This past weekend Magoo and I road tripped it down to South Florida. We both grew up down there though literally it was a world apart. Our homes and lives were lived 50 miles apart, as he reached the outer branches of Broward and I was way the hell south Miami. His childhood saw open fields, horses, landscape, and chickens. We had traffic, 1/2 acres, city life and all things Miami. We spent the weekend intertwined between the two. Lounging with his brothers, sisters, nephews and parents and then drinking and eating with the Jewish folk of MIA. We squeezed in some time to visit my family too, Magoo swore we were in the Keys with the distance we drove south. This is a world where I-95 and I-75 both end, or begin if you want to be picky like that. Those who don't know also probably don't play but we enjoy games of Jewish geography. While this is reserved for, "do you know's" left over from camp or college, it works in other ways too. Waiting for our table at the bar on Sunday night meant running into high school friends. That is how it was in my Miami growing up. See how it was in Magoo's world. This may rock your vision of South Florida, I know it did mine. See here for my bored car shots and scenes from a South Florida neighborhood.
Labels: Friends/Family, P.S./Photography Sunday, Trips/Travel
The pictures tell a lot of the stories. Partially because my words cannot do it justice, but also because I was obsessed with my new camera. You only saw a percentage of the pictures, as a good deal were deleted. A many of the side of Magoo's face as I snapped and clicked at random times. He of course was a good sport - knowing that there is that handy-dandy delete function. The excitement of it all had me up most of the night on Thursday. I also am terrible when I know the alarm is going to sound at an early, ungodly hour. Somehow that thought keeps me awake. So in an excited trance we made our way to the airport, to be confronted by our first (and may I say only) disagreement. This one over the ever important use of my credit card to check into the flight. It wasn't working. Enough said. We agreed that we would not get pissy (well I am the pissy one) and we would not bicker. And we didn't. A lovely vacation.
We arrived early to New Orleans - 8 am central time. Got some delicious CC's coffee and enjoyed the atmosphere on Magazine Street. No one appeared to be working on the Friday of the holiday weekend. People all over the place drinking their morning coffee, shopping, and running errands at the Whole Foods and the bank (Beth - Hibernia is now owned by Capital One). It was wonderful to see the commerce and energy. But there is a noticeable difference. Just something slightly off. If you had never been there before, it would not have been detectable. Like a sadness that sort of lingers in the air with the smell of chicory coffee and the River. It hangs there as a past remnant even as people move about their days. You see it where things used to be. As Magoo said, 'used to be is the catch phrase of the weekend'. I said it over and over, "there used to be a Walgreen's there" or "there used to be a gas station", as we drive by an abandoned boarded up old building. Not noticeable to the normal eye, but prevalent if those were places you bought diet cokes, toilet paper, and gas. You feel they should be there and should be able to turn into them without thought. But they are not there and there is just a general sense of loss. Of course things change and cities and people move on. I have not lived there in over two years. But this isn't a new Starbucks. This is a loss and a general feeling of such. Noticeable at certain moments of quiet.
We headed over to Tulane to see the school and show Magoo my old stomping grounds. Again, Audubon Park was vibrant as ever with dogs, walkers, bicycles and golf players. But the absence was present. The large oak trees that densely lined the streets of St. Charles were sparse. You could see through them clearly into the park. Those oak trees are part of what makes Uptown a gorgeous place. It was terrible and tragic to see that spice of life missing from the scenery. But they, like the City as a whole, will grow back and thrive with the love and attention of New Orlean-ians. This much was evidenced throughout the whole weekend. New Orlean-ians have always had pride and love of their town. Sporting bumper stickers, long before Katrina, that read, "New Orleans Proud to Call it Home". This enthusiasm is what kept the city alive all these months and is what will help it to continue to thrive.
We did our part to help the economy and shopped the boutiques of Magazine Street. Purchasing for ourselves and family. There are more shops than ever and all have commemorative tees, knick knacks and goodies adorned with signs of New Orleans. Tons of Fleur de Lis. Not to mention the Saints gear. They are clearly no longer the 'Aints. This team has put several in the win column and the city is there to cheer them on every step of the way. Every where we turned there were hats, t-shirts and jerseys on sale. And each person was dressed in them. That night we saw the Soul Rebels at Tipitinas. Aside from being a packed crowd, the music was fabulous as they were a vibrant and upbeat brass band representing all things good in New Orleans. But in the midst of their set a group of fans started cheering "Who dat, who dat, who dat gonna beat dem Saints?", an anthem for all Saints. This got the entire crowd going and the band joined them playing a rendition of When the Saints Go Marching. Never has the city been this energized about their team. Clearly it is a rallying point on so many levels. This much was apparent. As the enthusiasm spread through the French Quarter on Sunday, with people cheering and partying, even with the loss to Carolina. We heard people planning their trips to Miami, for the Super Bowl, as if it were a given they were going. It is just that infectious and a sign of sure recovery, not just for the NFL players, but the entire city.
We visited another New Orleans heavy hitter for lunch on Friday; Emeril. We agreed that was the best meal we had, and it was not for a lack of trying with the other restaurants we visited. The BBQ shrimp was a-mazing, and we do not eat seafood. It was just that good. Of course beignets on Sunday morning, Mufalletas, the Mexican goodness at Santa Fe and our New Years Eve menu were nothing to laugh at. We dined hard core and enjoyed every breath of the bite. It is New Orleans and you have to eat. They weigh you on the way in and out to make sure you have eaten enough while visiting.
In between the gluttony, we journeyed over to Lakeview. The site of the 17th Street levee that broke on the Tuesday after the storm. To add to the gloom and the mood it was raining. A true New Orleans rain where it pours for hours with no end in sight. The puddles form instantly and the roads become unnavigable in a matter of minutes. It was but a small preview of what a Category 5 storm can do and how easy it is to lose a car to a flood in a matter of minutes (yeah that happened in 2004). In addition to the rainy roads, the mud painted an awful picture of the destruction that was still there. Almost a year and a half later, homes and streets looked untouched. Broken windows, belongings strewn about the street, trees down. The x's still spray painted on the sides of the home, evidence the National Guard had been there as well as the SPCA to check for animals left behind. I can't do it justice to describe the terrible condition of these houses or people's lives really. The power was back on, the street lights were back up and the signs had been re-posted. But those were the only indications of life. As if it mattered, since it appeared few returned to resume their lives. All the signs of hope elsewhere; the consumerism, the tourism, the protest banners against the Army Corps, and the flags of Rebuilding were totally lost here. None of it was evidenced on those blocks. Total despair and desolation was the only thing we saw. That and a tour bus making the same rounds and a Home(Hope) Depot, sure to drum up some serious business in the upcoming years.
We ended the trip and the year on a positive note. Filling the consumer coffers and our bellies with food and drink. Perhaps too much drink on Saturday night as I threw up from the revelry (and the tequila). Leave it to New Orleans to bring that on. We toured the French Quarter, admiring the art and the architecture. Listening to the sounds of New Orleans; the riverboats and the street performers. We saw the fireworks reflected on the sides of the buildings at midnight on the 31st and fell asleep to the other sounds of New Orleans; party-goers, horns honking and sirens. See life there is getting back to normal.
As we return to our normal life and tell our stories and look at the pictures, we will keep in mind those still affected by the aftermath of the storm. They live it everyday. The city wears it like an open wound, with the scars still forming. It is still fresh and alive and occupies a lot of conversations. It will change the landscape of the city for generations to come. In the end, the best we can hope for is that it is for the better. Improving on the greatness and helping the weak areas. For now, may 2007 bring health, wealth and prosperity and may the good times roll.
Labels: Trips/Travel
Labels: Trips/Travel
My mother never drank beer, she still doesn't. So growing up, I believed beer was something men drank. I thought ladies didn't brink beer. My dad always had one when he came home from work. He would have placed the mug in the freezer the day before to insure a frozen glass. Not once do I recall my mom even taking a sip. When I got to college, I really saw women drink beer for the first time. I mean consume it. Don't get me wrong, I drank in high school like the rest of 'em. Mostly it was Zima, wine coolers and later on straight up tequila. Don't ask, I still cringe thinking about the amount of Cuervo we went through. There were typical keg parties with red plastic cups. But still we opted for the hard stuff. So it was not until college that I saw girls drink beer. It was college, we were in sororities and it was New Orleans. Drinking deserved a bold statement.
One night, my freshman year, I met an older girl; probably a Junior or Senior. She was my friend Torie's friend from high school. She stood there in tight jeans, probably Mavi jeans given the year, a tank top, holding a Bud Light, in a bottle. She took swigs straight from the bottle. She was in the basement of a fraternity house surrounded by raggedy beat up couches, a floor covered with tarp and dirty, and khaki short flip-flop wearing frat boys. But I thought she looked cool and sophisticated. To me it was not just her appearance, but the beer. From then on I made sure to order my beer in a bottle too. If only I could emulate cool.
Today I drink substantially less beer. Well, substantially less in general. I need to maintain my employment. But the bloating from it, gets to this girl. So less beer for this lady. On Saturday I saw ladies drinking beer. Like only ladies can. Jacksonville is the meeting place for the Gator Bowl; where Florida and Georgia fans converge every year for an SEC showdown, rivalry and tradition. There were a lot of fans, a lot of spirit and a lot of beer. The announcer declared that close to 85,000 people were in attendance. Most of those were outside tailgating before hand. Tents, blankets and actual tailgates open to accommodate coolers, tables, grilles and picnics. People throwing footballs, eating and drinking. I had never been to such a football game, Tulane does not do things like that. Though, it all reminded me of the parades during Mardi Gras; people, food, the weather and the beer.
Everyone was adorned in team colors. The Gators showed their pride with orange and blue, tees, shorts, hats and even sweaters when the sun went down. The Georgia fans, on the other hand, were much more lady-like. They dress for these games. I mean really dress. Black dresses with red ribbons, red heels or red jewelry. Yes they wear heels to football games. I even saw satin heels trekking through the grass into the stadium. These are true Southern ladies. They glisten. The older women had black and red Gucci scarves, black and red Burberry coats, and black and red Louis Vuitton hand bags. These were items they must have collected over years of attending Bull Dawg games. They were all drinking beer. Obviously NCAA rules prohibit such consumption in the stadium, during the game. But before hand, dresses, heels, pearls and hair do's, standing in the sun drinking beer. Gotta love the south and football and a lady who will drink beer.
Labels: Everyday Life, Trips/Travel
This has always been an issue in our relationship and something I thought could haunt us for our entire future. I first really noticed it in our first few weeks of dating on our way to the Strawberry Festival in Plant City. Magoo was driving, if you can call it that. He was sitting in the left lane on the Interstate cruising at a steady 40. I don’t even think that is the minimum required speed. I actually kept my mouth shut and was nice about it. On Thursday night it was getting late and he had a headache. We both wanted to go to our hotel and get something to eat. So I took over the driving. I knew we needed to haul ass, so I pushed it – hitting 90 at times to get the last hour knocked out quickly. I looked over and saw Magoo gripping the door handle.
“Does my driving make you nervous?”
“Well we just drive differently”
“Yes, I am quite aware. I have to say I am more aggressive and definitely faster”
“There is no doubt those are both true, but I trust you. Overall, it does not make me nervous, I just choose to drive differently and I make no apologies for it.”
That was fair. As long as I didn’t make him uneasy to ride with me and that he trusted me I figured we were doing wonderfully. It really was a win-win, that night we could get to our food and beds faster with my driving style.
On Sunday morning we knew we had to leave by 10. There was a seven hour drive and a time difference, we lost an hour. We needed to get back to Tampa to pick up the Ging by 6, otherwise Fuzzie Buddies closed and we would be charged for another night….assuming they had the room and were willing to let her crash there. So we knew we needed to hustle and we got our butts out of Pensacola around 10:04. Not too bad so far. Yet there was traffic on the bridge leaving Pensacola, we were already behind. That set us back 15 minutes, which was slowly becoming priceless time. But we kept on going, Magoo at the wheel. We make it several hundred more miles and 1 o’clock became 2 o’clock, central to eastern. The phone rings and I explain where we are and where we need to be.
SHIT. It’s 2 o’clock and we have 270 miles to go. You do the math, because we did also. Speed limit 70. We need to do 80 miles the entire rest of the trip. Nothing less. Yet, with slower drivers, traffic and a stop to get gas, at least, we will not be allowed to go 80. So we need to top that at times, hitting 90 and 100 to make up for the time we may lose.
“You have to go 80”
“I am, it’s not like I am slacking over here”.
I look over, and see a steady 72, 73. I doubt he has hit 80.
“That’s not going to cut it, you need to step on it or scoot over. I get the whole safety thing, but we have to move it.”
So we pull over at the next exit and on the side of the road perform a Chinese fire drill. I take the wheel and do what I do best, speed. It is now 2:12 and we have 260 miles to go in under four hours. I had my doubts. At 3 we were able to call Fuzzie Buddies, when they opened for their pick up hours. They give us a 15 minute grace period to get there before the doors are really closed and we are charged an extra day. Otherwise, they would hold her until we got there and charge us an extra $35. Okay, I could breathe some. In the past hour I had done just over 75 miles. At that pace, I had 185 miles to go and just about three hours to get it done. Not a problem. We both agree that if they were willing to give us the 15 minute grace period, we could probably push it to 6:20 or 6:30, someone was probably going to be there to care for the dogs anyway.
We head into Lake City and pick up I-75. At 3:35, I pull over at the first exit for the trifecta break, gas, food and bathroom. I give us 10 minutes to get it all done and we triage our responsibilities Due to complications, most at the BK, we run up a 20 minute break. Still, I felt okay with the pace we had been on over the past hour plus.
But then it falls apart. I can barely pull 60 mph. There are tons of cars on the road. We are somewhere near Gainesville. Maybe people traveled for the football game and the traffic will drop off? Nope, no luck. Still tons of cars on the road, making it very difficult to pass people or keep a speed much higher then 70. I curse a lot. Then it gets worse. I slam on my breaks and scream. We are stopped. On the Interstate in the middle of Florida at 4:13 on a Sunday afternoon. I look up at the bridge ahead and all I see are tail lights. What is going on? Magoo flips through the radio stations to find out what the delay is all about. We don’t find a thing. No explanation for the seemingly endless line of cars. We probably inch forward for 15 minutes until we reach a small accident that was off the side of the road with a cop attending to the action. I suppose mid-Florida drivers don’t have a TV because this was entertainment for them. At this point, I really don’t think we can make it. Magoo convinces me we have the time and it will get better, so I push on.
Once we get past the non-event, the highway breaks for the Turnpike and the traffic clears some. He was right. So I step on it. We see 90 and we pass everyone.
“You learned to drive in Miami didn’t you?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Don’t forget that I was also taught to drive by a New Yorker driver”
“Yeah. I can tell.” And he draws in his breathe. r>
We keep moving. At 5:48 we pull onto 275, and see we have close to 18 miles into Tampa, plus we needed time to get off the interstate and over to Fuzzie Buddies. I again doubt that this can be done. Magoo calls the FB to see if there is anyway they can keep it open for an additional 30 minutes or so, maybe just to 6:30. There apparently is no way they can stay open, unless we want to give them $35 more dollars.
He tries to rationalize with me. After all, it is just $35 and it may not worth busting our asses to get there. Otherwise, we can leave her there for another night for only $20. Clearly these are both real options. It is obviously not worth it to risk our safety over such small money amounts. But at this point I need to make it there on time. I think he has forgotten that it is still a realistic possibility. I see his point about the money, but to me it is the principle of it. I need to make it. I feel like I am on the Amazing Race. I can’t lose at this point. Plus, the bonus prize at the end is we get our girl back.
We now had just under 25 minutes. Thankfully the remainder of 275 was fairly clear. A silver Lexus had the same agenda I did and we pushed 75 miles in the 55 speed limit. We now had four lanes to move through. Those last 11 miles flew by, literally. We jump off 275 onto I-4. Generally known as malfunction junction. But I prayed it would be clear at 6:06 on a Sunday, since I thought it was the most direct route. It was. Not a car on it. No malfunction there. 6:09. We quickly exit for the street. There are four lights between us and the Ging and a 45 mph speed limit. We make the first two but sit at the last two. C’mon. C’mon. We both are franticly looking at the clock and the light. Then in the distance we hear a train whistle.
“Crap. Where is that coming from?”
“I don’t know, just keep moving. Until we see it, you keep going. We can do this.”
The lights change and I swing onto the last bit of road. I gun our engine and we both smell burnt tires. We were one turn away from the driveway of FB. It was 6:14. I haphazardly pull into the front, jump out of the car without turning the engine off and bang on the locked door. The girl knew who I was immediately. She lets us in and jets back to the desk. It was JUST 6:15. She runs over to the computer to check us out. Now it is her urging with c’mon, c’mon. Apparently she needed to get the check out through the computer system before the clock changed to 6:16, otherwise she was required to charge us the late pick up fee. Amazingly, she gets it done, in time for us to look up and out the door. Again we hear the train whistle. This time it is close since the actual giant train was passing right by.
We both know that if we were seconds later, we would have been stuck behind the train and never would have made it. As we get back in the car and sit and wait for the train to finish passing we reflect. One more minute at the bagel store this morning. One more minute at the rest stop getting gas. One more minute traveling at 76 mph. Any number of factors could have prevented us from making it. Since we were wrong. We had to be there at 6:15 and not a minute late. I can say our success was mostly thanks to my mad dash. Yes, it was just $35.00, but it made our looooooooooong drive an adventure and a mission. I also think Magoo trusts me more now. Not to mention, I am a damn good speed racer and we have Ginger home with us, safe and sound.
Labels: Everyday Life, Trips/Travel
We went on an ooh la la vacation to the Ritz. The one on the beach in Naples. I learned there are two; another at the golf course. I am not kidding about the oh la la. The sheets felt like one million count satin-y cotton. There was music playing as we entered the room. Hardwood floors and a flat screen plasma TV. Bulgari soaps and shampoos. We walked barefoot on the beach to dinner. A balcony, with two chairs and a small table that to the right looked over the green trees and scenery of Naples and to the left showcased a stunning view of the Gulf of Mexico, 12 stories high. In the morning, with the complimentary New York Times, I sat and watched dolphins play in the waters of the Gulf. There were two pools. After enjoying both, I got sick. Not so ooh la la. Maybe it was the heavy dinner from the night before, filet, mashed potatoes with dill and a chopped salad with champagne vinaigrette. Or just the stomach of a 90 year old women I have been blessed with. On came 'rhea at the Ritz.
It hit me out of nowhere. I enjoyed my pool time, relaxed with the most glorious chaise lounge. Four hours in the sun, three magazines, complimentary orange smoothies. They are genius there, they added a small hood to the towels to attach them to the chairs. Preventing the age old problem of towel slippage against your wet bathing suited body. Then I felt a pang and panic. It was this day that I attempt to look sophisticated and sport the one piece black swim suit. One piece?? I need a bathroom fast and to get that suit off stat. I rush inside and close both bathroom doors. Yes, they have a suite for just the commode. Yet, for all the gloriousness that our accommodations provided, these so called genuises, they skimped on the toilet paper. Rolled elegantly underneath the silver chrome holder was single ply paper that was classified somewhere between loose leaf notebook and card board. The most horrific thing I have ever taken to my butt. I think I get the expression, tore me a new one. As if the 'rhea wasn't bad enough. Would one less crystal dish soap container been anything to cry about, when it could have provided for Charmin? I would gladly trade fresh lilacs at night for the cotton-y goodness of Angel Soft. Nothing fancy schmancy about crappy toilet paper. Literally.
Despite this, there is one perk that having 'rhea at the Ritz provides. A telephone in the bathroom. You can call to the main room. I had Magoo bring me my clothes with strict instructions to drop them before the door and run. No inhaling. He didn't need to die at the Ritz. That would not be oh la la.
Labels: Everyday Life, Trips/Travel
