Around America in 80 Days

Every few Saturdays, Oaxaca's Teatro Macedonia Alcalá, projects a live (via satelite) performance of the New York Metropolitan Opera.  Heard in the splendor of the historic theater, the music is an exciting experience.   We became devout opera fans.  Even while travelling, we try to find the local Met transmissions.
Three years ago, we planned a coast-to-coast drive, aiming to sit in the Met for a real performance.  Life had a different idea, and we had to cancel.  The following year, Adi was weak from the effects of chemotherapy, and could not endure such a task.  A year later, still too weak to drive, we flew from Oaxaca to New York, and enjoyed a wonderful Aida.
This year, Adi challenged herself, 'Will I have the stamina for a transcontinental trip?'
We decided to go, with one condition in mind, 'If in doubt, we head back to Oaxaca.'
Back in California after visiting Korea and Israel, we liberated Dino out of storage, and set out on our adventure.

Driving route summary:
California, Utah, Colorado, Illinois, Massachusetts, Maine, New-York (Too early for the Met season), Tennessee, Louisiana, Texas, Oaxaca.
Trip duration:  80 days.

Party Street Revisited

After publishing my previous post,  I realized that our next stop will be New Orleans, and since Bourbon Street is perhaps the world's most famous party destination, I wondered whether my conclusion was premature.  Now, I am afraid that I need to revise my opinion.  Without doubt, Bourbon street is a blast.  Like Nashville, the stretch  is stocked with many live-music bars, and it even has the advantage of being a pedestrian walkway.  Like Nashville, the crowds are cheerful and energetic, however, in my observation,  Nashville visitors come to enjoy music and to drink while doing so, while on Bourbon street, the priorities are reversed.  I prefer the former.

But not so fast.  New Orleans being the wonderful city that it is, also offers a saner alternative.  The active stretch of Frenchmen Street is only a couple of blocks, but within it are many live-music bars.  The crowds are slightly older, and are not there to get drunk.  I enjoyed Snug Harbor where the performance area is adjacent to, but separate from, the bar.  In that space, jazz is appreciated quietly.  We listened to a young Jazz group which exhibited remarkable skill.   They played modern Jazz, but it was close to my comfort zone, thus allowing me to appreciate the music and enjoy it immensely.

In conclusion, for me, Frenchmen Street, though not exactly a "party" street, is more attractive than Nashville.

Mornings in Berlin

"Sorry, but we are fully booked on Friday"
At the Berlin Grande, the receptionist's cheeks are as pink as the peaches I purchased from a local farmer, and her smile is as sweet as the ubiquitous peach pie.  I was not upset.  Perhaps it is time to move on.  Friday would have been the sixth extension of our planned two-night stay.  Yet, the relaxed atmosphere of this Amish region in Iowa, kept us asking for more.

 On my morning walk, the clip-clap sounds of horse-drawn buggies, make me happy to be here.  As they pass, the driver, be it a long-bearded man, a woman donning a white bonnet, or a young boy sporting a straw hat, smile and nod.  This is not the wide, almost artificial, smile of Salt Lake City, but a gentle one, which unconsciously, elicits a similar response from me.  After a light rain, the smell of fresh horseshit permeates the air, and surprisingly, it reinforces my feeling of comfort.  The Amish are shy, and wary of tourists, but once talking, they are as curious as anyone about other ways of life.  Amish tradition rejects technology.  However, to adapt to the modern age, they do not resort to prophets and their celestial revelations, nor do they seek the rulings of wise old men. In my opinion, they have a much better method.  Each congregation, which is usually a dozen-or-so families, can define new regulations to govern their daily life.  There are seven or nine (depending on who I asked), levels of permissiveness among the many congregations.   Electricity in the home is generally forbidden, and a clear sign of an Amish home is colorful laundry drying on a neat front lawn.  However, if you operate a home workshop, depending on the congregation's level, you may use electricity to light it up.  No tractors, but there is something childishly lovable about a noisy motor-driven grass mower, mounted on a horse-drawn cart.

We liked Amish country, with one exception.  Despite the widely advertised claim, Amish cooking is seriously not tasty.  We tried several of the restaurants, and found exactly the same menu, and similar, barely edible, food.  Perhaps it was time to move on.

Stranded on the Strip

I came to Las Vegas to renew my driver's license.  After a certain age, you  have to do so in person.   I thought a couple of days, but eleven have already passed, and I am still waiting for the document.  It's not bad.  There are worse places then Vegas to be stranded.  I don't mind the 43 degree (110F) heat.  It is certainly better than the freezing air-conditioned interiors.

However, there are alternatives to the heat.  Less than an hour's drive from the city, the road climbs to 2,000 meters, the peaks above are still snowy, and the temperature drops below 30 (C).  From there, a trail leads higher and cooler.  The smell of the pine forest disconnects me from the glittering city, and replaces it with a relaxed contemplative mood.  A few kilometers further up, we encounter a small bubbly stream.  The stream is playful, and as the canyon narrows, it asks us to hop over it back and forth from one bank to the other.  Wearing Teva sandals, a slight undershoot adds to the fun by cooling my feet.  Soon we reach a miniature waterfall.  The shady canyon and the sound of splashing water provide a perfect setting for breakfast.  A few drops of rain, signal that it is time to return to the heat.

Product review:
Thanks to a recommendation from my friend Danny Edelshtein, I loaded an application called
"Mapy.cz"   The application added to the fun by providing an accurate topo map of the trail, a track of what we already covered, as well as some statistics.  I like it.

Falafel on the Lake

Hugo, with falafel balls

Lakeport is the last town before reaching our destination on Clear Lake. It was past noon, and hunger dictated that we stop at the first sight of food.  "Jimmy's Tacos and Burritos" was next to the highway exit.  On the front porch, a worker was flipping chicken over an open flame, saturating the air with mouth-watering aroma.  To my surprise, the menu above the counter, included such items as falafel, humus, and other Mediterranean favorites.  I ordered the Falafel Plate, and with the first bite, my being shook with epicurean delight.  The falafel balls were crispy, moist on the inside, and perfectly seasoned.. I could go on, but let's just say that it was the best falafel I tasted in a very long time.  The eggplant salad (baba ganoush) was just as delicious.

The next day, I made the ten-mile trip from our campground to town, in the pretense of attending Friday's concert-in-the park, but the real reason, was Jimmy's falafel, and the mystery of its origin.  I caught the cook's attention, and congratulated him on the falafel.
His name was Hugo Rodriquez.
"How does a Mexican make such an excellent falafel?"  I asked.
"Well, the owner prepared it."  Hugo pointed to a guy eating his lunch.
"He is from Jordan."  was the response to my follow-up query.
I walked over.
"This is the best falafel I had outside of Israel"  I enthusiastically declared to Jimmy.
He did not seem too thrilled.  "Well, maybe you are in Israel," he said, "I am from Palestine."
The instance of discomfort passed, and we exchanged data on our arrival in the US, and other pleasantries.

Over the next week of camping, we made an almost-daily pilgrimage to Jimmy's.  BTW, Adi loved the BBQ'd chicken burrito.

Highway 66

Kingman, Arizona.  A small desert town on Highway 66.  A town where the boundary between reality and fiction is blurred.  Where, for an unsuspecting couple, the present will soon echo the grim past.

"Highway 66 is the main migrant road.  66 the long concrete path across the country...from the Mississippi to Bakersfield... crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert... and into the rich California Valleys"

(John Steinbeck: Grapes of Wrath.   All italicized text in this post are from the same source)

The sun already went down, yet a scorching wind was emanating from an immense oven.   I strolled through Kingman's historic downtown, and Steinback's depression-era characters came to life.

"66 is the path of people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land...  Ashfork and Kingman and stone mountains again, where water must be hauled and sold"

Without exchanging words, it was clear to both Adi and me, that the next morning we will get off the main freeway, and follow old Route 66 through the desert.

The people in flight streamed out on 66, sometimes in a single car, sometimes a little caravan.  All day they rolled slowly across the road, and night they stopped near water"

Exiting Kingman, the road narrows and steepens.  Soon we were the only car in sight.  We were alone, climbing the arid mountains, totally depending on old Nemo to carry us safely.

"Listen to the motor.  Listen to the wheels.  Listen with your ears and with the palm of your hand on the gear-shift lever...Listen to the pounding old jalopy with all your senses, for a change of tone, a variation of rhythm, may mean- a week here?"

It must have been the term "old jalopy" which upset Nemo,  When we returned to Nemo after a scenic stop, I turned the ignition switch, and nothing happened... complete silence.

"Le's look.  God almighty, the fan belt is gone!  Here, make a belt out of this little piece of rope"

At first, I assumed it was the clutch switch.  This would have been an easy fix.  But that was not the problem.  I did check the fan belt.  It was intact.  Nemo remained lifeless.

"Thirst set in instantly.  Winfield moaned "I wanta drink.  I wanta drink."  The men licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst.  And a little panic started."

Alone in the middle of the desert.  Without a cellphone.  Adi sat in the cabin, not saying a word, but her face betrayed her fear.  I took a sip of water to calm my nerves  (Old soldiers, always carry water) and proceeded with the troubleshooting process.

"Lemme have the monkey wrench an' pliers outa the truck"

For years, I have been bringing along a tool box.  This is the first time I needed it.  With the help of the correct-sized wrench, tightening the battery terminal was a cinch.  The rest of the drive to Oatman, where outlaws shoot blanks for the amusement of tourists, was a relaxing return to the present.

Leading Economic Indicator

Kenny is a diligent swimmer.  Every day, he is in the lane next to mine, swimming the butterfly.  He is a musician, and plays the keyboard at the Stratosphere Tower lounge. He is my age, tall, and athletic.  I like him.

Kenny and the band were playing mellow jazz.  I collected a gin-tonic, and strolled along the circular walkway.  Las Vegas glittered a thousand feet below.  A decade ago, a rising tide of speculation, expanded the city all the way to the surrounding mountains.  Then, the tide turned and left behind human debris and listless neighborhoods.  I know;  I could almost see my house, far in the North-East fringe.  Treasure, the pretty lead singer, opened with a Bob Marley song, and I sat down.  Her voice was like aged Mezcal, clear, yet smooth.  When the set ended, I heard Kenny's story.

Four years ago, lured by job opportunities in the thriving casinos, Kenny came to Vegas.  Before he landed his first job, the bubble burst, and the casinos were firing, not hiring.  For four years he could not find work.  He "even" looked for a day job, but without success.  Just a couple of months ago, he got this gig at the Stratosphere. He thinks business is beginning to pick up.  For Kenny's sake, and as a property owner, I hope his fortune turns out to be a leading economic indicator.  The popular Case-Shiller index is still pointing down, but it has a systemic delay of two months.

Treasure, returned to the stage and rendered a fresh version of Hotel California.  I sang along softly.  After a few more oldies, I waved goodbye.  Treasure blew me a kiss.  'She is cute.'

Connected

I was proud of myself.  On my first day in Vegas, I acquired an internet subscription and a local SIM card.  I was connected.

Within minutes of installing the phone, I heard the first beep.  A person who I didn't know, sent a text message which I didn't understand.  An hour or so later, another message.  I felt sorry for the sender, and replied
"U have the wrong #"
Yet the messages kept coming.  At first I was surprised.
'How can he (it felt like a 'he') not notice that the other side is not getting his messages?'
Then I became perversely curious.  He seemed like a high-school educated young man.  He recently experienced a divorce or a separation, and was eager to share his thoughts.  His mood alternated between happiness:
"I am so glad to be single"
and anger:
"I hate Gayle"
At times, the messages seemed part of a conversation:
"Let's watch the game tonight"
 At other times they were general words of wisdom:
"Some women are only interested in f###ing u, then they leave."

They were never sexually explicit, nor offensive.  However after several days of hourly beeps, I initiated a chat session with Dorothy, the phone-company support agent.
"Sorry to hear of your problem," she typed "Try to reply with the word STOP"
I was incredulous.  'I tried that twice before and it didn't work', but I followed her instructions and immediately heard the familiar beep.
"You are now unsubscribed from Twitter"
'Duh'.
My bubble burst.  I saw myself holding a fountain pen in the age of ballpoints. (Or was it a quilt?)

A Nomad's Seder

Without a pillar of fire to guide me through the Nevada desert, it took four (not forty) attempts to find a supermarket that carried matza.  Emboldened by the success, I decided to organize a Seder (Passover celebration).

With some flexibility, I assembled the traditional menu from items available on the store's shelves. Horseradish for Maror,  hummus for Haroset, eggs for Carpas, Gefilte fish, and matza balls (powdered mix).  For the four cups, I poured a Pinot Noir instead of Manichevitz.  The evening's order was slightly scrambled by eating before the readings, but no one complained.  Lacking the Haggada text, we watched Charleston Heston in the Ten Commandments.  The movie was long enough (three hours and fifty minutes), to last through both the first and the second holiday evenings.  I would consider this Seder a great success.

Chag Sameach

Warning:  Compared the traditional, mild mannered maror, raw horseradish gives a surprisingly strong kick.

Deer Eyes

For a limitless instant, the deer and I looked intently into each other's eyes. Despite our fear of the inevitable future, we recognized our common bond as living beings, and forgave. Then, time resumed. The deer and the car continued their converging velocities, Adi screamed, I swerved, tires screeched, a dull heartbreaking thump combined with the sharp clatter of splintering glass, the deer rolled on top of the hood, almost reaching the windshield, then disappeared. It was over. I slowly drove off the road, Adi frozen beside me. We are not hurt.

I stepped out of the car into total silence. There was no traffic on this road that leads from Canada towards Helena, Montana. The sun shone through a patch of blue sky illuminating the rolling prairie that extended to the eastern horizon. To the West, clouds lingered over the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. The majestic view accentuated the deer lying still on the road. An eagle approached, and watchfully spiraled overhead. The deer eyes were still open wide. I pulled the deer off the road to spare him any further indignities.

The silence was broken by a large SUV filled with parents and kids that came to a stop offering help.

"Yes, we are OK." and "Yes, please call a tow truck."

The couple was sympathetic, but not surprised. "This happens all the time in the Montana. Especially on country roads"

Up the road, Adi, got out of the pickup, and walked towards us. In front of the dead deer she stopped, joined her palms in front of her chest and bowed deeply.

Silence returned as the SUV drove off, leaving us to wait for the Highway Police and the tow truck. Something in me was incomplete.

"Yes, it would be good." Adi answered.

I turned towards the deer, joined my palms, and expressed my sorrow, wishing him eternally green pastures wherever he may be. Somehow, I felt better.

_________________________________________________________________________________



Intermittently during our long wait, other vehicles passed by. Everyone stopped and offered help. Some drove on, and some lingered to chat, telling us their stories of deer encounters, most of them ending worse than us. I realized that deer encounters are part of Montana life. So much so, that it was hard to extract favorable treatment by describing our circumstances. In Helena, the rental car agent responded by telling us about her mother that hit a deer on her way, then hit another on her way back.

"You are lucky you didn't hit a moose." was the unsolicited comment by a man that overhead my story.

The repair shop manager regretfully explained that all body shops in Helena have a queue of at least two weeks, caused by deer collisions as well a hail storm that hit neighboring Bozeman.

In our room, after a dash to reach the repair shop and rental car before they closed for the weekend, we were grateful that Friday the thirteenth is almost over.

Bodega

A thick coastal cloud covers the town of Bodega turning the midday into evening. Only a few minutes inland from the highway, Bodega inhabits a different universe than Bodega Bay its touristy neighbor on the coast. The one-block main street is almost deserted and the fading buildings make the town look like an old maiden that gave up all hope, and no longer spends any time in front of the mirror. Alfred Hitchcock chose Bodega as the locale for the atmospheric thriller "The Birds", yet apparently fame did not translate into prosperity.

The renovated historic schoolhouse, which featured in the movie, stands in contrast to the dilapidated stores around it. In front of the school house, two middle aged women, wearing tight leotards and white feather hats place a laptop on the pavement. They adjust it until the webcam captures the building, and then they stand in front of the laptop, flapping their arms. Are they dancing or maybe trying to recreate a scene from the movie? I inquire about their activities, but they bluntly disregard me and continue to talk to each other in a language that sounds like a hybrid of Swedish and Dutch.

Across the street, a large man wearing faded denim overalls is watching the feathered women. He is standing besides an old wooden cabin with a barely readable "Antique" plaque in the storefront window. The window is dusty, and is obscured by a faded curtain. He watches intently, but his face shows no emotion. I cross to his side of the street, but he does not avert his eyes. He assumes I am not a costumer. It has been a long while since the last costumer stepped into the store.

Next door a red neon signs reads "Casino". I peer through the narrow window, but it is too dark inside. In the doorway stands a wiry man in boots, jeans, and a leather vest. His grey pony tail is tied tightly by a leather strap. The end of a elaborate tattoo peers out of his collar. I am sure his Harley is somewhere around.

"Is this really a casino?" I ask.

"No," he answers, boulders gurgling in his throat as he speaks, "It's just a name."

He barely moves aside to let me through. I let my eyes adjust to the dark. I am the only costumer.

"Hello Honey," the plump middle age blond welcomes me from behind the bar, "how are we feeling today?"


I sip my beer quickly and go out, past the ponytail, to the street and my pickup parked by the schoolhouse.


OR

I sip my beer quickly, hoping to finish it and get out. However, with each sip, the music is transforming to a pulsating sensual flow, and the waitress is becoming attractive. The side of the bar that until now was in darkness seems to be faintly glowing. There is a door in that wall and when I touch it, it opens into a brightly lit room.

Wall Street

I visited Wall Street three times in one week.

Wall Street is the destination of a challenging hike in Zion Canyon National Park. To reach Wall Street you have to walk up a flowing river inside a deep canyon called the Narrows. The first pool is the entrance exam. You abandon your dry and warm existence and gingerly step into cold chest-deep water. The rest of the hike is a test of determination. At the entrance to the Narrows there were random groups of visitors; before long, bonded by common suffering, we were friends. The LDS (Mormon) women were my first acquaintances. I first saw them at the shop, where we all rented specialized water boots, neoprene socks, and a tall hiking stick. Now, they stood on the far side of the pool. Tall and slender, wearing ankle-length blue denim dresses, now dripping wet, and holding the long wooden walking sticks, they were the perfect model of the pioneer spirit. Yet there were only two of them.

Where are the other two? I asked

"They changed their mind before entering the water."

As they answered, their stern pioneer faces turned into a cheerful smile. I have to admit that I too, felt a guilty pleasure each time I saw another hiker turn around. It was tempting to give up. Walking knee-deep in a cold fast moving river was hard but was also fun. However since the sun cannot enter the tall and narrow canyon, the air temperature was uncomfortably cold, and added to the suffering of my frozen feet.

The young Japanese couple, without hiking sticks, wearing light tennis shoes, looked tired and miserable, but they would not turn around. Looking at them I was glad I splurged on the rentals. Adi, feeling compassion for fellow Asians, congratulated them on their bravery. They grunted in reply and waded onward. Each time we stopped for rest or a photo opportunity, we looked back hoping they are still there, and cheered them on as they grimly passed by.

The middle-aged couple from Cape Cod made a spontaneous decision to enter the narrows with us. They used branches as walking sticks and kept their original footwear. He was wearing heavy hiking boots and she had crocks. They overtook us as we had lunch in one of the few sunny spots in the canyon. We exchanged a few words and they kept walking upstream, he leading, she cheerfully chatting at his back.

Remembering the "Into Thin Air" disaster, I pre-set a firm turn-around time. This time was approaching just as the onset of shivering started to erode my enthusiasm. Just then, I saw the two LDS women heading back.

"We reached the tributary junction" they said proudly "It's around the next bend."

This landmark is the official start of Wall Street. With renewed energy we waved them goodbye and kept moving. As we reached the junction, we lingered a bit, and were disappointed to realize that the Japanese couple turned back just minutes before reaching their goal. The red smooth walls that form Wall Street are spectacular. However, as I reached a pool that seemed deeper than my chest I decided to turn back too. Fortunately, the Cape Cod husband found a shallower path through the pool and we all happily reached the finish line. They way back took half the time, and the hypothermia symptoms disappeared. It is much easier to walk with the flow rather than against it.

Bryce Canyon National Park, with its detailed weather-carved formations, is the female counterpart to Zion's grand masculinity. It has many observation points along the rim, which can act as a single-word Rosetta Stone. We heard the same word repeated for the five languages Adi and I know, and we could infer it for the other seventeen languages we heard. I spent one afternoon perfecting my pronunciation of the word in the Australian language: "Ah_mahy-zing". Bryce too has a canyon called Wall Street, and thanks to Doron's pre-trip coaxing, we descended from the rim into the midst of fantasy land. Surrounded by the weather eroded columns called hoodoos, our imagination took over, and we had fun discovering shapes in the abstract forms. The two hour hike was amazing.

I visited the third Wall Street through the internet. Unfortunately the New York version disappointed. During our week in the canyons, the S&P 500 lost 22 points.

Well, two out of three ain't bad.