March to Florida, part 3

Into the Gulf

March 19

I know I’m somewhere else, and that makes all the difference.

The ibises flock like chickens on people’s lawns. Herons of various sizes, both white and gray, stand in storm drains and on rooftops. Avocados, grapefruit, and bananas grow by the driveways. I am only now learning the names of some of the trees. I may be able to identify sea grape, cabbage palm, sabal palm (it produces abundant clusters of small black berries), and saw palmetto.

I spent half an hour snorkeling in the Gulf of Mexico this afternoon. Don’t recall ever having a snorkel on before. Everything under the water looks close up. I saw lots of sand. The current arranges it in small ridges that look like ripples. There were some broken shells and an actual small fish that seemed close enough that I tried to catch it by hand. As you might guess,  that was one safe fish.

I haven’t been swimming since I was here a year ago, so after a while, I had had it. I handed the snorkel back to Bob, who went out and pulled maybe three dozen sand dollars off the sand today. They are going to be game props when his grandkids show up.

The Gulf water is chillier right now than bath water, but once you get in, it’s very comfortable. There were very small breakers on the beach. The little birds that you see on the Jersey shore and elsewhere were here as well, running to the edge of the waves to pick in the sand at the bubbles and then running away as the large waves rolled in.

Jamy and I started the day by biking for breakfast this morning, and it was when we came out after pancakes, eggs, and ham at Peach’s that I saw the bird on a wire in today’s photo. You may remember the Leonard Cohen song: “Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in may way to be free.” This free bird is an ibis. They used to be holy in Egypt. Maybe they came over when the Egyptians discovered America.

Next trip of the day was biking south to the far end of the island. I found the treehouse again and also a vacation rental with Haitian motifs. I had wanted to reach a park at the foot of the island on the channel between Anna Maria Island and Longboat Key.

I mistook the turnoff and wound up on the bridge over the channel. The sidewalk was closed on my side for repairs, so foot traffic and bicycles had to cross the highway, and very conveniently right then, the bridge was being opened for a boat to pass so traffic was standing still.

So happens, the boat passed under the bridge just fine. It carried three antennas sticking up above the roadway level. Rather than arrange to dip the antennas, they raised the bridge.

On the other side of the bridge was a road that appeared to be the entrance to a park. But not so. Apparently I was not the first to make that assumption. It was plastered with “no trespassing” signs, so I left Longboat Key behind. 

The trip back went up Gulf Drive until the bike lane ended. At that point, cyclists are directed to turn right onto the “Scenic Bike Path.” It runs past a neighborhood of old fisherman’s cabins and then comes to the Historic Bridge Street Pier, a short block or two from Island Time, where we heard the band yesterday. It is also the neighborhood of the Tidewater Inn, which had Long Hammer IPA on tap. India pale ales are better to tap than they are in the bottle. They have a very crisp fresh flavor on draft, but they are very lively and sometimes the carbonation overwhelms the flavor in the bottled version.

We had supper at Slim’s. When I’m coming up Gulf Drive, I make a right at Slim’s place to find my way back to Bob and Jamy’s. The cheeseburger is excellent. Magic Hat #9 (which makes me think of a slightly sweet IPA) and Sierra Nevada pale ale are on tap.

Joanna and Beatrice’s husband, Alan, have told me that the two bright stars that I couldn’t identify are in fact planets. One is Jupiter; the other is Venus. There is also a vote for Mars.

I will take another look at the sky. Maybe I’ll be able to make out some telltale sign that tells me which is which.

Good night for now.

Jack

March 20

Great trip, glad you are enjoying it!  Did not know that Leonard Cohen recorded "Bird on a Wire," one of my favorite songs.  Ever hear the Joe Cocker version?  Leonard C. is on my iPod with "Suzanne" and "Hallelujah." He did a great "Joan of Arc" song, too, with Jennifer Warnes.  I like Cohen a lot but am still bowled over whenever I hear Joe Cocker's greatest stuff from way back there in the Stoned Age.

Harry

March 20

Yes, I have heard the Joe Cocker version. I first heard the song about 40 years ago when a folk singer named Dave Van Ronk did it at a small club in Greenwich Village. 

There is another moving version by the Neville Brothers. It plays during the closing credits of the film "Bird on a Wire," with Mel Gibson (back in the days when he was entertaining) and Goldie Hawn.

"Suzanne" I remember fondly from my college days. "Hallelujah" is used in  "Shrek." I can't listen to it any more, though, because it breaks my heart.

Thanks for the reminiscence.

Scrawny Squirrels, Fast Pelicans

March 20

The grey squirrels here are smaller and leaner than the ones back home. That may be because they are different strain of grey squirrel, they go to the beach and work out a lot, or they are competing with the birds for nourishment. If the birds eat any squirrel food, that’s probably the reason.

There was a man on one of the piers cleaning his catch. This is not squirrel food, but it is bird food down here. A brown pelican in the water was getting the best of it because the fisherman was casually tossing the offal and bones in his general direction. A great blue heron was standing a few feet away from the guy and was so intent on getting a share of the action that it didn’t move when I came up and photographed it. When it got tired of waiting for him to throw something in another direction, the bird took off and tried to pick up something up for itself off the man’s worktable.

By then two gulls and another pelican had showed up. I think the other pelican got a little something, but the first was faster and in the best spot.

One of the gulls tried to divebomb the guy but got shooed away. He or his companion somehow got a little mouthful away from one of the pelicans a few minutes later. 

Another fisherman at the pier caught a blowfish, which puffed up when he tried to take it off the hook. He had a young boy with him who was fascinated. He may have thrown it back it, but I’m not sure, because I walked down a ways to talk to another fisherman. 

We were watching some fair size fish nibbling bait off his hooks. They were razor thin if you’re looking for the top or the front, but oval in silhouette from the side. (When I described them later to Bob, he guessed they were haddock.) The man offered me a pole, but I told him I hadn’t the patience for it. He said neither did he, but he had grandkids, and you learn to be patient with grandkids. I think the boy with the blowfish may have been one of those kids.

Jamy and I went back to the same pier by kayak for lunch. The beer selection was very limited so I had Heineken from a bottle. One of the specials was grouper cheeks. It didn’t specify face cheeks or butt cheeks, but if I can eat beetles, grubs, underfried crickets, and chicken feet, I can eat anything that somebody calls food. Even if it’s for no better reason than to brag about it later.

It tasted like fried fish, but had no bones and was a little fatty, and that was fine with me. Jamy had grilled mahi-mahi. I sampled that and it was delicious. It may have had some kind of tangy marinade on it.

We got caught in a light shower of rain on the way back, but that didn’t matter, because we were already soaked from splashing ourselves with water off the paddles.

We ran into a guy standing on what looked like a surfboard. Jamy told me this is a paddle board, and is designed to be used that way, by someone standing in the middle and paddling. I could see he’d been fishing, so I asked if he dismounted to fish. He said he fished from the board. 

If I tried fishing from a board like that, I’d be bait. I slipped on the stationary ladder at the little dock yesterday when I was getting out of the kayak. But that’s all right. I learned how to snorkel yesterday, so I fulfilled stuff-in-the-water learning requirement for this year.

I tried to get lost, just to remind myself that I’m on vacation, but except for maybe going a couple of blocks out of your way, you can’t do that here. A half mile east or west and your somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico or Tampa Bay. And you can always tell east and west. In the day time, you look for the sun and remember that’s always south. At night, you look for Jupiter and Venus (or Mars) and remember that’s vaguely northwest.

It’s half past five here. We’re going to be heading out to a place called Eat Here. It’s owned by Sean Murphy, the founder of the local St. Patrick’s Day parade. He also owns an upscale restaurant, the Beach Bistro, which is highly rated by Zagat.

Eat Here is where the parade started. Jamy tells me the pot roast is succulent, and there are also taps with craft beers. If I remember anything, I’ll let you know tomorrow how it goes.

Be well, all.

Karl

March 20

Astro-floral-keyboard alert.  Harry those planets are bright in the Jersey sky this evening. Also Wiley found your house key and is sitting over there tickling the ivories at the piano as we speak.  And your daffodils are blooming. Springtime in America.

Harry

March 21

Thanks for all that good news, Karl.

Back Again

March 22

A good trip gives your brain enough exercise to ward off senility. So far, so good.

Eat Here says it’s the second-best restaurant in Florida. Or maybe it’s more modest and claims only the island. Anyway, that’s because it’s owned by the parade guy, who runs the top-rated place, the Beach Bistro, where the prices are higher.

The food menu runs four pages, beer and wine are another. For the hamburger, the menu directs you to Duffy’s 200 yards to the right; for chicken wings, to Hurricane Hank’s across the street. 

Jamy had tempura-fried beets. Bob had the pot roast. I had “Better than any Frenchman’s onion soup” and “shrimpcargot,” shrimp done like snails with the addition of collard greens and bacon. The place is known for craft beers, mostly bottled, but they had a Dogfish Head 60-minute IPA on draft and that was good with dinner.

The next stop was Old Hamburg, a schnitzel house with a selection of German beers on tap. I had a Hacker-Pschorr summer bock that has a sweet edge but was very tasty. Jamy and Bob each had a crisp lager, and I’m not sure, but it may have been Warsteiner.

We had medium-size glasses. I think they were medium because they weren’t quite a full liter measure.

On the way home, Bob says, “Do you want to see the parrots?” Sure. 

So he does a U-turn, pulls into a strip mall, and stops in front of a beach shop. Outside, there are maybe a dozen floor cages with various rescued parrots.  There were grey ones, green ones, blue ones, some with yellow heads. There were notes about the species, along with the individual birds’ names and particular skills. I can’t remember much of it, because what do I know about parrots? Some were from South America, some from Asia, some maybe from Africa. I’m trying to sort out if one was from Nepal. Do they have parrots there? I may be confusing it with a tree with red flowers at the Ringling Estate grounds in Sarasota. 

According to the signs, all of the parrots bite. Some of them talk, although apparently never face to face. One laughs a little bit like Woody Woodpecker, another can sing “Old MacDonald” (which I didn’t get to hear), and yet another kept saying “hello” when I wasn’t looking. They do stuff like that to get you come back and pay attention to them. 

One huge bird, maybe a macaw, entertained us by climbing around the inside of his cage using his beak and claws.

I am trying to recall some of the names, but all I can remember are Yosemite Sam and Tater Tots.

Wednesday is traveling day. I got to walk for a while on the beach in the morning next to the Gulf. I was over 50 before I saw the Gulf of Mexico for the first time, and so, like palm trees, space cake, or people driving on the wrong side of the road, it’s symbolic of being somewhere else. Maybe because it’s so largely enclosed or more likely because of the movies, the Gulf of Mexico always conveys a sense of rich history--pirates, lost Spanish gold (I know, I didn’t find any; but there has to be some, right?), dolphins, shipwrecks, conquistadors, metal hats, and all kinds of interesting things.

And speaking of interesting things: Most people stopped wearing St. Patrick’s Day beads by Monday, but when I left Anna Maria, they were still decking some lawn ornaments--pink flamingoes, wooden herons, and Dianas bathing.   

Jamy stopped at the Ringling Estate on the way to the airport. In fact, it’s practically next to the airport. You can drop in and walk around the grounds. There is a fee to enter the house, the art museum, and the circus exhibits.

Before that, we stopped at a couple of commercial fishing docks in Cortez, across the bridge from Anna Maria Island. That’s where local sculptor sells his work. Today’s photo is “Jamy Meets Chainsaw Charlie.”

Cortez is a town of commercial fisherman, and there is a monument near the docks to honor them. Three names on the monument are of fishermen lost in “The Perfect Storm.”

The rest of the way home was fairly uneventful. No drunken skaters, for instance. Sarasota airport still has free Wi-Fi, although it’s not strong enough to e-mail large files. But that’s all right. You don’t have to pay eight bucks a shot to use Boingo.

The B concourse at Atlanta has one of the worst arrays of prepackaged food that can exist at airports or malls. But there was one bright spot, a packed place that may have been called Sweetwater Brew House. It claims to be Atlanta-based, and the taps are all house brands. I don’t know if the company brews them or buys them. There was time to show my ID (in the Bible Belt they harass the wicked for drinking beer) and grab a pint of Sweetwater Georgia Brown. That was a tasty brown ale, and on the dry side for a brown, which is good.

I left the parking lot at Newark at 10 p.m. and was home around half past. 

Thanks to Jamy and Bob, another great trip. And senility has been put off to a later date.

Love to all, and to all a great time.

A Quick Ride Through Virginia

Off to Virginia

Jan. 13, 2012

I'm going to be away this weekend, on a car trip to Virginia. I have a craving for hush puppies and Brunswick stew.

I'm taking Joanna to the Stonewall Jackson Shrine, Yorktown, and Ralph's barbecue.

Hello from Fredericksburg

Jan. 14

We left Montclair just about 8 a.m. and checked into the Quality Inn next to I-95 at Fredericksburg around 2 in the afternoon. As many times as I have stopped at motels along this stretch, I have never been in the old part of the city, and so we went there.

This is where Hugh Mercer’s apothecary shop is. I had heard about it years ago from someone who had visited, but I thought it was in Savannah.

Hugh was a doctor and druggist who was born in Scotland, backed the party of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and fled to America. He met Washington during the French and Indian Wars. There’s a story that he was ambushed by Indians on the frontier and made his way back to safety by surviving for 10 days on two dried clams and a rattlesnake. He became a brigadier general in the Continental Army and was killed after he was captured but refused to surrender at the Battle of Princeton.

His grandson was the Confederate general, Hugh Mercer. He was the one who moved to Savannah, was mentioned in “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” and was the great-grandfather of the songwriter Johnny Mercer.

A young man in breeches and hose at the shop told us about herbs and other preparations for purging humors and just general purging. A lady in long dress and bonnet showed us live leeches, which she held in her hand. We could go up and get a close look. I had never seen a leech before, and these were extra large imported specimens. They are fed on blood gathered from a nearby slaughterhouse.

The lady also explained other methods of bleeding (especially therapeutic in spring, when the blood is still sluggish after its winter thickening). She also demonstrated very vaguely the method of amputation that prevailed in the late 18th century.

No painkillers. They were expensive and the patient was going to pass out halfway through the operation anyway.

My photos of Hugh Mercer’s leeches didn’t come out very well. They are just blobs behind glass. You can’t see their little teeth or anything.

Like a lot of old cities—downtown Manhattan, Paterson, etc.—the streets are all one way in the wrong direction, so of course, I got lost coming back to the motel. Some lessons are a long time learning. I took cards from hotels in Thailand so I could find my way back.

This is America. I don’t need no stinkin cards. So we stopped at a Sheetz gas station where I bought some Guinness and an amber ale ominously called Fat Tire, and got directions, which I almost failed to follow. There was one intersection where I had to get off the mark fast and cross two, three, maybe twenty-five lanes of traffic to get onto the wrong entrance to I-95 south. But at least I knew my place in the world. The next exit was only four miles down the road. The beer made it safely back to the Quality Inn.

I discovered later that, had I been in the right turn lane at that intersection, I would have been at the motel parking lot about a couple of hundred yards later.

It was still daylight when we got to the Stonewall Jackson Shrine, so I could read some of the signs this time. Instead of an oversize orange moon hanging over the trees like last February, when I was trespassing in the dark, this time the sky was literally blue and gray. There is a Blue-Gray Parkway in Fredericksburg. Any place that tries to attract Civil War tourists has at least one Blue-Gray Something. So I guess this was a tourist sky.

We got there just as the park ranger was closing the building.

If this gets into the hands of the wrong people and my true name is connected with it, there will be hexes put out by the faithful to keep me from ever entering Virginia again. A least openly and under my own name.

Understand, please, that one of the reasons I like to visit the place is that I find the whole notion of a shrine to Stonewall Jackson to be innately hilarious. It is operated by the National Park Service to commemorate someone who died in the act of levying war against the United States. That is one of the two forms of treason recognized in the Constitution.  Giving aid and comfort to enemies in time of war is the other.

Jackson’s death is portrayed as a tragedy. Yeah, for the slaveholders. To anyone on the Union side, or to anyone opposed to human bondage, it was a stroke of good luck. Remember, there was a war on. The Union soldiers were actually trying to kill this guy and anybody who worked for him. That’s why they were shooting guns.

The union soldiers missed him. Stonewall Jackson was hit by friendly fire in May of 1863 during the Battle of Chancellorsville, not far from Fredericksburg. He got his nickname a couple of years before that, when somebody remarked that Jackson had stood up against a Union assault “like a stone wall.”

No, Jackson didn’t. His soldiers did.

I wonder: Maybe he was fragged by a Confederate who was tired of being a stone in Jackson’s wall. Who knows?

Anyway, they hauled him two days later to the Chandler plantation at Guinea Station, Va. A year before, he had used the plantation as his base of operations, so the family knew him. They put him in the plantation office, where he lingered a few days and died.

A year or so after Jackson died, the Union captured Fredericksburg, Chandler’s slaves fled, and the enterprise tanked in a free economy. 

The derelict property was bought by a railroad in 1909. A track runs right past the shrine site now. All the buildings were torn down except for the office. The company donated the land to the park service in the ’30s.

It’s all funny, ironic, and weird. I get a wonderful sense of irreverence from being there. To add to it all, when we talked to the ranger on site, we learned he is from Cherry Hill, N.J. That’s damned near perfect: a Yankee tending the Confederate shrine.

Thanks to Joanna, who read his name tag, I learned that the ranger has the improbably appropriate name of Longfellow.

Today’s photo is ”Joanna Meets Stonewall Jackson.” That’s the shrine behind her, the well next to her, and she is pointing to the plot where the Chandler house used to stand, as long as they had slaves to keep it.

I had a red ale and an amber ale with a steak for dinner. There are actual bars in Fredericksburg, which is a novelty for Virginia, I’m told. On a former trip down the Shenandoah Valley and the Blue Ridge, all I found was one brew pub way in the south below Blacksburg and a German restaurant with taps near Staunton. Most of the people I have heard on the street and in the bars of Fredericksburg have very unVirginia accents. I think the Yankees never left.

I’m drinking Fat Tire now. I’m back in the Bible Belt being naughty. Hot damn.

Love to all

Larry

Jan. 14

That’s naughty?

Harry.

Jan. 14

What? Drinking to excess in Virginia? You bet.

[Editor’s note: Harry failed to make his main point, which is that he was making fun of a Confederate hero in Virginia.]

Beatrice

Jan. 15

Absolutely fascinating. Alan thinks so too – I forwarded it to him.

Peter

Jan. 15

When I saw that this communique was from Fredericksburg, I said to myself, "This won't be as amusing as Thailand." But, happily I was mistaken. Very interesting. Thanks.

Like Grant took Richmond (well, not exactly)

Jan. 16

Nothing like 12 hours’ sleep. Good morning.

I’m at the Holiday Inn Express in Ashland, Va., a little north of Richmond. One of my children’s relatives (on their mother’s side) was near here too almost a century and a half ago, but he was going the other way, and with an army.

We left Fredericksburg around 9 and drove through the winter countryside. There are little towns, huge fields that may be the legacy of Tidewater plantations, and also pine woods. One minute, you’re in the middle of a harvested plain, and the next you’re going through a passage of trees. At the end there’s a huge drawbridge, and that’s always spectacular if you behave and don’t fall off.

We reached Yorktown just before noon. We got out and walked around the monument for a few minutes. Let me tell you: it was cold. What’s more, my blood recently has been thinned by my experience in tropic climes. My false gout decided to pseudo act up, too, so I was gimping about this obelisk, reading the inspirational words: “One Country, One Constitution, One Destiny,” and complaining to my inner child, “Damn, this is south Virginia. Why is it so cold?”

We toured more of Yorktown by car. A sign in front of a clapboard house on a side street mentioned that the building was there during the siege, when the British tore down many structures, including all the outbuildings on this property, to build their earthworks. It was surprising that this building survived, the sign said.

Most of the buildings are brick, and they and the yards are kept in what is believed to be an eighteenth century style. What adds an extra touch of interest to me is that most of them are private homes, and not museums or public properties.

We went down to the riverside to brave the polar wind. We saw the usual expected stuff: the wind chopping up the water, the soaring drawbridge, people crossing the river on the ice floes. That’s also where I met George Washington and Admiral de Grasse.

I said, “Hi, gents, how are you doing?” patted them on the shoulder, gave them a little advice, that sort of thing. If you don’t believe me, here’s a photograph.

It was maybe 5 or 10 degrees warmer in Murfreesboro, N.C., a couple of hours later. The historical district is a few blocks of very southern-looking homes and yards. If it was in Georgia, you’d say this is what Faulkner wrote about.

One home is a two-story brick structure with a porch and second-floor gallery supported by white columns. There’s a place called the Gingerbread House next to it that is covered with carved Victorian frippery.

The tin shop and the blacksmith shop were closed, but we were able to trespass on the property.

It's a short run from Murfreesboro to Weldon, N.C., and Ralph's BBQ. When it's possible, I time my trips on this section of I-95 so it's dinner time when I reach Weldon.

Ralph’s may have been Joanna’s first encounter with Southern cooking. When you sit down, they put a basket of hush puppies on your table. We ordered an array of stuff, and they had everything we wanted but the black-eyed peas.

Joanna had eaten collards before, at the Ethiopian restaurant in Montclair. Maybe some other times. So I knew she liked them. The southern-style green beans (that is, slightly sweetened and cooked to death), Brunswick stew, and pulled pork barbecue were all firsts for her. We had a little fried chicken too, and she hadn’t eaten any of that for a long time, she said.

I have encountered Brunswick stew only in North Carolina, but I read somewhere that it may have originated in Virginia, where the original meat was rabbit and squirrel. They are stringy game, so stewing is the best way to eat them. I know this first-hand. When I was 10 or 11 years old, I used to sit at my mother’s kitchen table in my PJs skinning rabbits and squirrels, some of which I had shot with a .410. That’s absolutely true, not made up in the least. And some people think rednecks only come from the South.

The broth of Brunswick stew contains yellow corn and lima beans, and the meat used at Ralph’s is pork. You can find recipes online. I have never made it, and have preferred to leave that to professionals. Properly done, it is such a soothing comfort food that it can bring a tear to the eye. Like the food critic eating ratatouille, the title dish of the cartoon.

The chicken was Joanna’s hands-down favorite, but she took a bit of the stew and more of the pork. Ralph’s hush puppies, as always, were like dessert.

We got past Richmond with little difficulty, unlike Kate and Matt’s cousin, Ulysses Grant, who met quite a bit of resistance. We drove straight through, up I-95 rather than use the by-pass highway. I wanted to show Joanna a Richmond landmark.

The Philip Morris has a large facility—maybe the headquarters or a research center—that sits right at the side of Interstate 95. Right up against the highway, behind a fence, is a rectangular obelisk several stories high with the proportions of a cigarette carton. It is decorated with the company’s labels—Marlboro, Merit (my old brand), Virginia Slims, Benson & Hedges, etc.

I forgot to mention, that in visiting Fredericksburg, we went into the Pennsylvania Dutch (Don’t ask. I have no idea why that’s in Fredericksburg, Va.) Candy Company, where we found something that I thought had been perfectly swept away by the winds of political correctness: candy cigarettes. Actually, I think they were packaged for people like me—old folks who remembered them and thought they had disappeared. One pack was labeled Victory to look like Viceroy; another said “Kings” and had a crown to resemble L&M or Winston or something that had a crown on the pack. Others clearly packaged for the collector trade had names like “Doctor’s Choice” and “Machismo,” which had an illustration suspiciously reminiscent of the Marlboro cowboy.

But after the foray through Richmond, I knew it was time to pull over. I found an exit with a choice of inns, and here I am. I was so beat when I got here, that I conked out at 7:30 and didn’t stir for about 12 hours. [Editor’s note: Harry’s state of collapse explains the date of this entry. He seems to have taken an anti-inflammatory medication and gone directly to bed, and did not do any writing until the following morning.]

It’s Monday now. I expect to be home this afternoon. We may find some curious place to stop and explore on the way. My ankle is nearly normal, so I’m game for that.

Back

Jan. 16

Back home. This town is not as famous as Yorktown, but there is a stone here, with a marker that says it was formerly the doorstep of a building from colonial times that Lafayette used as his headquarters. He may have stepped on or over this very stone. This, too, is true, or at least, the sign says so.

By the way, the monument at Yorktown lists the besieging force as 5,000 enlisted in the Continental army, 7,000 French "troops of the line," and 3,500 American militia. The French outnumbered the Continental regular soldiers. I had known before that the river was blocked by the French fleet.

To show our gratitude, we should all go out and buy something French to help them with the euro. 

Harry 

Beatrice

Jan. 16

YES!!!

Karl

Jan. 16

Righto!  I'll pick up a baguette in the morning—or maybe a French maid.

Thailand Part 4: Returning by Way of Pattaya

Pattaya, Where the Twain Meet.

Jan. 5

We arrived at our second-to-last hotel, in the resort town of Pattaya City, on the afternoon of the 4th. I had thought it was a suburb of Bangkok, but in fact, it's about an hour and a half on the highway from the Bangkok Airport.

We were on the Walking Street the first night and hit a few bars. We also stumbled into a discotheque and stumbled right out again. Even though it is technically closed to motor vehicles at night, we had to dodge a few motorbikes and other vehicles. Somebody brought in a classic old-man car with fins. It was low, wide, long, and excessive, white with black trim and chrome. It may once have belonged to the 5,000-year-old pimp. On the way out I was almost run over by a Mercedes. The plate number was a single digit, and Larry says it must be a politician. They're alike everywhere.

Anywhere you turn somebody is trying to sell you something on the street. There is some street food, but far less than in Chiang Mai or Bangkok. Instead, people sell things like hammocks, toy lasers, glowing plastic helicopters, or themselves. 

I can't quite describe this place. It has many of the elements that Bangkok is reputed to have. You can walk down the street and see a family of tourists with their kids, hookers, and Russian gangsters, all on the same block. Think of Seaside Park or Wildwood, N.J.: boats on the water, parasailing, a beach, Put that on steroids (primarily testosterone) and mix with a kind of Las Vegas Gone Wild. 

For instance, this is the first time I have roomed at a hotel that includes condoms in the mini-bar. Beginning about five in the afternoon, when I’m in my room, I can hear the music from the saloons below in the street. If I step out onto the terrace, I can feel the heavy bass. And that's coming from six floors down.

This is one of those places where the West has collided with the East and the accident scene is in chaos. Upscale hotels and shopping centers are next to street markets, with open stalls selling leather goods, underwear, souvenir brass knuckles, and other essentials. There is all kinds of food. One menu at a brew pub offers dishes ranging from pizza and spaghetti to bierwurst and Thai pork. That was at a place called the Hopf Brew House, a German theme restaurant that brews its own beer. The pizza is very good Euro style. 

The mix of food choices lets a farang, who may be retired and living here or just passing through, order a steak, while his Thai lady, who may be his wife or someone he has hired to be his girlfriend for an hour or two, can enjoy pad thai or red curry.

It's a collision of all things cultural. In one lane off the Walking Street is a Malaysian halal food stand run by bearded Moslems right next to a hotel that advertises room rentals of three hours for 300 baht. 

We are in a hotel called the Eastiny 7. (Said like "Easton"—as in Pennsylvania—with a diminutive ending added.) It sits on a side street called Soi 7. Starting across the street and continuing to the beach road is a warren of bars. Most of them are open to the air and serve beer only in bottles. Many also serve girls.

I went out for walk this morning. I put on sunblock, a T-shirt, and a linen jacket, which is dripping dry in the closet as I write. 

I'm back at the hotel and hiding from the heat. I got only semi-lost. I walked about a mile too far. 

On the way back, I was looking for Harry's Bar, which Larry had mentioned. I had already found Harry's Fashion on the Walking Street and a "no weapons" sign outside the Sweethearts a Go-Go bar.

Brian, my daughter's significant other, had heard about signs like that outside bars in Thailand and wondered what a place would be like that had them. Brian, it would be like Pattaya.

I spent two hours or more prowling up and down the Walking Street last night, looking at the lights and the strange sights. I couldn't believe how different it looks in daylight. For one thing, it is open to vehicles during the day. That's how they get the cases and kegs of Chang and Singha to the bars. 

Anyway, there are Harry's Bars in many places. Perhaps they are in acknowledgment of the support I give to their industry. Harry's Fashion—I don't know. I am the only farang who goes out in a jacket. Every time I do, ten guys get into my face telling me how they can make a duplicate "at best price."

Never did find the bar, but lots of other strange stuff. The beach is full of Russians. Some of them wear Speedos. Enough said.

I haven't seen so many signs in Russian since the last time I passed through Brighton Beach in Brooklyn.

The side streets are full of tailor shops, bars, strip clubs, nail salons, and 7-Elevens. A couple of streets, I found, have specialties. One area is known as Boyz Town, and there is a lane that has a lady-boy bar and a few other related attractions. Lady boys are a phenomenon associated with Thailand. They are neither transvestites nor transsexuals, but a gender in between.

When I signed up for my Asian Gmail account, Google requested the usual demographic information. Perhaps because I was signing up from Thailand, when it asked for gender, the options were male, female, and other. 

This is the view from the steps in front of the Eastiny 7 hotel, looking toward the beach on the Gulf of Thailand.

It is now more than 30 hours after my arrival in Pattaya. I have hit a wall and have been walking around like a zombie for the past two hours. We'll probably cab it back to the airport hotel tomorrow afternoon. Right now, this old man needs a sound night's sleep.

Good night, all.

Back Home

Jan. 8

There's no worse place to be than an airport. Larry was on his way to Saigon and my flight to Tokyo was scheduled to leave shortly after his. Both flights were going out early, so we stayed Friday night at a hotel called the Great Residence, just outside Suvarnabhumi, the Bangkok airport. [Editor’s note: Harry seems to have learned to spell the airport’s name after his third pass through it.] It was sort of like one of the motels in the Meadows, in the shadow of the Jersey Turnpike.

They had a restaurant, where I decided to get two cups of coffee to go. If I put them in the refrigerator in the room, there would be iced coffee when I woke up at four. They told me there would be a wait of 10 minutes. It seems nobody in Thailand orders coffee in the afternoon. They brought me one, in a porcelain cup. No, two. Song (which I think is two in Thai). Take away (which is "to go" in British and in the Thai brand of English). They had no idea what I was talking about. Crazy farang.

I stacked two cups, put a saucer on top and got them across the parking lot and up three floors to my room. I had no expectation that I would make it, but was damned sure going to try. Wow. I did it.

An enterprising cab driver had found a business opportunity in the isolation of the place. He offered to take us to a market about 10 minutes away. "It's not a shopping mall, is it?" Larry says. "No, no, a market." "Thai food?" "Yes, Thai food." So for 400 baht, a little less than $15, we hired a cab for two hours. 

We passed some interesting stalls along the road, and that looked promising. But the driver left them behind and about a mile up the road made a left into Paramus, N.J. McDonald's, KFC, a Tesco food market, and stores selling clothes, jewelry, knickknacks, and whatnots. 

The stores had set up garment racks outside in the plaza, so there was space only for a thin line of Thai carts selling meat on a stick and sweets. The beer was being sold next to the two loudspeakers providing the soundtrack for the entire mall and the far reaches of the parking lot. We tried to get the bartender to turn the music way down, or better yet, off. He either couldn't understand what we were asking, or else couldn't believe that anybody, even a farang, would be crazy enough not to appreciate the sound system.

Even I wasn't pleased with this place. It was nice enough, but I can get nice anywhere, even in Indiana. This also constituted an instance of messing with food, so you can probably take a good guess at Larry's state of mind.

Luck was with us, as usual, because after a few minutes of bewilderment, we met the driver. He had seen us wandering in circles and came up to see how we were doing. "We want to go to the other market." Blank stare. "The one we passed." "You want to go there?" Crazy farang. But he took us. And it was worth it. We stepped under the roof, onto the concrete floor, under the bare light bulbs. As Larry put it, "Welcome back to Asia."

There was produce, meat, and seafood on display and we could smell the cooking. I don't know what all goes into Thai food—green and red chiles, garlic, basil, maybe lime, ginger, coconut—but you can breathe and say, "Thai." The same way we can identify other kinds of food—French, Italian, Chinese, even good WASP (think home fries, or steak)—by smell, unless they are being made bland, as they may be at a mall. An elephant can do it from at least 4 kilometers away.

There was a family selling fresh fish. The man and one of the kids were squatting on the floor, removing the heads and entrails. Of course, we could not smell the fish, because it was so fresh. I didn't see any plastic bags of live eels, as I did in Chiang Mai, but they may have been there. Didn’t see fried insects either, but then I didn't ask.

We bought something that looked like an empanada to start and then a bag of assorted deep-fried vegetables, and a browned rice pancake. When I first picked it up, I thought it was a take on hash-brown potatoes.

We were the only farang in the place, and nobody looked at us as if we were crazy. These people were busy.

Later we came to an area with tables and several food stands. We sampled a couple of kinds of flavored rice. Larry said one may have been cooked with a little pork blood. There was a fatty pork in gravy with something pickled—maybe bean sprouts—on the side. There was also the very hot green papaya salad. It's delicious but I need a lot of rice to calm the burn. As he was digging in, Larry started to pour sweat. It was running all over his head, like tears of utter joy. 

Would the temperature of this climate drop maybe five or ten degrees if they took all the chiles out of the country?

The driver was waiting for us outside the 7-Eleven. There's always one of those. He was killing time over a large beer, so we joined him with beers of our own. Larry gave him a tangerine, and then we headed back. All in all, a fitting way to end a visit.

I had about 30 hours to make the transition back to my home planet. The Great Residence is a Thai hotel. The room is plain and could be at a Super 8 or Holiday Inn in the Meadowlands, only they speak a different language. Plumbing is always a hint that you're somewhere else. Pattaya caters to foreigners and so is a little more Western. There was a tub, for instance.

Most places where I showered in Thailand had little or no separation of the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. One had a glass panel to keep the shower from splashing on anyone who may have been using the toilet at the same time. In most cases, the shower was one corner of the bathroom. Except in Pattaya, the water only runs cold in Thailand. 

The shower is the Continental type, the spray head is on a hose so you can pick it up and spray yourself all over. This is more convenient than the fixed head we are more used to at home, especially when the water pressure, as it is in almost every motel I have visited, is low. If you can take the sprayer and hold it three inches from your arm, for instance, the suds wash off better because you take advantage of the entire volume of water. 

The water heater is a unit on the wall. At one place, I had to push a button to turn it on. In the others, it came on with the water. 

I was looking for soap at the Great Residence and it was only in the morning that I noticed the dispenser on the wall in the shower corner. I prefer bar soap, because I usually wind up wasting most of the liquid soap I use. I had brought a bar with me, so that was OK. Shampoo from the dispenser was very handy. Take some for my hair. Take more for my whiskers. I may get one for home.

The plane was late getting out of Bangkok, and there was a short turnaround for my flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. My ticket said 17:00. When I got to the end of the security line at Narita, it was 16:30. So I told everyone "I have a plane leaving at 7. No, 5." and they promoted me to the head of the line because they feared I was either mathematically illiterate or delusional and therefore possibly disruptive.

As it turned out, I had my usual difficulty dealing with forms and schedules. That was the boarding time. My flight, UA0890, according to my voucher, was supposed to take off at 5:45, although the board had departure time at 5:40 and the gate had it at 5:30. That may all have been consistent, in fact, considering gate closings, departure from the gate, and extra point conversions. But I had been up since 4 a.m. Bangkok time and now I was wandering around somewhere in the future or the past, so I was a bit hazy on a lot of concepts. Net score: No longer farang. Possibly Yankee. Still crazy. But I was on a plane and pretty sure it was the right one.

To live and die in L.A. may be better than spending time at an airport. I can't say for sure, because this trip I was only passing through LAX for a couple of hours. I haven't seen the city since the early 90s, and that has lasted me. 

Get this: I'm coming through airport customs for the fourth time in the past 13 months, and I forgot the declaration form. I had to go back and fill one out. I filled out an immigration form, too, just in case the rules had changed. I was given hardship consideration here too and allowed to return to the head of the line.

I had put my vest on before I got off the plane in Los Angeles. There is a buckle at the back. TSA is on high alert here. Maybe they always are. Everybody gets a scan. You can't even leave your handkerchief in your pocket. So I go through and the way is barred. The agent at the scanner "wants to check my back." I added LAX to the list of places where I have been subject to government search.

OK. I'm on the last leg. I stop to have a beer with lunch because I can: Somebody else is driving. A few barstools away is a 30-something kid on a cell phone. I hear him order a white Russian. Then he says something to the bartender. Apparently one of his backpacks is missing, the one with the skateboard sticking out of it. I suggest he retrace his steps. It's probably still there; most people are honest. 

So he went. He just walked off, leaving his other bag on his seat and several small bills on the bar. He came back about five minutes later with the bag. He had left it and security had seized it.

After bonding over an instance of lost and found, I learn that this is Fred. We are on the same flight to Newark. He is going home to New York before leaving for Uruguay to go skateboarding.

He has been skateboarding in Thailand too, a year ago. I guess it can be done. He knew about the moat at Chiang Mai. He told me about a traffic accident in which he bound up injured people with his shirt and socks, and sent them to the hospital in his tuk-tuk. Then because it was so late, he had to wander shirtless for hours. 

It can be done. But he has also consumed a lot of white Russians.

So many, in fact, that when he orders another, he is flagged. "I want you to get home safe," the bartender says and pours him two tall glasses of water.

Just when I thought adventures were over on this trip, I have a drunken skater to watch over on his way to the gate. Get your wallet, your credit card, both bags. He's doing all right for someone so well lubricated. When we get to the gate, he mounts his skateboard and casually rides it to the men's room. I figured that's where he went, because I lost sight of him in the crowd. When I could see the far end of the hall, there was no wreckage there.

He shows up a few minutes later, phone at his ear, heading for the gate. Job over. 

When next I see him, he joins the queue for the lavatory in the plane and he is pouring Jack Daniel's into a plastic cup. 

My last sight of him was gliding past me at Newark on the way to the baggage claim. I wonder if he could do that sober.

Today's photo was taken from my room in Pattaya. It is looking roughly the same direction as the street scene I sent the other day.

So I am back in Montclair and am sending this e-mail after getting in a good 12-hour's sleep.

Harry