gypsy cab, plane, plane, taxi, bus, taxi

We got to JFK in record time. At one point, I think the driver was doing 80 on Atlantic Avenue, barreling down the empty black street, hitting all the lights perfectly. We had to arrive two hours prior to our departure, but I was starting to imagine the news reports about the car accident in my head. I asked him to slow down. He did so gladly and I tipped him $5. It had only taken 15 minutes from our door to the airport's curbside drop-off point—shattering all previous records.

The rest of the city was still asleep, but the airport bustled. We waited in some lines, took off our shoes, and showed some people in uniform our documents. The next thing we knew we were in Costa Rica. Deb and I tried to catch some zzzzs on our two flights and we'd maybe gotten a couple hours between us. Once we got there, we waited in some extra lines: immigration and customs. We were approved as tourists by rubber stamps and hopped into a taxi to the bus station.

In the hazy, sleepiness of the new day, the culture shock of being in another country takes on a dreamlike quality. The billboards are all in Spanish, people seem to drive differently, more aggressively, the air is thicker, and the plants are foreign and tropical. I was fading in and out as our driver manuevered through the narrow streets in the city center. There were lots of colorful, gated storefronts on both sides of our speeding taxi. We arrived at the bus station, and Deb used her mastery of the Spanish language to secure us a couple bus tickets and the next leg of today's journey.

I remember lush, green hills and getting a Coca-Cola at a small market in the mountains. After minutes turned into hours, our bus ride eventually ended. Deb got us a ride with a local cabbie who knew our destination. "You know Jack?" he asked. No, but we were keen to meet the innkeeper.

More green blurs and intermittent naps ensued. And as the last light of day was fading to grey, we climbed, at long last, out of the cab and into our little oasis of jungle paradise.

book your cabin today

During our trip we've asked a lot of people to please take our picture. It's the top button on the right. It should focus automatically. Thank you so much. But the guy who took the above photo was the only one who helped direct. He took two standard shots. "That's boring," he said, "Kiss her!" We thank him for the above result.

We made our way up, found a couple chairs at the lodge, and settled in to watch the sunset. We wrote postcards and I took a series of photos in the fading light. There was a long row of chairs lined up on a large stone patio that overlooked the Canyon. The foursome of two couples next to us chatted at length about their grown kids graduating college. Our patio was bordered by two cliffside cabins on the left and an enclosed a circular room, that was part of the lodge, on the right. It was an indoor area from which to watch the canyon from comfy leather sofas, the winds held at bay with huge floor-to-ceiling windows. On the other side of the enclosure was another patio that faced west. This place got increasingly crowded as the sun sank lower and the lodge's brick facade turned golden. The place buzzed with digital cameras trying to capture the moment. I took a few picture myself and began chatting with some white-haired ladies who were on a bus tour of the southwest.

They told me about their trip and I told them about ours. They were a bit surprised by the scope our trip but very encouraging of our impromptu traveling. "Why wait until your hair is white to see the world? Do it while you're young."

When I walked back to the car to get a blanket for Deb I weaved in and out of the the tiny log cabins. Older couples sat together, smiling, and waving hello. I returned to the patio and Deb and I watched the light disappear. I asked a man who was enjoying the view from the best cabin, it's deck perched on the edge of the canyon, when he made the reservation. He told me a year-and-a-half and that it was totally worth it. So there's a travel suggestion for those who like breathtaking views and planning ahead.

We drove away and headed north in the darkness. We stopped for dinner at Jacob Lake Inn, a bustling place that was packed to the gills with customers. We sat on the corner of the counter between two older couples and we all traded travel stories while we waited for the harried waitress. Both couples were from different parts of Georgia and they told us tales of their Southwest travels and their many run-ins with European tourists.

After gassing up and heading out we almost hit two deer in the first five minutes. I slowed down and kept my brights on. Two near misses make you a tad gun-shy and your eyes start to concoct shapes that aren't there. As I came around the bend, something seemed off about the black road, and before the shape could congeal into a recognizable object I was swerving around a big black cow nursing it's calf in the middle of road. I could see the pink udder in the darkness as we flew by, and a few details of the suckling calf. Then the tender scene disappeared in a blink and we continued into the night.

north rim v. south rim

The experience driving toward the Vermilion Cliffs was amazing, trying to take in the scope of one's surroundings. After crossing the fledgling Colorado River, the drive alongside the cliff's colorful face was awe-inspiring. Then we came to a pull-off for something called the Cliff Dwellers. The roadside was populated by giant stones the size of cars, many of them precariously balanced forever on a smaller rock. They seemed to defy logic and gravity and as I explored them close-up, dipping my head under an impossible mass that had to fall someday, I sincerely hoped they would remain upright a few moments more.

There were women selling handmade jewelry in front of one of them and the remnants of an ancient brick home built into another. It took something pretty astounding to distract from the expanse of our scenic surroundings, but the otherworldly rocks, suspended in disbelief, were worth stopping for. I said a silent prayer for Wile E. Coyote and we headed toward the Grand Canyon's North Rim.

As with the South Rim, the route to the North Rim is a straight line. One road, running north and south, that goes to the edge and back. But the area around the North Rim isn't as built up as the South Rim. The South Rim is closer to big cities like Las Vegas and Phoenix and gets a lot more visitors. The South Rim has an IMAX movie and busloads of European tourists, the North Rim has a rustic lodge surrounded by dozens of tiny log cabins, each one populated by polite retirees. And at 8,000 ft, the North Rim has 1,000 ft higher altitude than it's southern neighbor.

We parked near the cabins and walked along a narrow pathway that takes you far out onto a ledge. There were guide rails and a strong chain link fence (it would be a black eye for the parks department if too many visitors plummeted to their deaths in the canyon) so we held on tight, braced against the wind and enjoyed the view.

It's difficult to write about the Grand Canyon and try to provide a description that begins do to being there justice. You can try to do the sight justice by taking a photograph, but the results always look sad and flat by comparison. The tiny photo shares little of the experience of standing on the canyon's edge. Well, my digital camera takes little movies, so this should do the trick.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Grand Canyon in all its glory:

west to the vermillion cliffs

I woke up at 5am bathed in sweat. The heat had clicked on with a vengeance and we were fully clothed under several beds worth of blankets. I opened the front door wide and let the cold, fresh air rush in along with several more moths. I guess this was why we weren't supposed to mess with the thermostat. Tomorrow was going to include a lot of driving and I desperately needed sleep. I cursed the Anasazi, an entire Native American tribe's good name was now sullied in my mind due to this destitute, roadside flophouse. I futilely tried to fluff my filthy pillow but it just made it lumpier.

The night was long and far too short. The next day came too quickly. We drug ourselves out of our uncomfortable bed and got the hell out of there. We'd gotten pretty savvy at packing in a hurry during our first week of travel. Then we double-checked under everything, aware that if we accidentally left something behind we may have to return to this awful place.

The day was bright and beautiful and we fueled up with coffee and gas at a tribal post. Two dogs sat panting in the shade of the front porch flanking the market's front door like the New York Public Library's stoic lions: Patience and Fortitude. We hit the road. Our final destination was the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. But we'd be taking an out of the way route that would send us past the Vermilion Cliffs. Traveling the Four Corners region is like navigating Middle Earth. Lots of colorfully descriptive and ominous sounding place names.

We ate at a Subway in a town called Page. Deb sat with her back to the parking lot. Halfway through the meal a bus pulled up and teenagers started pouring out, heading our way en masse. "Europeans," I whispered to Deb and nodded in the direction of the door as the tiny restaurant filled with the tour group. "Das est not eine Burger King," said one in a thick accent that I'll say was Swiss. We made a quick exit as blonde teens continued to file in and got back on the road.

We first saw the Vermilion Cliffs after the road was narrowed by high rocks on both sides. The road curved round a small bend with 30-foot canyon walls of rock on both sides. As we came out the other side we realized we were on the top of a huge mesa and could see for miles looking down across the valley floor. Across the valley, far in the distance lay the Vermilion Cliffs, and in between was the fissured floor of the valley. Within the fissure lay the Colorado River and the easternmost beginning of the Grand Canyon.

big monuments & tiny snakes

We woke up tired and achy from sleeping in the car and headed to The View hotel to buy breakfast. It was a breakfast buffet that had been sitting out for hours (it was also $13). So we had some terrible coffee instead and I kept my eyes pointed at the ground as much as I could. I didn't want my memories of a place as spectacular as Monument Valley to be seen through the panoramic window of a massive gift shop. We exited slowly, got into the Hyundai, and drove down into Monument Valley. Being in the Valley is even more impressive than overlooking it and your perspective changes from the grandeur of the overall scope of the area to the reality of being surrounded by such towering, impossible rock formations.

The road into the Valley is dusty, steep, uneven, and unforgiving. But we were in a rental, and I'd gotten the insurance, so you drive deliberately and be thankful it's not raining. Part of me really wanted to get a convertible for our southwest roadtrip. The more practical part of me concluded that we'd get char-broiled by the desert sun and covered in dust the color of Burnt Sienna. Plus, all those people driving through the desert in a convertible (in movies that romanticize driving through the desert in a convertible) usually have the mob, the cops, or both in hot pursuit.

Monument Valley is a place where it is difficult to keep your camera in it's case for more than 30 seconds. Every 50 feet I was stopping the car and hopping out to take another photo of the massive mesas—the orange and red rocks against the cobalt blue sky. Every time you move the shadows change and the camera comes out again. There's almost a desperation on your part to try and get what you're seeing into the camera, to capture it for posterity.

The previous night we could only make out the faintest black shadow of the mesas against the dark, starry night. You could sense their presence, but couldn't make them out in detail. Now they were everywhere, surrounding you and dotting the horizon in every direction. Every John Ford western you ever saw, every memory of a Roadrunner cartoon suddenly flooded with personal context. Much like standing on the edge of Grand Canyon overwhelms the senses, the experience of being in Monument Valley short circuits something and your brain must rush to catch up with the sensory overload taking place.

We pull over so I can take some more pictures and we see a couple staring at something in the brush by the side of the road. There is a baby snake coiled near some brush and a thin German man with a camera is bent over at the waist, staring intently at it; his feet a safe distance away, his face inching closer. "Do you zhink it is a rattlesnake?" he asks, "I don't hear anyzhing." The snake is very small, tightly coiled, and in the shadows, but it could be a rattler so I keep my distance and advise caution. Even a small rattler has venom, right? I decide I need a photo, but the digital buzzing startles the snake and it slithers under the bush, it's tiny rattle shaking as it goes. I decide it's wiser to stay on the road, then proceed to take several dozen more photos. I drive 100 feet, then hop out to take a few more.

Deb and I decide to take the remainder of our cash (which was about $66) and see how long of a horseback ride we could get. What we didn't yet realize that it's not the length of the ride that's important; it's the angle.

long night & morning glory

After our steak and rattlensnake dinner, we wanted to get as close as we could to Monument Valley that night. We found a small highway that started near the entrance to Grand Canyon National Park and headed east. After turning onto the highway we quickly saw our first animal: a majestic buck that must've been a 10 or 12 point. He was only a few feet off the road and looked a lot like Bambi's father. Later, I had to swerve to avoid a skunk as it waddled down the white line. With some old jazz playing on the satellite radio, we took the curvy road through the arid forest, our high beams illuminating the trees and brush. We found a place to turn off, got out of the car, and gazed upward. There were more stars than either of us had ever seen in our lives.

The Milky Way was clear as day, the stars so dense and plentiful that even the familiar constellations were difficult to discern through the blanket of bright, twinkling stars. There were so many, in fact, that it made us both dizzy. You felt as though you could reach up and run your fingers through them like sparkling water. Your feet didn't feel so tethered to the ground and any second they would float free from the bounds of gravity and you'd fly away. Then we heard some strange noises and quickly got back into the car.

The lazy road was made almost entirely of twists and turns and it was quite pleasant to drive leisurely, without aggressive headlights constantly blinding you in the rearview mirror. Even when we connected to a more major roadway, we pretty much were the only ones out driving. By 1am, I was exhausted and we pulled over at the first motel we found in Tuba City. Not only were they full, all the area motels were full. Apparently, the southwest is a popular destination for European tourists who travel in huge buses and take up every room in the place. We loaded up on coffee and headed to the next town but with the same result. By now, we were only an hour to Monument Valley.

The reality was setting in that we might be sleeping in our car that night and we figured if it came to that then why not drive into Monument Valley itself and wake up with a view. The moon had already slipped behind the horizon for the night and it was pitch black with nothing but stars to guide us. When we arrived at the valley we started turning off onto side roads looking for the area's famous monoliths against the horizon. Sometimes we could make out their slightly darker silhouettes against the black sky, but the red dirt roads were rough and always seemed to lead to lonely private residences. After about an hour of u-turns and double-backs Deb suggested we try the new hotel overlooking the Valley. I was skeptical, but we were out of options. They too were full (and I'm certain we wouldn't have been able to afford such a place anyway) but the woman at the counter could not have been nicer. Not only did she say we could sleep in our car in a darkened portion off their parking lot, she also gave us water and offered us pillows. Such hospitality at a time like that is a rare gift. We slowly pulled into a gravel area behind the now familiar tour buses which had plagued our route, made ourselves as comfortable as one can be in a Hyundai Sonata and went to sleep. It was 4am.

I awoke a few hours later with a sliver of sun in my eyes and shivered in the now chilly car. As my eyes adjusted I could see something amazing out the window. I tried to wake up Deborah so she could see what I was seeing, but she was having none of it. So I got out of the car and walked to the nearby cliff edge. There was Monument Valley in all its glory, the mesas, the buttes, and the spires of the American West as far as the eye could see. The valley floor had a greenish hue from the many spots of desert plant life and the three massive, signature rocks silhouetted against the blue and orange of the morning sky. The sun barely peeking over the horizon and was further obscured by one of the the three mittens (huge vertical mesas rising out of the ground with a separated sliver of rock on one side to give it its namesake shape). Their red orange coloring was subtle and tempered by the shadowy backlighting of the fragile sunlight, but their shapes were clear as day.

I stood alone on the cliff and looked down at them from my high vantage point. It was one of the most astonishing things I've ever seen in my life and suddenly all the extra driving and dusty dead end roads of the long night behind us were more than worth it. It was freezing, but I stood there as long as I could, taking in the spectacle of one of the most awe-inspiring places on earth. The sun continued its morning arc and I snapped a few pictures to capture a taste of the sight. But photos cannot capture the encompassing glory of such a moment, they can only help remind us of how lucky we once were to experience it.

I got back into the car as quietly as I could, covered my face with a t-shirt, and went back to sleep. It was going to be a great day.

driving, steaks

The drive to the Grand Canyon from Las Vegas is not very scenic; long stretches of rocky desert, dotted with a few gas stations which are few and far between. Not the type of place you'd want to break down. We only made a quick stop at a Starbucks to use their free Wi-Fi and load up on coffee (Deb needed to follow up on some hotel reservations and I posted a prewritten blog entry). Other than that we drove and drove, and drove some more, trying to get to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon in time to see the sunset. We passed some interesting rock formations around Kingman, AZ and there was the occasional scenic expanse, but it's a dull, flat drive east.

The Hoover Dam drained an hour from our day as the security line crept ever so slowly toward the famed dam. The inspection was a visual one and I totally understand the need for a security presence, but it stole our daylight and we didn't have time to see the dam thing. The new bridge that they are building is quite spectacular and quite impressed both of us. It's a new engineering marvel built to carry the traffic flow once they stop allowing traffic to cross over the old one.

By the time we took the left turn, heading north to the rim, the sun was threatening low in the sky. We weren't the only travelers trying to make the sunset over the canyon and the drivers starting becoming reckless. One particular asshole in a white Mustang put everyone's lives at risk by passing on double yellows and following way too close. As a New Yorker, the only time I drive is when we rent a car during a trip. I've forgotten what it's like to drive on a daily basis; the commuting, the gridlock, the inconsideration of other drivers, and the dangers they represent. When I drive I fall back on what my severe Driver's Ed teacher taught me twenty years ago, among them: how to parallel park, not turning your wheels while waiting to make a left turn, and, most importantly, leaving one car length between you and the vehicle in front of you for every 10 miles an hour. So when I'm going 70 mph and I can't see the license plate of the car right behind me I tend to get nervous and then I get angry.

Luckily, we survived the other drivers, but unluckily the sun slipped behind the horizon just as we paid the $25 entrance fee. By the time we parked, the twilight was fading fast and then we got trapped behind a maze of chain link construction fences. We missed the golden glow we'd been hoping for but we sat near the edge and took in the awesome expanse as the canyon faded from hazy grey to hazier dark grey. We knew we'd see it again on the way back but it was disappointing to drive for six hours and miss it by mere minutes. When we started back toward the car it had gotten quite dark and the sliver of a moon provided little illuminative guidance. We wandered in circles and even mistakenly tried to break into a Kia that looked a lot like our car in the gathering darkness.

We left the park and went to a nearby steakhouse: The Yippee-Ei-O Steakhouse. It was filled with European tourists and us. We ordered a steak to split and added an appetizer that helped fulfill our "foods of the region" goal: rattlesnake. The thin strips of snakemeat were wrapped in a doughy breading and fried. I've heard all my life that rattlesnake tastes a lot like chicken but I found it more like wiry, overcooked calamari. It was fun to try but it's not going to replace mozzarella sticks or jalapeno poppers on the T.G.I.F. apps menu anytime soon. The rest of the food was surprisingly tasty, especially the biscuits with prickly pear jelly (another local tasty treat). The steak was well done—we eat ours medium rare, so I mean that in the pejorative sense. But it suffered slightly in comparison to the beefy perfection we'd experienced at L.A.'s Musso & Frank's a few nights prior. We paid our bill and departed, driving into the long night ahead. With no clue how long the night was going to be...

happenings in vegas

After a quick dip in the Sahara pool (which closes at 5pm for some reason) we returned to our 22nd floor room to enjoy the view and prepare for our night on the town. We'd failed to pack any nightlife duds into our tiny backpacks, so we decided to go Vegas casual. It was hard to tear ourselves away from the comfort of the room and the promise of "Hitch" on TBS, but the next thing we knew we were cruising down Las Vegas Boulevard in our snazzy, rented Hyundai Sonata. It was Saturday night and The Strip was packed to the gills, as we cruised at barely a half mile an hour, heading toward the New York-New York Casino at the opposite end.

While stopped a red light, I happened to glance over at the car to the right and saw a woman performing oral sex on her male companion. I know, I know, a clandestine BJ in Sin City, it hardly bears mention. But here's the twist: the woman was driving while the man relaxed in the passenger seat, one hand on her head and the other casually holding a drink, his elbow leaned on his open window. I told Deb to glance over to 3 o'clock and we both spied with amusement, waiting to see if they'd beat the light. They did not and she got the tap when the light turned green. We lost them in the intersection and never found out what became of those crazy kids. Speaking of kids, they were everywhere. And while I'm not saying that parents who drag their young children down Las Vegas Boulevard late on a Saturday night are bad parents; I really don't know what else to call them.

After almost an hour we had made it nearly halfway and I turned off the strip in disgust. First mistakenly venturing into a valet parking section, then making it to Frank Sinatra Boulevard, which ran parallel to the Strip, but was utterly void of traffic. We hit New York-New York (note the hyphen: New York-New York is a registered trademark, I guess they couldn't copyright the comma). Deb was keen on seeing it—and who wouldn't want to see a miniature version of the city they live in complete with slot machines? Vegas has Paris, Rome, Venice, and Monte Carlo, but no Seattle, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., or Dallas/Ft. Worth-themed casinos.

We walked the Strip for a while and on every corner there were crowds of immigrants wearing multi-colored "Girls! Girls! Girls!" t-shirt and handing out flyers that were tossed to the ground two steps later and littered the sidewalks like autumn leaves. I suppose those aforementioned children wandering the strip with their folks are going to have to learn about call girls sometime. Walking the strip is not like walking any other street as there are escalators and pedestrian bridges instead of crosswalks, and as someone who had recently tried to take a right turn driving, I can understand why. Vegas can be both overwhelming and dull at the same time, but I wanted Deb to see what the city had to offer so we wandered in and out of casinos, had a few drinks, and I even won $15 on a single slot pull at Ceasar's. Then we wandered back to the car and returned to the Sahara where I was eager to play some $1 blackjack.

The last time I was in Vegas I played two hands of blackjack at the Luxor at $10 each. In both hands I was showing 20, but the dealer got 21. I took that as a clear sign and gambled no more. Poor folks like me love $1 blackjack because we can spend $20 and play for at least a half hour, even with the worst of luck. I turned Andrew Jackson into 20 chips and started winning immediately. When I didn't win, I pushed, and when I lost it was usually only a buck. I even doubled-down and got the face card I needed. This was fun; the free drinks helped. Deb got bored and went to the room to nap and I kept winning. After doubling my money they shut down the table for the night and I headed up the room to retrieve Deb and do some more gambling.

Deb was in no mood to have the table games explained to her and played the slots instead. She went up ten bucks quickly, but kept playing and was reduced to her starting $5. This upset her to no end and I tried repeatedly to remind her "that's how they get you"and that she hadn't actually lost any money. We decided to call it a night before the night became the morning and Deb put one last buck into the "Sex and the City" machine and hit it big. Well, technically she hit it Charlotte and won $7 (Mr. Big would've payed out $338). We stumbled back to the room, which is the preferred way to enter a Vegas hotel room, and realized we would not be getting that early start.

no fear nor loathing

Despite the fact that we had no set destination and no real idea where we were going, we drove south from Los Angeles and managed to find a Motel 6 in Long Beach only 10 minutes from the airport. We bought some two for a dollar tacos from the adjacent Jack in the Box and watched the second half of "Rocky" on TBS before hitting the hay. The next morning, we finally succeeded in finding that elusive In & Out Burger for a hearty breakfast and caught our plane to Las Vegas with time to spare. A quick note about In & Out Burger: they are fucking amazing; clean, fast, friendly, and inexpensive. I counted fifteen people working with Swiss watch precision. It makes you wonder how the other fast food giants can do so much wrong and be so successful and why there aren't more In & Out Burgers around the country.

The hour-long plane ride to Vegas resembled a high school party bus on it's way to the State Championship and there was much hooting and hollering upon our arrival. We caught a tram to a shuttle bus and ended up far from the airport at a rental car place that informed us that the state of Nevada has all kinds of extra rules, regulations, and insurances required to rent a car. After panicking over the extra fees which more than doubled our quoted price and destroyed our carefully orchestrated budget, we calmly called my credit card company and found out that they did indeed cover some (if not all) of the extras.

Nevada has a "loss of use" rule that if you get into an accident of any kind and the car becomes unrentable, you must pay to rent the car for the duration of its repairs. We breathed a heavy sigh of relief and thanked the lady at the counter who must deal with customers experiencing this rollercoaster of emotions a dozen times a day. She couldn't have been nicer or more patient with our stages of disbelief, anger, bargaining, and acceptance. When it was all over I wanted to give her a big hug. It really goes to show how important the lost art of customer service truly is.

On the advice of another very friendly lady in the car rental check-out booth, we checked out The Orleans. It proved beyond our means, though it was fun to see the Vegas version of a city we'd visited only days before; it was bigger and brighter, but lacked a certain je ne c'est qua. We ended up at our originally intended destination at the far end of the strip: The Sahara. Former home of Elvis and Ann Margaret, Sinatra and Dino, and a bargain to boot. Originally, we'd planned to hit the road running and try to make the Grand Canyon by nightfall but it was getting late and we'd been pushing ourselves for days. We needed a good night's sleep and what better place to get one than a casino in Sin City.

2001 in 2010

Musso and Frank's is a restaurant that has catered to Hollywood stars since 1919: Humphery Bogart, Edward G. Robinson; Charlie Chaplin even had his usual table where he'd dine with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. The prices were a bit high for us but we couldn't help ourselves. We ordered oysters and a porterhouse to split and ordered two waters. The service was total old-school class: red jacketed waiters and attention to detail. The oysters were delicious, like eating the ocean itself (as Deb says) and the steak was sublime. I never wanted to stop eating it and with every bite I pitied vegetarians all the more. I don't know how traditional oysters and steak is to L.A., but eating in such an institution made it all the more memorable. I was disappointed that such a fantastic place was half empty during dinner on a Friday night which the trendy places we passed had lines out the door, but L.A. has always been about what's next, what's new and I was comforted by the fact the Musso and Frank's is alive and kicking.

There are two classic movie theaters within blocks of each other on Hollywood Boulevard: Mann's Chinese Theater and the Egyptian. Mann's (formerly Graumann's) has all the handprints out front but plays new releases while the Egyptian is less famous but plays the classics. The night we were there they were playing "2001: A Space Oddessy" which I've somehow never seen on the big screen. I decided to visit the lobby and they had a wonderful museumesque display of photos and models from the film in glass cases. Suddenly, people began rushing out of the theater in a panic, first a few people, then dozens more. "Call the police," someone shouted, "I already did, they're on their way," came the response. As I made my way outside with the other patrons the cops started pouring in. Turns out some guy had been ranting during the film, then became physical and started choking someone. It sounded like a drug trip gone south and we were relieved that we had opted for dinner instead of a movie.

We headed over to Mann's to check out the handprints of Hollywood stars past and present: Bette Davis, Jimmy Stewart, Harrison Ford, R2-D2 & C3-P0. It somehow reminded me of when I saw the Last Supper in Milan not because of it's artistic importance but because all those stars had stood right where we were standing all those years ago. The Walk of Fame is like an art gallery while Mann's courtyard provides historical proof in the form of hand and footprints and in the case of Jimmy Durante a noseprint as well.

As we made our way on Hollywood Boulevard out of town we put the top back down and blasted some tunes: Sir-Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" to be exact. People stopped and stared because we were so damn hip it hurt. And even the trendiest folks waiting in line at the hottest clubs could not hide their envy.

god save the queen

We woke up in our cabin on the Queen Mary and were able to easily hear our neighbors' voices and we concluded that our late night knocks probably were not the work of ghosts. Deb was relieved and I was somewhat disappointed. We set off to explore the rest of the ship which was no less impressive, but not nearly as spooky, in the daylight. Even the engine room wasn't the least bit scary. It was however, massive, impressive,and crammed with complex steam-powered machinery that dwarfed us. It is hard to imagine a transcontinental trip lasting four days, but it's equally hard to imagine taking such a trip in the comfort and luxury not afforded by a middle seat on an 8-hour flight.

After dropping the top on our Sebring and donning our designer sunglasses (Deb found hers and I bought mine at Marshall's) we headed toward the City of Angels. Unlike many of our other destination cities we didn't really have much of an idea what we wanted to see in L.A. When I posted this quandry on facebook the suggestions I received were mostly sarcastic and while I'm sure that the Getty is very nice, we live in NYC so going to a museum isn't all that attractive. We decided to do as the Angeleans do and just drive. We drove into the city and discovered that we were the only ones with more than one person in their car as we flew by stopped traffic on the 110 in the deserted carpool lane. When the carpool lane abruptly turned into an exit, we headed toward the water and found ourselves at the Santa Monica Pier a place I remembered really enjoying when I was very young.

We're still trying to eat the traditional cuisine of each city/area that we visit, but Los Angeles proved somewhat difficult. After all, what is the food L.A. is known for: sushi? burgers? Mexican food? We'd been looking for an In and Out Burger since we landed, but to no avail. Instead we made the mistake of getting a burger on the pier at a little place called the Surf View Cafe and they were not good. The place was a ramshackle reminder of what the pier had been long before the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company moved in, and that was why I chose it. The burgers were expensive and practically inedible but the place proved the old real estate mantra of location, location, location as it was somehow still in business. Also, the place seemed to be inundated by wounded pigeons hopping around on one good leg, their injured talon tucked beneath them. If you were really lucky they hopped right up on your table. It really helped set the mood.

We hit the road and headed for the hills--Beverly, that is. Along the way we experienced a city of billboards and discovered everything the fall TV schedule had to offer via billboards that were themselves giant television screens. I decided to head up Laurel Canyon and managed to drive a triple feature in three left turns: Sunset Boulevard to Laurel Canyon to Mulholland Drive (for more information consult your Netflix account). We ended up getting lost in a maze of multi-million dollar homes each more fabulous than the last; finally finding ourselves back on Sunset headed toward Hollywood Boulevard. The only street in Los Angeles more touristy than Hollywood Boulevard is Main Street at Disneyland, but it also has some of the city's best film-related gems and I'm a sucker for the movies. We parked in front of Roddy McDowell's star and headed to dinner at the most old-school Hollywood restaurant still left: Musso and Frank's Grill.

sweet lady gumbo

It is impossible to experience all that New Orleans has to offer in one day—but we gave it our best shot.

Yesterday began at 4:45am. I (very slowly) leapt out of bed having gotten nearly three hours of sleep to find that Deb, having stayed up all night printing itineraries, had gotten none. We decided to take a cab to the airport and although it was the costly choice, even the thought of tackling the subway at that hour was daunting. Our flight took off at 7am and we arrived in New Orleans at 8:30am (thank you time difference). Deb was even able to catch a few zzzs on plane, so now were both running on nearly three hours sleep. We hopped in our rental car and hoped the combination of caffeine and adrenaline would carry us through the day.

The best thing about New Orleans is that there is simply no other place like it in America. A truly organic American city, rich in history—both modern and ancient—where reminders of the past abound on every corner. The people are laid back, friendly, and patient with tourists who are there to treat their city like a frat party. It was hot and muggy, an almost oppressive heat for anyone not used to such a climate. But since it closely resembled Brooklyn in July, we were up to the task.

the final countdown

Well, we decided against the last stoop sale today and instead focused on making lists, fine-tuning our inventory, and doing laundry. We are now all packed and ready to go. I laid out everything on a card table and checked every item of the list. My bag's not crazy heavy, but I am surprised by how much socks and underwear weigh.

We won't be carrying these packs around too, too much (except in Chicago). As New Yorkers, we figure we can suss out the Chicago transit system on foot and survive there autoless for 23-hours. We even decided to rent a car in New Orleans after we discovered that the car cost only $1 more than a one-way cab ride from the airport. It's going to be nice to drive again. But our first two cars in New Orleans and Los Angeles are just warm-ups for our big Las Vegas to Grand Canyon road trip.

Now we eat, then we sleep, tomorrow we ride...

the last 24 hours

It's a big night in Prospect Heights, perhaps the biggest of the year. Tomorrow is the West Indian-American Day Parade which means that tonight is J'Ouvert (joo-VAY). J'Ouvert is the non-stop party that begins around 3am on Labor Day and goes until the parade's end around 6pm. The noise from the street below our apartment has died down considerably as most of the revelers have made their way over to the parade route on Eastern Parkway. A close friend and former neighbor of ours (who now lives in Toronto) arrived at our place about an hour after Deb's sisters had headed out of town. The three of us had dinner, then we stayed up talking and laughing until he went off into the wilds of Brooklyn for the borough's annual night of unmatched revelry.

Deb and I leave in just over 24 hours so we're staying in. She's exhausted from a weekend of stoop sales, bridal showers, and out-of-town visitors (to be fair, there was only one bridal shower, but since she also helped organize it, I'm counting it as two). I'm up typing because I haven't written an entry today and because I am still too excited to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow, but nothing that's make or break: little things, nuances of other, already completed things, plus laundry, and one final stoop sale. Perhaps people will stop at our stoop sale tomorrow because they saw us on the TV:

http://www.ny1.com/content/ny1_living/travel/?r=9609797426

we must, we must increase our blog

I have been trying to write at least one blog entry per day. And although I didn't write a post yesterday, that is quite alright because nothing really interesting happened. Today we have more exciting plans: laundry, dishes, mail sorting, cleaning, and organizing more items for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow's stoop sales.

I expect that once we leave our apartment for JFK and actually start traveling, that this travel blog is going to start really getting good. So get ready for that. Until then, please enjoy more tidbits of homestead goings-on and my meandering philosophical musings.

abbreviated sale

Our brief stoop sale only lasted three hours but it netted us exactly $100. At this point every drip helps fill the bucket and even if we'd made $50, it would've been well worth our time. I'd been worried that our weekend stoop sale would be ill-attended since the city really clears our on Memorial and Labor Day weekends. What I failed to take into account, however, is that the city's biggest Labor Day parade, the West Indian-American Day Parade, ends only a few blocks away. So hopefully we'll get some happy, slightly tipsy post-parade foot traffic and plenty of nice folks just itching to buy my old cds.

Scott quartet

Deb stitched together this series of photos from our Saturday stoop sale. She is a master of the photoshop arts, a dream weaver spinning her Inceptionesque web to create this mosaic parallel universe Brooklyn populated by four Scotts.

Deb and I have been discussing our travel plans and fine tuning our plans for travel. We had never planned to check bags on this trip. We always travel light, so not bringing bags to check will be easy for us. But Deb is aiming higher and I am intrigued. Can we do it with just a backpack each? And I'm not talking about big hiking backpacks, I'm talking small enough to fit in the overhead compartment.

When I was in Europe long ago, I'd arrive in a new city and plop my big backpack into a train station locker so I could roam the city unburdened. Do airports even have storage lockers anymore? For that matter, do American train stations? I know train stations in movies have them; whenever there's a mysterious key it inevitably opens a locker in a train station. And inside of that locker is a duffel bag full of money, a severed limb, or a dirty bomb, the discovery of which drives the plot into the third act.

We'd just like a square box to store our clothes and toiletries for a few hours while we walk around the city. I think we're on our own.

every trip ends in Baltimore

With just over a week before we go, it's time to make a list. Actually, it's time to make a lot of lists. We've done pretty good so far because Deb and I work well as a team. We already received my passport back from the passport maker and it took even less time that we thought. When something like that occurs, part of me wonders if we even needed to pay the extra money to expedite it and laments the fact that we delayed our international destination by a week. Then a second part of me gets annoyed and tells the first part to shut the hell up and be thankful that we have both our passports in hand and will be free to travel abroad.

I recently got a phone call from my father letting my know that, when Deb and I are in Montana, he'll have some other visitors as well. My aunt and uncle will be making their way up to Big Sky Country and my sister will be there too. My little sister is a Master Sargeant in the Air Force, a veteran of two wars, and notoriously busy as her demanding job affords her little time off. I'm very happy that she's going to be there.

So after Deb and I fly into Seattle, we're renting a car and heading due east; and upon our arrival there'll be an impromptu family reunion. If I added up the time it's been since I've seen my father, my uncle, and my aunt, the total tops 50 years. America is a such an enormous country. This never would've happened if we were all Belgian.

At the end of our 30-day ticket our last flight will be New York-to-Baltimore. We are heading down there for the wedding of Deb's oldest sister; a wedding in which Deb is a bridesmaid. So included in our 30+ days of travel, we'll have two big family events in two unique corners of the country. It promises to be interesting—families always are. We are also looking forward to seeing glaciers and eating soft-shelled crab.

can I offer you five dollars?

Two full days of selling our stuff on the street and we are wealthier and wiser. Perhaps wealthy and wise are overstatements; but we do have many more monies to fund our impending trip and we know a lot more about what people are willing to pay for old dvds and cds. Apparently they're both available for pennies on the internet.

It's a strange thing to have a themed stoop sale and to try to give people a reason to buy your stuff, a reason beyond offering them something they want at a price they're willing to pay. To sell the sizzle and not steak, as Hank Hill might say. The end result had us enthusiastically listing our itinerary to everyone who asked and then solemnly watching as they slowly walked away empty-handed. One nice lady talked to us for quite a while, asked a ton of questions, then smiled broadly and offered us a third of our asking price on a dvd boxed-set.

I don't mean to sound bitter; I'm not. The stoop sales were a rousing success and no one who asked to hear our traveling tale was under any obligation to buy anything. Though after chatting with friendly folks about what a wonderful thing it was that we were doing and being offered the best of luck on our travels, it was sometimes surprising when those ebulliently supportive folks didn't spend a buck or two.

It was fun talking to random people all day, it was fun making deals, and it was fun trying to make those deals financially beneficial. My favorite customer was a middle-aged man who came by yesterday and bought two dvds and three cds at face value. Then he asked about my Ray Charles box-set and promptly paid the asking price. That box-set was the first gift Deb ever gave me on our first Valentine's Day together (my gift to her was the first thing we sold online and the subject of an earlier post).

Bringing in lots of three to five dollars sales really adds up over the course of a day. When a single customer spends $75, however, you think about what that particular sum of money will buy on the trip: a nice dinner in New Orleans, a motel room in Las Vegas, or an upgrade to a convertible in Seattle. The convertible was a travel tip from a friend of ours about how spending a little more money in the right places can improve a trip tremendously. So the more stuff we can sell in the next week, the more travel tips we can take, and the more upgrades we can afford to make.

freddy's dead

Yesterday was our day of rest.

We tidied up the apartment and went to Target. On the way, we saw construction workers tearing down a building with a huge back-hoey thing wielding a pincher-claw that cut through a steel support beam like butter, bringing down an entire floor. In front of us was the empty space where Freddy's once stood.

Freddy's was the best bar in the neighborhood; an old school establishment where curiosities, trophy heads, framed photos, and statuary decorated the cluttered bar. The windows were lined with books and board games, and the bartenders possessed a potent mix of friendly and surly. When I used go down to watch the Mets playoff games I could also watch the avant-garde video art that played endlessly at the other end of the bar. Freddy's was almost the only bar in the neighborhood when I moved in 11 years ago. Now there are bars-a-plenty and many of the buildings between my apartment and Freddy's are being razed (via Eminent Domain http://www.expertlaw.com/library/real_estate/eminent_domain.html) to put up the new arena home for the Brookyn Nets.

And Freddy's dead.

I'm not much of a drinker, and neither is Deb. So that last time we were there was March 17th, 2008. I mention Freddy's here not because it's a bar, but because it's the type of place that we hope to discover on this trip. Places that are of where they are—that is: unique to, and a product of, their surroundings. Places that the locals not only frequent, but revere. They are hard to create and impossible to replace.

We're lucky then, I suppose, to be able to spy on the cities we intend to visit and mine for their local treasure online so that we can make the most of our short time in each place. It's hard to get a sense of a city in a day. Sometimes it's best not to try so hard. Just find a good place to start and then wander.