by neighborhood groups with local donations. There were large shrines too with long lines outside.

Some neighborhood have overhead signs, like gateways, at their entrances. Not sure this one was permanent but it sure is festive!

3… 2… 1…

And we’re off!

Portland Envy; Cascading Home

We stayed at one of the many McMenamin’s inns in the Portland/Greater Oregon area; these crazy brothers have made a mint buying historic buildings all over the Northwest (like the Kennedy Elementary School where we stayed, or Masonic lodges or movie theatres or castles) and repurposing them into event/traveler complexes with microbrew pubs, movie theatres, live music, cafes, hotel rooms, and all sorts of artistically arrayed nooks and crannies. The vibe is casual and social; the rooms are artful and fun–our “classroom” entry hall was lined with chalkboards upon which the staff had scrawled hotel messages and doodles. Not luxuriously appointed (shower was a plastic cubicle, no TV so you go and socialize at one of the minimicropubs) but quirky and comfy. There were six micropubs at the Kennedy school, a couple of which only seated five or six people each, my favorite being the converted principal’s office where one could go for “Detention”:

Detention Micropub at McMenamin's: Where the Bad Kids Go

McMenamin's Kennedy School, South Hallway

Entry to our room @ McMenamin's Kennedy School Inn

We had resolved to take it a little easy and not run around too much. After some consternation we figured out Portland’s intricate but comprehensive bus/train/trolley system and made a pilgrimage to Powell’s Books, then to the huge Washington Park, home of the International Rose Test Garden where they were testing almost exclusively closed rosebuds at the moment….that is to say, we were a little early for the annual blossom explosion, but we knew we might be.

International Rose Test Garden, Portland OR

It’s a huge and beautiful city park and we could have easily spent the day there despite the non-performing roses, but we had a coffee date with an old friend who had moved up to Portland six years ago. It was a great convo–he loves it up there, as do I…I am always filled with regret when I have to leave the Northwest. We have many friends who feel the same way, who would move up to Oregon or Washington in a heartbeat if they could find a way to make a living there. Portland is a wonderful, livable city, but it’s a comparatively small city (why it remains livable, you see) and not the economic engine most of us require to pay the bills. Ah well. It’s nice to know it’s there, waiting for us, when we finally retire to wear flannel and write novels while drinking thick black coffee while the dousing rain batters the rhododendrons outside. Sigh.

The next morning, after one last breakfast and deep draught of McMenamin’s French press coffee–dark and gritty as mud and full of motivating caffeine–we boarded the train for home, the renowned Coast Starlight (where your coffee and wine are served in real glasses and mugs!) From Portland it would be an overnighter to L.A. through the Cascades and into California’s Central Valley to home.

And it was splendid, real ceramic mugs notwithstanding. The Cascades were rugged and as we ventured higher in altitude the world went all Christmas, white-out snow along the tracks, caught in the arms of the sharply-etched trees.

Our train chugging through a Cinco de Mayo snowstorm high in the Cascades

Klamath Lake, from the window of the Coast Starlight

I had been hoping to have some wireless connectivity during this last leg of our journey since I had articles to post, but thankfully there was none through these majestic mountains. Samuel and I huddled together and enjoyed the view (when we weren’t trying to frantically photo the otherworldly snow tableaux that emerged at every turn of the tracks.)

There was a snowy sunset, and we slept.

Coming home through California the next day was a bit of a downer, the journey drawing to an end and the realization that a frantic Re-Entry Mambo would start as soon as we got home from the station. There was haze in the air, starting pretty much in Northern California, and the sprawl began spreading into the horizon as we drew further south. I had pretty good connectivity though (except through Vandenberg Air Force Base, where they nix that) and got some work done–my way of being in denial that Playtime Was Over.

When we got to Union Station, we detrained and were met (surprise!) by Samuel’s parents, whom we didn’t know were planning to pick us up. We had already made arrangements with another friend for transport, so we all hung out in the loading zone and tried to acclimate to the L.A. high-blood-pressure pace once again.

Oddly, some production company was shooting a TV thang in Union Station when we arrived and they had changed the signs to say, “Le Havre, France.” Would that it were so and the journey were starting anew! except there was like, a mime in a beret.

(…..guess….I’ll….be…..heading…..home…..then…… Run away, run away!!)

So we got to the house about 10 p.m. and it was bit of a shock–all was well, no house fire this time–and the sweet peas and poppies and roses and grape vines were so overgrown we could hardly see the front of the house (which was a little wonderful.) Walking into the house and seeing the scene we left behind three weeks ago, strewn with signs of frantic repacking and last-minute trip prep, seemed incongruous and surreal once the ride was over. We put our packs down, started hooking tech devices back up, culling email, piling laundry, etc. We were home and needed to massage some life back into our L.A. existence before we went to bed, with much more to be done the next day/weekend/week, and so on.

The trek is over but the journey continues–stories and scenes still being pondered, digested, and contextualized. We thank you for letting us share our rail adventure with you, and for being part of our greater adventure in life.

The ultimate journey is return, they say. We have returned for now.

Home, Overgrown

More Wisconsin Cheese, and Empire

More jello molds. It’s a Wisconsin thang. I like the rainbow one, in case you can’t decide on just one of the many colorful flavors.

The Other Stuff That Comes From Cows, Wisconsin

A Cheese Store, Wisconsin

We proceeded to Spring Green, home of Frank Lloyd Wright‘s Taliesin (also closed–opened for the season the day we left, dammit–Strike Two!) and were made extremely damp by a couple torrential Midwest storms, lightning and rain and thunder and thunderous rain and awe-inspiringly intense. We stayed at a FLW style inn–as close as we got to Frank Lloyd Wright this trip, though I overheard one guest who was checking in say she had read “Loving Frank” and that’s why she came to see Taliesin.

The Usonian Inn, Spring Green WI. Strong coffee, weak network.

Our innkeeper was Romanian and very stressed and very friendly and very friendly about how very stressed she was (technical issues; we understood, as in addition to the digital TV errors she was complaining about to us, the inn’s advertised wireless internet didn’t have the signal strength to reach our room–our USB wireless network thingy wasn’t picking up any local bandwidth either–so we were SOL and had to sit in the lobby if we wanted to retrieve email.) The inn had a great modernistic mechanized Miele coffee maker though–best coffee we had in Wisconsin, I would say, and so stylishly made. It’s fun to watch machines do things, which would become a theme for the rest of the day.

Since Frank wasn’t available, we went to see Spring Green’s other crazy architect attraction, the House On The Rock.

Main house, House On The Rock

The Infinity Room, House On The Rock

It’s hard to describe Alex Jordan‘s maniac design aesthetic and dusty, decadent decor–some of the concepts for which may have been stolen from local artist Tom Every, creator of the Forevertron–but it was an entertaining day meandering through the labyrinth of collected stuff. It’s not that there were rare or authentic items–much of the collection was knock-offs, chintz, and mass-produced–but there was a LOT, a never-ending chain of dimly-lit rooms like opium dens, filled with sequins, brass, costumed mannequins, and hoarded stuff.

Tea stuff, House On The Rock

Mechanical puppet show, "The Death Of A Drunk"

"The Gladiator," a room-sized music machine

I was disappointed because the majority of the advertised mechanical music collection–Regina disk-operated music boxes, bandwagons, calliopes and the like–were non-operational OR WORSE, were rigged to play a tape-recording while the machine was moving and some of the percussion pieces pounded.

"Mikado" music machine, fakey!! (but the guy in the middle beats the drum and raises his eyebrows)

Still, some of the exhibits–oversized walk-in dioramas like “The Organ Room” or the Carousel–were breathtaking, mostly because they were so HUGE and SO CRAMMED with LOTS OF THINGS. It’s hard to imagine SO MUCH STUFF packed tightly into ONE MASSIVE DIMLY LIT BUILDING IN WISCONSIN, but there you have it.

WordPress won’t let me center this video and YouTube wouldn’t let me upload the better res version so you could see the figures clearly, but here’s a quick glimpse of the huge percussive Carousel in motion:

Dimly lit detail, Organ Room

Pouring Rain As We Left House On The Rock

Someday I would like to get back to Baraboo to see Circus World, and muse on the many hills and dales which are–for real–filled with green grass, cows, and red barns with silos. Until then, We’ll Always Have Cheese.

Red Barns--Yep, Here's Where We Grow 'Em

THE EMPIRE BUILDER, OR

TWO AND A HALF DAYS FROM BADLAND TO PORTLAND

Our Baraboo/Dells/Spring Green adventure done, we drove back to Milwaukee and boarded the Amtrak Empire Builder for Portland. It was two days of badlands and snow–yes, snow!

Snow, North Dakota

The train got more and more sticky and trash-laden as the days went on–we saw babies being changed on coach seats (yeccch) and stinky bags of trash accruing in the baggage areas waiting to be discarded. We were grateful we could afford a “roomette” again for the trek–you really didn’t want to be in the coach car for the long schlep.

Samuel, May Day Flowers--both tired

We lunched with a pair of sisters traveling to Portland to care for their brother with cancer, and one time when we were walking through to the dining car we overheard one woman telling her three young children, “…he can’t know where we live when we move.” Yikes.

We met an uncanny number people who worked in the aerospace industry during our trans-country train lunches, and it reeeeaaallly makes you wonder why these people aren’t traveling by plane.

Many of the other passengers were clearly too poor or decrepit to fly; you can really see how class plays into who gets on the train, and who gets to sit where with or without amenities.

Cows, Storm, from the window of the Empire Builder

The last part of the Empire Builder trip was through Montana’s Glacier Park, and it made all the stickiness and trashiness pretty worth it. More snow, exquisite scenery. We’d like to railroad back to a lodge out there sometime and enjoy the natural beauty while standing still (while being mindful not to get et by grizzlies, which can happen up here sometimes.)

The Continental Divide (see obelisk)

Day Two, Montana's Glacier Park

Sleep’s not something that really happens on a train, even in the privacy of a “roomette;” you lie in your bunk and roll around all night as the train shudders past rough switches or grinds into a midnight station. After two nights of not-sleep and not-shower, one can feel a bit put upon. However, Amtrak cleverly put the best scenery for last on The Empire Builder, so you are distracted from your misery a little and forget the long miles that came before.

That final morning, we passed through The Dalles (OR) on approach to Portland; a rainstorm and a rainbow greeting us when we crossed the state line like a promise that we’d never have to endure such a grueling train ride again:

The Dalles

The Rainbow

We arrived at Portland late morning and as soon as I deboarded I immediately became nostalgic for my old stomping ground in Seattle. The rhododendrons and dogwoods were in full bloom and the air was cold and felt nutritious to breathe; it was rainy and glorious, and we had nothing planned but a little R&R (rose garden and renovated hotel) before we ventured home.

Next: McMenamins, and The Starlight Express Home!

Slowly We Turned….Heading West via Niagara Falls, Wisconsin, and the Empire Builder

After our sleepless night in Philly we boarded an early train and went up the gorgeous Hudson Valley to Niagara Falls, which I was shocked to find lacked the quaint honeymoon cottages and culture I had been led to expect by recent puff pieces in the national press. In fact, we were doubly shocked to see how much of the town was derelict–empty storefronts and huge malls, empty.

In contrast, the Canadian side looked like Las Vegas and was thrumming with tourist activity.

Made Of The Mist? The Canadian Side Beckons

We had a good time bumming around in spite of this–the Falls and the park were still beautiful though overcast–we did finally see a rainbow over Niagara in our last hour before leaving.

Touching Water , North Border-View from the deck of The Maid of The Mist (four of the five Great Lakes contribute water to Niagara Falls)

Great Lakes Garden, Niagara State Park

Illuminated Falls At Night

I spoke with a few locals and wrote my first Examiner piece on the town; I ended up discovering a lot more about the region with just a few conversations than I thought I would. Niagara is experiencing some complex political and economic issues right now, and its survival depends on either a radically improved economy right away or some smart, rapid action on behalf of the state and local authorities, neither of which seems forthcoming. It’s sad–there’s a lot to enjoy there, potential wasted mostly by political in-fighting.

Sad Empty "Snow Park," Niagara Falls

Full Moon Over The Niagara Rapids, Near The Red Coach Inn

We stayed at the Red Coach Inn, a last-renovated-in-the-1950’s red-velvet funky theme joint–a little dusty, but the staff was friendly and they had an old school menu in the restaurant, e.g. steaks served with a pat of butter on top. You could hear the Niagara rapids from our room, which was really nice, sound like steady rain.

Modeling "Maid Of The Mist" Blue Ponchos

We did the Maid of the Mist and walked the Falls Park; on our last day, we visited with the Niagara area jeweler that made my wedding band (I’m working on an Examiner piece about him and his work) and he was hilarious and really fun to talk to, but we had to dash to make our next train.

Buffalo Wings At Duff's--Buffalo, NY

We had to change trains and kill about ten hours in Buffalo, which was FREAKIN’ COLD!! We walked around and a) ate authentic Buffalo wings at purportedly-top-rated-wing-joint Duff’s, which were spicy, greasy, and made us slightly nauseated, and b) found the coolest grocery store on the planet, Wegman’s–better stocked with fresh-prepped, interesting food than Bristol Farms or Whole Paycheck, with FREE WIRELESS IN THEIR CAFE!!! We ate lunch like, three times during the five hours we were there, stocked up on snacks for the train, internetted, and then went back to the Amtrak station to set off for Milwaukee and points west.

I mean, they had FRESH FLOWERS in the RESTROOM! WEGMAN'S ROCKS!!!

We rented a car and drove from Milwaukee through, YES–WAUKESHA, WISCONSIN!!! HOME OF SPIDERCOW!!! on our way to Baraboo, WI. We made good time so we drove over to the Dells, which we had been told were “really beautiful.” They were “really” piled high with Vegas-style waterparks and amusement complexes and moose-and-bear themed restaurants, though we did take a nice hike to the water through the woods only to encounter teens talking on their cell phones and some guy with his boat radio cranked up. Ah, the sweet sounds of nature.

The Dells

At Baraboo we stayed at another funky inn run by a funny retired couple–birdhouses that were little models of the inn and crazy cut-out cows everywhere–but we were skunked by the non-open Circus World, to which we had expressly traveled to Baraboo to see. Our best guess was that we had obtained their schedule from an old website–there was a newly renovated one when we checked again, and this one said they weren’t going to open until May 22nd. But we were already there. Bara-BOOOOOO.

You Know You're In Wisconsin When You See These Next To The Cheese

We went instead and picnicked here at Devil’s Lake–not very circusy but we made do. There were turtles.

Our Picnic Bench, Devil's Lake, WI

And the Forevertron made the entire Wisconsin junket worth it. See Samuel’s post and our “Thumbs Up” for more.

The Forevertron

The Forevertron's Love Beam

Other Defenders Of The Forevertron

More in Part II–stayed tuned for House On The Rock!

Sleepless in Philadelphia; Niagara Falling

Love Park, Philadelphia

Friday morning we took the train overnight from Savannah to Philly, where we beheld a sunny morning. We checked our luggage and our reservation at Club Quarters Philadelphia, and set out for the Mütter Museum (see “Thumbs Up”) and the Mummers Museum later that afternoon. Both are worth seeing, but don’t confuse the two or you will be permanently messed in the head.

Like the Mütter Museum, the Mummers Museum is not for everybody. I was drawn to it because I am fascinated by community-created rituals, and Philadelphia’s New Year’s Day Mummer Parade is a bizarre and wonderful example of how folk traditions are initiated, institutionalized, and passed down to new participants.

Philly is home to several Mummers “clubs” (which resemble New Orleans Mardi Gras krewes) that march and dance in a garish New Year’s Day parade, replete with “comics” (clowns), “string bands,” “wenches,” and “fancy brigades.” The clubs can spend $100-$200k outfitting their membership in fantastical costumes (properly called “suits”) and they compete in themed choreographic presentations that are rehearsed for months on a volunteer basis.

This is a five-minute documentary featuring a champion mummer club, the South Philly Vikings. (Note: as of 2009, there are no more cash prizes…these folks are mummers for love and bragging rights, and spend much of the year fundraising to make their show possible. Shades of SpiderCow!!)

The Mummers Museum documents the evolution of the parade from its roots in ancient mummer traditions to its modern regulated state. The museum itself is a little dusty and many of the exhibits are aging and nonfunctional, but we found a few bits of history to enlighten us–the archive photos of early parades are fantastic. It’s clear the parade was once a subversive romp by a mostly immigrant population–Samuel likened it to the “Burning Man” of its time–but now it is a big money establishment-run affair, and the Mummers Museum helps one understand this evolution from high-spirited improvisational mischief to manic civic competition.

The volunteers who run the museum–members of mummers clubs themselves–will enthusiastically talk your ear off about the Mummer phenomenon. One is left wondering if there’s a kind of wonderful antic madness running through Philly, or if there just aren’t enough other activities to keep people gainfully occupied. It’s easy to forgive them for oversharing their excitement though–lots of sparkles for New Year’s Day, a massive and serious contest, and an even more massive and serious party afterwards!!

Mummers Museum, main hall

The Mummers Museum is outside the main tourist area of town where I guess rent is cheap for non-profits–we had a nerve-wracking walk through a rough section of Philly to get back to our hotel. That tired us out so we opted to have dinner close by at a cloyingly hip place on Chestnut called Continental Midtown, a “global tapas” diner (which translates as small plates, but you can’t say “small” in these recessionary days, even around foodie types who should know better.)

We had our Regionally Required Dish–Philly Cheese Steak–in a won ton wrapper, and it tasted pretty good, if lacking in Philly street cred.

Philly Cheese Steak Wonton, Continental Midtown Restaurant

Sadly, Philly street CRUD was all we had that night at our hotel, Club Quarters Philadelphia.

About one-thirty in the morning, the nightclub downstairs spawned what Samuel dubbed a “horn artist,” i.e. some schmuck who leaned into his/her car horn for about two hours. That, the shrieking and yelling from the clubgoers, and the consequent sirens two hours later kept us stone awake until about four a.m. So lovely, as we had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to make our train to New York.

We were beyond zombied and miserable when we went downstairs that morning–mind you, we were on the NINTH FLOOR and the ruckus sounded like it was just outside the window–and Club Quarters gave no quarter when I complained upon check-out. “Oh yeah, that’s the club downstairs” was all they said, politely, and our only recourse was to write a ruthlessly truthful review on TripAdvisor about our night there. They didn’t even have their lobby coffee ready. We were traumatized but too exhausted to actually freak out on it.

It’s really too bad–Club Quarters could have been a nice experience if they had made some attempt to deal with the situation, or with us. As it is, if it’s a weekend–run away, run away!!

Six a.m. Breakfast of Champions, Philly departure lounge

At six a.m. we slogged onto the train to Penn Station, NYC, where we transferred to the Amtrak Empire State up the Hudson River Valley to Niagara Falls. It was a packed train, which surprised us, but the scenery was beautiful.

Hudson Valley, from train window

We arrived in Niagara in the late afternoon and were driven to our inn by an Indian taxi driver who drove like Batman having a panic attack (as it ended up, all our taxi drivers were Indian; apparently in Niagara there are a substantial number of immigrants and tourists from India, who often come via Canada.)

From the first moments of our arrival, it was clear Niagara Falls was not all we had been led to believe, though it has kept a few of its maidenly virtues intact. Sadly, the “Honeymoon Capital of the World” has lost much of its business to the meretricious development across the river on The Canadian Side. It seems to be sad days for the U.S. portion of Niagara, but maybe that’s about to change???….

….More on that Hard Rock Border War and the Lack of a Honeymoon “There” There when next I post….stay tuned!

Made Of The Mist? The Canadian Side Beckons

Two Non-Day Non-Postcards

We’re sitting in a Wegman’s grocery store café in Buffalo, waiting for midnight to roll around so we can board our next train.

In honor of that late hour, I thought I’d post two non-postcards.

Savannah Oak

Niagara Falls

A Streetcar Named WTF?!?

So after our day of New Orleans bus tours, we decided to hop the streetcars down to the Garden District–the neighborhood of historic mansions–and City Park, home of the New Orleans Sculpture and Botanical Gardens, an art museum, Storyland (amusements for kids), and other features. We really needed a wandery day after so much bus time and Hurricane Katrina bad news the day before.

Streetcar Without A Name, New Orleans

New Orleans streetcars run on an overhead electrical pole system and are rumbling, clanking things that sputter and vibrate along their tracks. They are a little bone-jarring, so you can understand how Blanche DuBois arrived in NOLA so discombulated after her journey on the Canal Street line (the streetcars themselves no longer have names like “Desire,” but the route Blanche took to arrive at Stanley and Stella’s house still runs.)

Bead Tree, New Orleans Garden District

We hopped a streetcar to the Garden District in the morning and strolled around taking lots of bad photos of the “bead trees” (almost impossible to shoot well due to the hazy morning light and the tree/bead visual muddle.) We were told if we rode that same streetcar to the end of the line we’d end up at City Park, so we continued on our way but were surprised to end up in Carrollton, nowhere near City Park. However, if we went all the way back to where we started and took the “Carrollton streetcar” off the Canal Street line we’d then get to City Park, nowhere near the neighborhood of Carrollton we’d already inadvertently visited. Well awright den.

Giant Safety Pin, New Orleans City Park Sculpture Garden

By the time we finally got to City Park, the Botanical Gardens and Sculpture Gardens were closed, but we walked around a bit and took in the air. It was nice to have some decompression time as on our streetcar leg there some goofy negligent kids in love were walking along our streetcar tracks and almost got hit, which greatly upset our driver.

The driver rang and rang the streetcar bell at them to get out of the way, and we all saw the narrow miss. The driver turned around on his seat, a look of anguish on his face, astonished and overwhelmed at how close his car had come to killing them. We’d already seen him get sassed extensively by a woman who hadn’t paid her entire fare (who then gave him even more lip as she left the streetcar.) He had turned to us all after she left and said, “I need a raise.” We all thought it was amusing, but now we all saw how true it was. Clearly streetcar driving in NOLA was a long day abuse and stress.

The driver stopped the car and opened the door, jumping out to chastise those kids for walking on the tracks, to try to make them understand how close they’d come to death, and the boy kid laughed at him, like nothing was the matter. This upset our driver even further–he wasn’t really angry, just so emotional and “WTF?!?!” that a horrific accident had only narrowly been averted–and now this kid was laughing at him with no regard for how such a tragedy would have impacted his life, or any of ours.

The loveydoves scampered off down a side street, hand in hand, an image from a bad Seventies commercial for refreshing minty cigarettes or soda pop or something. The driver closed the door and said to us all in the streetcar, “You laughed when I said I needed a raise….” then sat back down and put the streetcar back into gear.

I felt so awful for him, he was shaking his head and gesturing in frustration for the rest of the ride. I told him when we debarked at the end of the line that even if those stupid kids were too dumb to be grateful to thank him for saving their lives, I appreciated that he had been alert and not killed them since that would have been devastating for every one of us on that streetcar. He seemed sincerely grateful to hear it, and replied that he had to “flush himself” of similar incidents every day after work, and that a cold Heineken usually went a long way helping him do so. His next leg back to town was his last for the day, and you could tell he was grateful for that too.

On the way home from City Park we stopped at Angelo Brocato Ice Cream and Confectionery on North Carrollton Avenue (freakin’ Carrollton again!) but it was well worth the visit–OH MY GOD! See our “Thumbs Up” mini-review on their wares. Great way to spoil your dinner, or to eat dinner anyway like we did.

After our gelato break we freshened up at our B&B (The 1896 O’Malley House–see another “Thumbs Up” mini-review) and got back on the Canal Street streetcar down to the French Quarter for a little dinner and trad jazz, we hoped at Preservation Hall. It was getting a little dark and we didn’t want to wander too much since the Quarter can get a little seamy at night, but we found a corner cafe that had decent Southern fare (including blackened catfish or “black cat,” a favorite of mine, and crawfish etouffee for Samuel) and then we joined the line for Preservation Hall.

Preservation Hall Jazz Band

And on piano--Little Deuce!

We were only able to get in for the last set, which was very short but fun to see. The “hall” itself is tiny and decrepit, only 15-20 feet wide max, the walls dinged-up plywood and pegboard, a few pictures of musicians here and there, only a couple benches for seating and some standing room behind. The playing was good, lively, not terribly inspired–it was late and the crowd was all tourists, many Japanese and French (one older French fanguy sat in who wasn’t in tip-top form, if I may say so, but such fanguys are the Hall’s bread and butter.)

We paid a $10 cover to hear three songs, but the best part of the evening was provided by the newest PresHall musician, a 20-month-old son-of-the-horn-player nicknamed “Little Deuce.” Little Deuce played a piano solo before the official set started, was assisted on drums for “SleepyTime Down South,” and offered some improvisational assistance to both the trombone player and his dad once he observed the plunger being used to mute a ‘bone solo. It was sweet to see how the adult musicians let him play with their instruments even while they were trying to perform, and it was clear that this musical playground was providing the foundation for another generation of Nawlins jazz artists (Little Deuce wasn’t doing bad on that drum solo, either, though he had a little help.)

"Hold That Tiger" became "Hold That Toddler"....

Little Deuce fascinated by the plunger...

....which he then tries to use to mute Dad ....quip about father/son relationships here...

Finally, we decided to gird our loins and run the Bourbon Street gauntlet just to say we did. As our B&B host told us, “the nasty bars have mostly chased out the jazz bars” and that changeover was clearly in evidence.

A few music joints were wailing, mostly Southern rock–though they seemed to be having a tough time pulling in clients due to competition from the sex joints, their “nasty” offerings displayed out front with photo lightboards that resembled oversized hard-porn Denny’s menus.

You also had to look sharp to avoid the wide-eyed or near-barfing frat boys who populated much of the street, and there was one Sydney Greenstreet-sized man in a neatly pressed suit and tie who moved a little too smoothly around the crowd for my taste. Maybe I was just too paranoid about grifters and pickpockets or maybe he was a dapper guy just scoping out the porn menus for his brand of action, but he set off my SpideySense so we pushed forward a little faster to get away from him. I only stopped to take this picture of the Bourbon Street neon, so you don’t ever have to.

Bourbon Street, New Orleans

We caught the last streetcar back up Canal Street to our B&B to pack up, prepping to rent a car early and drive the next sector of our trip on Wednesday before continuing to Savannah, GA. Our goal: to cross four Southern states in less than a day and make it to Jacksonville, FL before nightfall, but we got distracted from our stated mission by a little archeological site noted on the Florida State Tourist Board Hospitality Map. I’ll cover that in the next Rudolph/Rails post, so stay tuned!

New Orleans: Things You’ll Find in the Oaks

Oak trees in New Orleans aren’t like our Los Angeles trees. Some of the surprising things you’ll find in New Orleans oaks:

Spanish Moss

Spanish Moss trivia: it was used to stuff the cushions of both Model T Fords and Volkswagen Beetles.

Buck Moth Caterpillars

These little guys are covered with spines, which contain a skin irritant. They drop out of the oaks on unsuspecting tourists. Fortunately, we are nothing if not suspecting, so they avoided us (and we them).

Mardi Gras Beads!

Of course, the beads are found in places other than oak trees:

Beads in the Trolley Car Wires

Beads in a Crape Myrtle