What Made Milwaukee Famous

Gene and I took another trip to Milwaukee this summer, visiting some of our favorite places and some new places as well.
I took Gene to Miss Katie's Diner for some wet Milwaukee barbecue ribs and buttery hash browns. We celebrated my birthday in typical Milwaukee style with a vast intake of calories. We noted changes since our last visit two summers ago; Elliot's Bistro is gone and Von Trier's is just a shadow of its former self.
We got a kick out of the rumors of The Pfister Hotel's haunting. Hey, if it brings the room rates down, I'm all for it.
Check out my photos and journal of the first half of the week in Milwaukee.

San Francisco Travel Journal

In April, Gene and I took a trip down California's Highway 1. We started with 36 hours in San Francisco and packed as much as we could into that short span.
We climbed Telegraph Hill, traipsed up and down Columbus Avenue, shopped at City Lights Bookstore and hung out on Haight Street.
Read my account of that lightning trip to San Francisco.

Less-than-Grand Avenue Mall

We stop at the downtown Grand Avenue Mall. The mall has become a tomb.

Built while I was in college, the mall received a lot of local media buzz. Connecting Boston Store and Gimbels under a single roof, the new mall would leave the historical architecture of the Plankinton Arcade intact. The developers wanted the new mall to evoke the days of Grand Avenue, before the street was renamed Wisconsin Avenue. Back in those days, women in bustles with umbrellas strolled with their beaus or husbands down Grand Avenue in their Sunday best.

The current Grand Avenue failed to achieve the planned grandeur. Despite a downtown nightlife resurgence in the late 1980s that continues today, the mall never drew large numbers of downtown shoppers. People go downtown for shows at the remodeled Riverside Theater, the historic Pabst Theater or the Performing Arts Center (now the Marcus center). People eat at Mo’s—A Place for Steaks, drink at Elsa’s on the Park and other watering holes along Water Street or Jefferson Street. But shop? Why shop downtown?

Grand Avenue Mall never housed great stores, not funky boutiques like on Brady Street or upscale shops like in Mequon. Grand Avenue could never compete with spacious suburban malls like Mayfair and Southridge.

A few years ago, large lower-end stores—TJ Maxx, Old Navy, Linens N Things-- moved in, encroaching on spaces designed as walkways. TJ Maxx and Linens were like open-air markets, in a bad sense.

So much of the mall is shuttered now. We walk through, horrified and sad. Stores that you never thought would go away like The Confectioner are gone. Many facades are covered with mirrors to disguise the abandonment.

Fat Abbey's Bier Cafe

It is early Saturday evening in Milwaukee and we meet our friends L. and M. at the Fat Abbey Bier Café, 134 E Juneau, at Juneau and the river. Fat Abbey’s is a new Irish bar across from a triumvirate of Irish bars, both across from the Milwaukee landmark, The Harp.

We will run into two bachelorette parties on this warm August night.

The first batch of girls—a sedate, sober group with some moms along for the ride—are sitting at a long wooden picnic table on the patio. We sit outside under a Delirium Tremens umbrella at first, but the sun is still hot so we move inside.

We all drank beers, even me. Fat Abbey’s has a beer list to be proud of. Trocadero White, a local microbrew, is tasty—wheaty like I like. Gene, M and L tried several, one called Fat Tire and another, Maredsous.

Now the moms have left and the Fat Abbey girls move inside. They liven up a bit, but this party has little steam.

We cross the street to the trinity of Irish bars, inspecting them all before selecting Foy. We sit in a tall wooden booth and share corned beef nachos and a veggie-hummus platter. I remember this weekend is Irish Fest in Milwaukee, the largest and best Irish festival in the United States. I wonder why all these new Irish bars are opening in this very German town. Love of beer must be the unifying factor.

From the window of L and M’s car, we see the second bachelorette party. These girls know how to party. They traipse down the street, all wearing little black cocktail dresses. They have made several stops already tonight. Gene asks me if girls wear underwear in Milwaukee and I assure him that most of them do. What prompts the question, I ask.

We end the night at The Pfister’s top floor bar, Blu, on the 23^rd floor of the hotel. Stunning 360 views of the city, but we can’t find a seat around the perimeter of the room. We sit at the bar and listen to the jazz combo. I wonder about two women sitting at the bar, overdressed and bored.

Bronze Fonz Charms Milwaukee

Erv, the bartender at Miss Katies, talks about when the cast of Happy Days dropped in on the diner. (Mrs C. has held up the best, said Erv.) The cast—minus Ron Howard—hit town for the dedication of the Bronze Fonz statue last August.

Milwaukee tried for years to play down its reputation as the fictional home of the Cunninghams and Laverne and Shirley. People resented the beer-town image of Milwaukee portrayed by the shows, particularly Laverne & Shirley. So no surprise that the proposed Bronze Fonz kicked up some local controversy--a couple of art galleries threatened to close if the statue was installed.

In the end, time and celebrity visitors turn the shame into pride. The unveiling as described by onmilwaukee.com:

They came to see the Fonz. They lined the Wells Street bridge. They lined the Riverwalk across the river and south of the ceremony on the river's left bank. They watched from windows, terraces and rooftops and they watched from pontoon boats on the river, itself.

Fans lined up along Wells Street to the east of the river, where they couldn't even get a glimpse as actor Henry Winkler and sculptor Gerald Sawyer unveiled the much-discussed Bronz Fonz Tuesday morning in Downtown Milwaukee.

The spokesman of Visit Milwaukee, the group raising the money for the installation defended the decision in a jsonline.com article:

"This isn't a statue of 'Laverne and Shirley,' " [the spokesman] said. "This is a statue of a TV icon who remains the epitome of cool."

Los Angeles: Return to New York

Our flight home leaves at 12:40, so we have just enough time to pack and eat breakfast leisurely.

We decide to walk up the hill they call Palm Street to Sunset for breakfast. Once up the hill, we reject the counter-style coffee-and-pastry places and realize we don’t have time to wander far.

The walk downhill is much easier and I enjoy the palm trees and the simple red flowers I’ve seen all over Los Angeles. I’m not sure what they are called. Close up, they are simple, but clusters of them create a magnificent swath of color.

I will remember those flowers, manicured lawns and the landscaped yards as the classic Los Angeles image in my mind.

Burbank, California: Warner Brothers Studios

Gene and I eat breakfast in the Le Petite Hotel’s roof garden. The dainty buffet counter offers lox, dill and capers on tiny bagels, scrambled frittata with mushroom and zucchini, muffins, and fruit.

A muffin made its way onto my plate—during the few seconds I blacked out—but it wasn’t the sweet, dessert kind. Vacations will do that to me—I wouldn’t touch a muffin with a ten-foot pole in real life.

Cousin Bill invites us to visit Warner Brothers Studios today where he is working. Our names are at the special visitor’s gate and we are instructed to park in special Parking Lot V. Having a Parking Lot V implies there are Parking Lots A thru U and underscores the vastness of Warner Brothers.

Bill and his colleagues are waiting for a revised version of the movie he is working on, so the version he received yesterday is useless. In his hurry-up-and-wait vocation, Bill has time to walk us around the lot. When we were in LA a few years ago, we took the official WB tour, but now we get a behind-the-scenes tour. We see the ER sets being torn down, since the final episode just aired.

Bill shows us the parking spaces belonging to the bigwigs. To a WB employee, this hierarchy is important to know. Bill points out the former offices of the Hollywood mogul and studio founder Jack Warner, and the bungalow where Clint Eastwood works, and of course, Clint’s parking spaces.

After Warner Brothers, we do some quick shopping at the Beverly Center, a huge mall just a mile from our hotel.

Bill recommended a Japanese restaurant to us, but we are tired and decide to go to the rooftop one more time for dinner. We have a cocktail shaker of Calamari with a sweet red sauce, and tomato-and-mozzarella skewers. I have Penne Pomodoro and Gene has a slab of Ahi Tuna with a sauce of avocado bits, olives and tomatoes in a vinaigrette sauce. This meal is worth replicating at home, if we can.

Los Angeles: Babimbop in Koreatown

Gene and I are meeting his cousin Bill and Bill’s girlfriend Aura in Koreatown for dinner. The restaurant is seven miles away and we decide to take a taxi so we can enjoy drinks with dinner.

The Beverly Hills Cab Co. taxi waits outside our hotel behind a long, gray limo intended for the couple we shared the elevator with. The blonde girl spoke of the scenes she has to shoot tomorrow and I wonder if she is a big actress. In Los Angeles, anyone or everyone may be an actor or star.

As we ride out to Koreatown, we pass “malls” look like office buildings, reminiscent of many buildings we saw in South Korea. Each mall level has signs all around the perimeter of the building, but no display windows.

We meet Bill and Aura at the Beverly Soon Tofu House, decorated in Korean-rustic. They are waiting for us with a spread of side dishes on the table. Aura offers us some of her jug of Barley Tea. I order two Sojus, but I forgot that Soju is the strong vodka-like drink and not the semi-sweet wine drink I thought it was. “(Bek se ju” is the Korean wine drink that I couldn’t think of.)

Aura asks me if I like Babimbop, and I think it is the dumplings we got at the little Korean storefront in Changwon. Turns out, Babimbop is a big bowl of salad fixings with a fried egg on top. I copy Aura as she adds a sweet red sauce, rice and soy sauce to the salad and tosses it up with her chopsticks. We also get a bubbling soup in which the waitress cracks a raw egg, one-handed. We ordered it medium-spicy, but it is still too spicy for our taste.

Gene and Bill spend the dinner riffing from topic to topic, making segues that only make sense to them, but they are having so much fun, it is great to watch.

Los Angeles: Burke Williams Spa

I have waited five years to return to Burke Williams, the sumptuous California spa chain. Five years ago on my birthday, I scheduled a basic $99 facial at Burke Williams on Sunset.

The experience was finer than any facial I’ve had at Bliss or anywhere. On the bed with a cooling mask on my face and my parrafim-waxed hands inside terry oven mitts, I thought I must be getting the deluxe package. Whatever this cost, I would pay it. It was my birthday, after all. But the mind-blowing pampering was the $99 facial after all.

Today I make an appointment for a basic facial (now $105) and a half-hour Japanese Shiatzu massage. Only my second massage, I’m not sure the difference between Shiatzu and the massage I got at Milk and Honey in Austin.

I am led down the carpeted corridor and into the lush spa area. I am given a robe and slippers and I consider a dunk in the Jacuzzi, but a nude woman leans against the wall with her feet in the water. I can’t see what she is doing with her hands.

I opt for a few minutes in the Quiet Room instead. The long, narrow Quiet Room holds a row of pods with plush seats the size of a first-class airline seat with rounded seclusion barriers. I sink into the end pod and start writing in my journal. The stillness reminds me how infrequently I experience true quiet and I am able to write quickly. But too soon, it is time to go into the main lounge and meet my facial technician.

The main lounge is like a dark, cozy living room with plush couches and a fireplace. Melka, my technician, retrieves me after only a minute or two. She examines my skin and notices a little dryness, a few broken capillaries, a little sun damage on the sides, but overall I get a favorable review. She talks me into a peel ($20). Under the warm blanket and hearing her expert, soothing voice, she can talk me into anything at this moment.

She advises a separate moisturizer with an overlay of sunscreen no less than SPF 30. She also suggests a Vitamin C serum. After the pampering (I am blocking the few extractions she did), I go to my massage.

The masseuse, a small Japanese man gives me a choice of pressure. Like picking the heat of your salsa, medium always seems a safe choice. The Shiatsu feels good, a lot of pressing on a single point. After the service, I shower and step into one of the Jacuzzis since the busy nude woman and everyone else is gone.

After another great spa experience, the California sunshine feels like it is warming a worthy being. Leaving Bliss in New York and hitting the crowded noisy sidewalk, some of the newly purchased bliss gets left behind.

Los Angeles: A West Hollywood Pad

Lily takes us to The Hall, a French restaurant in West Hollywood.

Gene has a poached-egg caviar appetizer and Lily and I both have a layered salmon-potato thing. Lily and I think along the same lines—we both select the black cod on fava beans for our main course. Gene orders the Kansas steak (from Kansas, France?). Lily gives Gene’s steak high praise: it is better than the steaks served where she works, she says.

Lily takes us to see her apartment, new since we last visited LA. She lives next door to Paramount Studios. Cool.

Her building gate opens into a courtyard with a fountain. Since she lives on the first floor, Lily can feel like the courtyard belongs to her. Lily’s cat Tiggy looks out onto the courtyard, stretches his arms on the screen and gets his paw stuck. He does this several times.

A dramatic Indonesian four-post daybed filled with brown, plush pillows dominates her living room. An orange lamp curves behind it. Her coffee table is so large she practices yoga on it.

The rest of Lily’s apartment is just as dramatic as the living room. Built in 1923, the ceiling meets the walls with curves rather than 90 degree angles. Her bathroom holds a separate shower stall and a deep tub with a sloped back. Sea-green tiles go up two-thirds of the wall and a gold-framed mirror hangs above the tub.

Lily has large mirrors all over the apartment, one hangs over the fireplace, and several tall, heavy ones with thick dark frames are propped against walls. The place feels like lush 1930s. If it were seventy years ago, Lily could be packing for a weekend as a guest at the Hearst castle (after leaving work at Paramount!).

Heading back to the hotel, we stop at a grocery store to pick up some bottled water for the room. Los Angeles tap water tastes yucky and I am accustomed to the good-tasting New York City tap water. Our tap water may taste good, but New York City grocery stores are tiny and filthy. I love visiting real grocery stores—anywhere. Walking up and down the wide aisles, I am always overwhelmed by the number of choices. The wine aisle distracts us from our water mission and we buy a couple bottles of vino.

Lily circles and circles, looking for a parking spot; it takes almost a half hour to find a bank lot where she pays eight dollars. It is about six blocks from the hotel. Nothing like jumping out of a cab and letting it drive off.

The three of us hang out in our room, drinking wine, looking at photos and watching videos on You Tube.

Los Angeles: Le Petite Hotel

We move at a crawl down the long Santa Monica Blvd, looking for our turn-off, San Vincente. We booked a room at Le Petite Hotel, a boutique hotel on residential Cynthia Street, a few blocks from Sunset and close to Lily’s apartment.

The hotel entrance is framed by a semi-stained glass awning with floral curves against clear glass. The garage door is hidden behind a blanket of ivy. The actor/desk clerk stands behind a rich, dark-wood topped counter in a tiny lobby. He wears a vaudevillian jacket of black and white vertical stripes. Wooden cubbies—old-fashioned room key holders—line the wall behind the desk.

Original paintings, one after another, fill the walls going down the corridors, which are painted with gold-leaf curlicues. The room doors are covered in puffy orange leather and the room numbers are branded onto a leather rectangle.

Our room has a dining nook with a refrigerator, sink and counter top. The sunken sleeping area is a step down and a tiny wrought-iron railing separates the two, making the room feel like an apartment. The bathroom is tiled in tiny squares of green shades. The bathroom vanity is the only piece that doesn’t work for me, painted a distressed blue-green with yellow knobs.

Lily comes by to pick us up for dinner and to have a look-see at the hotel. We walk up to the roof of the four-story building. We walk around the elevated saltwater pool and its orange lounge chairs, white umbrellas and some orange cushioned chaises as large as double beds. There is a sunken cocktail level area that has heat poles for chilly nights.

A garden restaurant runs along one side of the building.

California: Foggy Santa Barbara

We are 240 miles from Los Angeles and we are eager to get there early to spend time with Gene’s cousin and our friend Lily. We fortify ourselves with the complimentary breakfast at the Pelican Cove Inn, serving hot food as well as pastries and toast. Though not fancy, the Pelican Cove Inn takes good care of its customers.

We drive past the Harmony Cellars Winery in San Luis Obispo and remember the lovely wine we had last night.

We plan to have lunch in Santa Barbara today, but it is too early to eat when we approach town. We will just walk down the pier, we think. Getting off the highway is confusing. There is Carrillo, Cabrillo and Castillo streets.

We park in an open lot and start walking toward the pier. The weather is cold, foggy and clammy and we are not getting an impression of the real Santa Barbara. Under the fog is a beautiful seaside town, but it is not making an appearance for us today. At this point, I just want a bathroom and a Starbucks. We settle for a gas station for both needs.

On the highway near Ventura, we see a huge shopping mall. So huge, the mall is more like a little city. We are trying to get back on Highway 101 after the gas stop, but we end up on the service road that parallels the highway. We wind through the mall-city.

We wonder if this Ventura Highway of the 1972 hit song by America. Is it Ventura Boulevard? Ventura Avenue? Ventura Street? Most likely, it’s Ventura Freeway.

We are coming upon LA fast and, anxious to get there, we decide to skip Highway 1 through Malibu. I may regret the shortcut later, but today I am tired and focused on our destination.

Cambria, California: Pelican Cove Inn

After the Hearst Castle tour, Gene and I drive six miles south to Cambria. We are staying on the beach at the Pelican Cove Inn in the middle of the motel row called Moonstone Beach Drive.

The beach motels are only a mile or two from town. So unlike last night, we will have no trouble getting to a restaurant there.

A middle-aged man with white hair checks us in the Pelican Cove. Eager to play concierge, he describes the town’s restaurant options. A thin woman—his wife, perhaps—works the switchboard. She throws in her more ornery two cents from time to time without looking up from her work.

We ask about taking a taxi to town and the Pelican proprietors give us the number of Cambria’s only cab driver. Rob also owns the local towing company. He sometimes picks up taxi customers in his tow truck.

Our room is fussy-cute with a ceiling fan, a fireplace and maroon flowered curtains. A lonely hot tub sits behind a green plastic fence in the corner of the parking lot. The fence helps you not remember you are soaking in the parking lot. We take a fast dip.

Gene and I call the two recommended restaurants and of course, both are closed on Tuesdays.

We go with what might have been our first choice without outside advice, Robin’s, whose menu offers vegetarian dishes.

Taxi Man Rob says he won’t be able to pick us up for an hour and a half.

Forget Robin’s, we will walk to the Moonstone Beach Bar & Grill, two doors down from our motel. Our front-desk friends gave this one a middling review initially. Gene rings the front desk to see if Cambria has an alternative to Rob, and they up their rating of the place.

Looking for a job? Start a competing taxi business in Cambria, California. You only need one taxi, two if you want to have the biggest fleet in town.

Gene and I sit inside next to the window overlooking the water. The night is a little chilly to sit on the porch.

We order a bottle of Harmony Cellars Chardonnay, made ten miles away in San Luis Obispo. The Oysters Rockefeller look oddly cheesy, but Gene says they are delish. Good food doesn’t have to be pretty.

We both order grilled Mahi Mahi. The fish lies under a light tomato cream sauce with shrimp. The food, good and hearty, deserves a better rating from the Pelican Cove Inn. Too cold for a walk on the beach, we return to our room to watch The Biggest Loser.

San Simeon: The Hearst Castle Tour

The Hearst Castle tour is trip back in time to the 1930's, Hollywood's glamour days, when an invitation to spend a weekend at William Randolph Hearst's "ranch" was coveted by celebrities.

As our tour bus chugs up the five-mile hill, we pass the grassy fields where Hearst housed the largest private zoo in America. The bus drops us off in front of the Castle, where Bob, our tour guide, waits to greet us.

Bob talks to every guest, noting their hometowns and working that information into his Castle commentary. (“No pool as big as this in Podunk, right?”) A large man with a ranger hat and squishy black tennis-shoes-disguised-as-dress-shoes, Bob sucks us all in with his booming voice and love of Hearst’s Castle and grounds. He has the special personality of a long-time tour guide—thirty-one years—infinite patience and charm.

Hearst’s Neptune Pool, as dramatic as I have seen in photos, glimmers in the heat. The pool is surrounded by Greek or Roman pillars and marble statues. The confluence of scents mingling in the garden rises up to my nostrils, creating a single, pleasing perfume. The tour group walks through one of the four-bedroom guest houses, Casa del Sol. Period clothes are hanging in the bathrooms or lain out on the short beds. (Were people that much shorter in the thirties?)

In the main house, Casa Grande, Italian church chairs are built into the walls of the long living room in the main house. Above the chairs hang grand tapestries, all hundreds of years old.

The dining room features an endlessly long, set for ten guests in the center. The packaged Hearst Castle tour does expose a weakness of the man, lest we think they are covering something up. Bob reveals Hearst’s scandalous love of low-brow ketchup. The elegant table is set up with ketchup and mustard at reachable intervals on the table to prove it. Would he have used the more sophisticated “catsup”?

We walk through the billiard room and the indoor pool, magnificent with blue and gold leaf tiles. The indoor pool, built underneath the outdoor tennis courts, is empty, exposing the delicate blue tile pattern on the bottom.

San Simeon, California: The Hearst Castle

William Randolph Hearst’s life and majestic home are immortalized in Orson Welles’ great movie Citizen Kane. The Castle, called “Xanadu” in the film, was never completed during the lifetime of WR Hearst (aka Charles Foster Kane).

Gene and I arrive at San Simeon, home to the Hearst Castle for a tour. Citizen Kane and the documentary about its making, The Battle Over Citizen Kane, reveal much more about Hearst than the sanitized National Geographic film we watch at San Simeon’s Welcome Center.

The promotional film emphasizes Hearst’s love of the central California coast and the story of Hearst’s childhood. WR Hearst’s father strikes it rich in silver mining and he purchases the huge expanse of land shortly after. Hearst’s mother takes her ten-year-old son to a long Grand Tour of Europe. The old countries spark his life-long passion for ancient art, sculpture and architecture.

Little Willie grows up and makes a few bucks of his own, turning the San Francisco Chronicle into a newspaper empire. Today, the San Francisco Chronicle is one of the papers most in danger of shutting down in the changing media environment.

When Hearst inherits the land, he begins building the Castle, stuffing it full of sculptures, tapestries and other art he gathers from around the world. He supervises every detail of project, sparing no expense and redoing some of it at whim. He refashioned the Neptune Pool three times.

The National Geographic film ignores the existence of Hearst’s longtime girlfriend, Marion Davies, who played an important role as de facto hostess of the Castle. The film also skips the financial troubles Hearst faced at the end of his life, where Davies proved she became more than a gold digger.

Hwy 1: Carmel to Big Sur

I figured out how to use the “Sports” setting on my camera this morning, so I go overboard taking photos from the window of the moving PT Cruiser. I’m trying to keep the side view mirror out of the view finder, but it’s tough. I have to hold the camera dangerously far out of the window.

As we approach Big Sur, the coastline changes. It’s more rugged, the trees bigger. I get a small sense of the large beauty of Big Sur. I watch people leave their cars to begin hikes and imagine how much more beautiful Big Sur is on the interior. This is the part of California that bewitched writers like Henry Miller, Hunter Thompson and Jack Kerouac.

We plan an early lunch today at the scenic Nepenthe restaurant and then to reach the Hearst Castle in San Simeon in time for our pre-purchased 3:20pm tour.

Nepenthe is built into the hillside. There is an outdoor café, Kevah, and several shops. We browse the shops with a growing group who is waiting for the restaurant to open at 11:30. We could eat at Kevah, but I think it’s worth the wait for the better vistas upstairs.

Finally, at 11:30 and not a minute before, the restaurant opens and we are seated on the back patio. We sit at a counter that faces out, the best seat in the house if you’ve come for the views.

A retired couple who live in San Francisco sits on my left. A bird with a vibrantly blue body lands on the rail a just a couple feet in front of me. I wait because I don’t think can get my camera in time. But the bird isn’t moving, so I make a slow grab for the camera. He taunts, then flies off and I miss the photo. The four of us watch the trees for another opportunity, but the bird never comes close again.

Our new friends warn us it will take the remainder of the day to get to San Simeon. We’re skeptical, but since they are Californians, we put weight in their advice. The stretch of road past Nepenthe twists and turns like a go-go dancer. Signs for upcoming curves seem redundant. We can only drive about 25 mph.

This part of Highway 1 is tough driving—many places are marked “Rock Slide Area” The surprise of what is behind each treacherous turn is the reward. We pass the Whale Watching Café, 30 miles north of San Simeon. How often does the cafe deliver on its promise, I wonder.

In some places, the grass is clumps of straw. We pass one construction area where workers are installing fencing to guard against imminent-looking mudslides. The water in this area has a stained-glass effect.

Carmel Valley: An Evening on the Balcony

Gene and I decide to drive into Carmel to buy some wine after we check the prices on the room-service wine list. We laugh at the $25 charge to remove the mini bar.

We spot a Safeway grocery store about one minute after pulling off the Carmel Valley Ranch property and decide we’ve driven far enough. California grocery stores are loaded with wine and we buy four local bottles. Seems like a lot, but Gene likes red; I drink white. Neither of us can pick a single bottle, so we take one nice bottle and one splurge bottle each. We select some cheeses and fresh made salsa.

Back in our quarters, I find scribbled song lyrics stashed in a coffee table book. Judging by the handwriting, I think the composer is a frustrated seven- or eight-year-old kid. “Bad Baby Song” has hit potential.

Our mood is lifted. We enjoy the Jacuzzi tub in the enormous bathroom. The bathroom is larger than some New York living spaces. It has a double sink, a vanity, a separate shower and a walk-in closet.

Padding around the suite in the lodge’s soft white robes, we order salmon and filet mignon from room service. The meals arrive, driven to us in a golf wagon. All the Carmel Valley Ranch employees drive the grounds in golf carts.

We set up a spread on the balcony, with our wine and cheeses and our room-service entrees. We bring out the candle from the bathroom and the iHome from the bedroom.

Gene sets up a playlist with California tunes and San Francisco/LA bands. Some of the songs:

• “99 Miles from LA,” Art Garfunkel
• “The Virgin” Gene Clark
• “Sin City,” The Flying Burrito Brothers
• “California Dreaming,” The Mamas and the Papas

We enjoy our warm California night on the balcony with good wine, good music and great conversation.

Carmel Valley Ranch

When researching hotels, restaurants and vacation activities, sometimes I imagine the places all wrong. That’s what happened when I booked Carmel Valley Ranch.

According to “36 Hours in Carmel-by-the-Sea,” Carmel Valley Ranch is home to one of the most outstanding restaurants in the area, Citronelle. The lure of an exquisite, romantic meal enticed me to look into staying at the 400-acre Carmel Valley Ranch. Their 650-square-foot suite and two heated swimming pools for $138 sealed the deal.

I did not comprehend how far Citronelle and CVR are from the town of Carmel. If I had known, I might have opted to stay in town to visit the shops and Clint Eastwood’s Hog’s Breath Inn.

Never assume, as I did, a restaurant will be open on Monday nights. I call Citronelle belatedly to make a reservation and got the bad news. I also assumed a 400-acre ranch would have at least one more restaurant. Strike two.

As a New Yorker who cannot visualize 400 acres, I did not consider I might have to drive to either pool or the fitness center or the lounge that serves a limited, casual version of the fine-dining experience we hoped to have. A non-New Yorker may not understand our aversion to non-essential driving.

These conditions also make driving into the real Carmel for dinner an unviable option. So we will not do Carmel on this trip. Santa Cruz and Monterey were merely pit stops because I envisioned dropping our bags at our lodging and then checking out Carmel before the loveliest dinner of our trip. Realizing all this upon checking in, surrounded by the beautiful Carmel Valley, I feel bummed out.

But traveling is about adjusting itineraries and ratcheting expectations up or down. Traveling is about making lemonade when necessary. I ponder all this as I slump in a chair on our balcony that overlooks lush green hills.

I always have wanted a balcony in New York and tonight I have one. Here’s our lemonade.

Monterey: Pebble Beach & Del Monte Forest

Highway 1 between Santa Cruz and Carmel is dotted with side-open trucks and small shacks selling fresh produce. I see an artichoke stand; I want to stop and buy some, but we can’t get any fresh produce home. But it’s all about eating locally, isn’t it? “Getting it home” defeats the purpose.

We stop at Old Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey to stretch our legs. We walk halfway down the wooden pier and watch the kids play in the water below.

Happy to contribute to California’s economy, we opt to pay the $9.25 to take the 17-mile Pebble Beach. That is the only toll we pay the entire trip and I think about how much more it costs to drive down the East Coast’s lovely I-95. There really is no East Coast comparison to California’s scenic coastal drive.

Continuing on, we drive through the Del Monte forest. I’m not sure who we should be looking for, The Keebler Elves or the Jolly Green Giant? The name “Del Monte” is carved so deeply into our brains as commercial products, I can’t think of trees, only canned corn and green beans.

I follow the “Points of Interest” map we receive at the toll booth like a treasure map. We stop at several of the recommended vistas: Huckleberry Hill, Point Joe and China Rock. We cannot see the harbor seals because it is pupping season, April 1 to June 1. Temporary opaque fencing guards their privacy. This is the first of many closures we encounter on our trip.

Closures become an ongoing inside joke on our trip. If it’s Monday, then whatever I’ve planned is closed Mondays. If it’s Tuesday, our destination is closed Tuesdays, and so on.

California Hwy 1: Santa Cruz

This morning, we pick up a rental PT Cruiser from downtown San Francisco and point it south toward Highway 1, beginning our drive down the coast to Los Angeles. The view is indescribable. I can’t capture its beauty on camera, nor do words do justice to it either. Only hackneyed phrases come to mind: “rugged coastline”, “craggy black rocks”. Ocean waves beat against the rocks; the spray creates a liquid fan. The California coastline must be experienced.

Just sixty miles down the coast, is crunchy Santa Cruz, on the northern edge of Monterey Bay. Santa Cruz, a hip haven with a well-scrubbed downtown, invites us in for lunch. The shopping village exudes sanitized bohemian quaintness.

The prices in the local parking garage are quaint too. At first, the sign “No $20 Bills” seems odd, but when our parking tab is $1.50, we understand.

We have lunch alfresco at Chocolate. After salmon sandwiches, Gene and I split a slice of Chocolate Ecstasy Cake and if you consider thick fudgy chocolate ecstasy, then this cake makes the grade.

We return to Highway 1, passing strawberry farms, lettuce fields and bent-back workers. We pass a paintball headquarters and a rickety military supply shop.

In Monterey County, we encounter dust clouds from tractors. Moss Landing State Beach looks a little swampy. We are surprised to see a monstrous power plant looming ahead of us across from the Moss Landing Marina. It reminds me of the monstrosities in New Jersey. I find it comical that a section of the highway is sponsored by Stardock Document Shredders.

San Francisco: Taxicabs and Poetry

We try to hail a cab on Stanyan Street on the edge of Golden Gate Park. Fifteen minutes later, we wonder who told us San Francisco is cab-hailing city--either our hotel concierge or the cab driver who dropped us off. Not today, it isn't.

A taxi finally pulls up; a sweaty man in sloppy business attire jumps in front of us and steals the cab. The guy can’t pretend he didn’t see us. He says, “I’ll give you $20. I really have to get somewhere.” Now he’s halfway inside the cab as he says this so his offer is no offer at all, only a way to ease his conscience. We decline: we’re tired and his conscience doesn’t deserve easing.

I bet he’s from New York.

We pop into the cozy, Victorian Stanyan Park Hotel across the street and ask the girl at the front desk to call a cab for us. She obliges us cheerfully. The girl chatters to the other couple in the lobby about a local oil store. She recommends using blood-orange oil to make brownies. Note to self. The Stanyan Park Hotel, listed on the National Registry of Historic Places, is worth considering for our next San Francisco trip.

Before dinner, we walk to City Lights Bookstore, the landmark bookstore co-founded by beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Independent book stores are rare and City Lights is probably the best known of them all. City Lights carries two copies of our friend Daniel Nester’s poetry book, God Save My Queen, Part II. Perhaps they sold out of Part I?

I buy both parts of Gore Vidal’s memoir. Gene buys a Noel Coward memoir.

San Francisco: Hanging in The Haight

I leave Gene at Amoeba Records. Gene disappears in the vortex of one of America’s greatest record stores. Some might argue the Amoeba in Los Angeles is better, but we won’t be there for a few days yet.

I stroll down Haight Street, knowing I have plenty of time to wander while Gene record shops.

The iconic street seems less commercial than it did ten years ago when I walked these blocks the first time. (Does any place ever become less commercial?) But I see more small businesses and fewer franchises.

Ben and Jerry’s is still on the legendary intersection of Haight and Ashbury. An American Apparel shop is down the street. Of all the chain stores that might have wedged in, these two have a bit of hippie spirit—albeit in a less-than-authentic 21^st century way.

Haight Street is dotted with coffee shops, vintage clothing and boutique dress shops. I pass the fabled Café Cha Cha Cha; I see Cheap Thrills, the clothing-slash-head shop I browsed through last time.

The mannequin-to-beat-all-mannequins, the giant legs with fishnet stockings and red high heels still stick out a second-floor window. I stop in a couple boutiques and try on some well-priced skirts and tees.

Haight Street Haunters and Revelers

I see fewer old hippies haunting the street than more kids digging the scene, as they might say in retro-speak. Haight Street draws its panhandlers; most are young and sincere. Yet I ignore them or mumble a barely audible “sorry” as I do in New York.

One guy shouts “smile” to me as I pass; he is not offended that I give him no change. He seems genuine and now I feel bad. Trying to avoid bad karma, I give money to the next guy I see—a young guy with a dog. Nodding out he is not asking for money; but he needs it. I ask after his dog. He is pleased and I feel a little better.

A place-in-time can never be replicated and 1967 was the Summer of Love. Whether the kids hanging out are bad imitations, it beats a museum.

I meet Gene, happy with his haul from Amoeba.

San Francisco: Up Telegraph Hill

A small art show is going on at an equally small park, Washington Square. We can see a row of easels from our café seats across the street. After finishing our “Bennies from Heaven,” Café Divine’s variation on the classic Eggs Benedict, we walk through the park, stop and get silly over an adorable terrier who I swear, wants to come home with us. Young families stretched out on blankets fill the park on this first beautiful day of the season.
Gene and I walk toward Telegraph Hill, mostly hoping to see the parrots we read about in The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. The incline of the streets grow steeper and the Stairmaster jokes are losing their punch. We sit down to rest on a curb. How can anyone live so high on a hill? Cars are parked at a ninety-degree angle and street signs warn to prevent runaway cars.
We trudge slowly to the base of Coit Tower and search the trees for parrots. We see no birds, but we get the classic panoramic view of San Francisco Bay and the island of Alcatraz.

San Francisco: Zigzag Through Chinatown

After I step out of the shower, I hunt for my makeup bag. I dig through our suitcases several times. Wary of how this affects the feminine psyche, Gene helps me dig. It is nowhere. I am certain I didn’t leave it behind.

In sunglasses and shorts, I ask the front-desk clerk directions to the nearest drugstore.

She tells us to walk up Stockton—the heart of San Francisco’s Chinatown—to Broadway. At least Stockton is not as impassable as New York’s Canal Street I say, but within a block or two, the street clogs with shoppers. We weave around parked cars to avoid the masses.

At Walgreen’s, we buy makeup and pick up a couple of other forgotten items. Aren’t there always forgotten items, no matter how carefully you pack your bags?

We reroute to Columbus Ave on the return. We see last night’s clubs, bars, storefronts and restaurants bathed in early Sunday sunlight. We pass some interesting spots: The World of Ginseng, Asians.com and Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope studio-turned-wine-bar. I take many pictures of the Flatiron-ish building that houses Coppola’s restaurant.

Back at the hotel, I find my makeup bag, cleverly packed inside a straw hat.

Armed with brunch suggestions from the Hilton’s concierge, we head out again on the now-familiar Columbus Avenue to the Café Divine. And divine it is; the one-room cafe is constructed of beautiful, dark wood and glass. Tiny white floor tiles add to the Victorian ambiance.

We sit in one of the window tables, looking at the people dining at the sidewalk tables. A young, tattooed father hands a baby to the mother. She hold the baby girl to her shoulder and the baby flirts with us and laughs, inches away but with the glass between us.

Gene snaps a picture of an elderly patron sitting alone.

Mona Lisa: Now That's Italian

Are we going to find something open at this hour? We find bars with no food; we find tortilla and Thai and Chinese places, take-out places with a chair or two in an over-lit storefront with no bar. Many restaurants are closing down; I see staffers in the windows, putting chairs up and cleaning. Too bad we didn’t arrive a few hours earlier.

I didn’t realize how close our hotel is to the Italian area, North Beach, home of the early 1950s poets and writers known as the Beat Generation. We pass City Lights, the Beat bookstore owned by Lawrence Fehrlinghetti.

Gene spots Ristorante Mona Lisa up the street and it looks open. The Mona Lisa is indeed open late, a long, narrow, sentimentally gaudy Italian restaurant, decorated with gigantic chandeliers and Renaissance-era murals.

We are seated at a small table by a window. We watch a group celebrating a birthday at the table outside. The group has been there awhile judging by the number of empty bottles on the table.

Christmas lights trim the bar and climb up the lanterns over the tables.

The tablecloths are pink, I think. Even the outdoor tables have tablecloths. Pink tablecloths represent the desire to be upscale, rather than actually being upscale. Only simple white tablecloths make a white-tablecloth restaurant. No substitutions.

But pink or white, upscale or downscale, the food is the point. A gnocchi dish on any menu makes Gene happy and The Mona Lisa offers eight gnocchi dishes. What to chose? There must be fifty pasta dishes on the menu. I love pasta and I try not to eat it too often, but with a menu like this, I must order pasta. Can you tell I’m hungry?

Gene chooses Gnocchi Pomodoro and I have Penne San Francisco (when in San Francisco . . .) Penne SF has a creamy pink sauce and bit of asparagus and crab, plus whole pieces of stone crab.

After our meal, we walk through the friendly sleaze of North Beach back to the hotel.

Night Arrival in San Francisco

Landing in San Francisco 11 pm local time, we are wide awake and hungry. We taxi to the San Francisco Hilton in the Financial District. I am surprised; I have been here before. I stayed here on a business trip last year when the entire town was booked for an Oracle convention. I was here for two nights at $750 a night. (I think we’re paying $120.)

I walk into our 24^th floor room and I am sure it is the same room I stayed in before. Of course, there could be a number of rooms with the same layout, but I still suspect it is the same room. The downtown view from the window feels identical.

The desk clerk informs us the hotel restaurant is closed and recommends we walk to Columbus Avenue, three blocks up. On Columbus, we see a few gentlemen’s bars and a prostitute or two hanging on the street corner. Gene remarks that there is something benign about San Francisco sleaze.

Paris, France: Diary of My Trip

G and I spent four days in Paris in May last year, traveling via London. After returning home, I lost my Paris photos in a laptop disintegration. My chagrin over losing the pictures kept me from posting this journal.
I kept thinking the pictures might resurface. They must be on one of the digital camera discs, I thought. But how many times can I check the discs as if I don't remember what's not on them? How I did I back up all the digital photos from my gasping computer and miss only the Paris folder? Were the Paris photos on that one bad CD? Should I have really thrown that bad CD out?
Pondering these questions, I ignored the journal itself for months. At one point, I thought the journal might be a computer casualty too. (My laptop died three times during this period.)
Coming 'round to the conclusion that I was lucky to have the words still, I reread and edited the journal. The missing pictures flooded back into my imagination as I worked on the journal. I'm sorry the images of the trip are only in my head.
But here are the words to our four days in Paris.

Austin, Texas

In August, Gene and I did a little off-season traveling to Austin, Texas.

We knew for certain that Austin's premier draw--the annual March South by Southwest (SXSW) festival--would not be our scene anyway. It would be like going to New Orleans during Mardi Gras; there's enough action without the festival taking it to a sensory-overload level.

We went to see live music, visit our friend Suzanne and to feel just how darn hot it gets in Texas in August. Posted just now because of computer breakdowns that began during the trip, here it is--the Austin recap.

Nice, France

October 1, 2006--After a long day in multiple train stations, we arrive in Nice tired and hungry, with no expectations. We find summer lingering around for one last blast. Read the full story.

Seattle, Washington

8 October 2005 —Talking chimps on coffee? The Chimposium at Central Washington University will be the highlight of our long weekend in Seattle.
full story

Sydney, Australia

29 March 2004—Two weeks in sunny Sydney. We will visit our friend Nigel who is bringing his new wife, Young-Hae to meet his brother.
full story

Barcelona, Spain

27 September 2006 —Barcelona is the designated meet-up place: Linda, our friend from Boston, will fly in twelve hours before we arrive. Brian will join us from Australia the next day. Brian's daughter Rita is coming from London. Rita just moved to London from Sydney. We have no expectations about Barcelona—Brian picked it; it sounds cool. Our friends Dave and Jennie honeymooned there a year ago. We're open. read on!

London, England

23 September 2006 — Its almost embarrassing that Gene and I have never been to London before. Every time we considered a trip across the pond, we got distracted by something or somewhere else—something farther away: Australia, New Zealand, Korea. Even super-low January fares couldn't surmount our winter lethargy and entice us to whip our credit card out. But finally, we are going to London, the first stop on our three-stop trip to Europe. We are looking forward to seeing our Kiwi friends Kerry and Carl, who moved to England about three years ago.
Is London just a big, expensive New York? Will we have that “been there, done that” feeling we've had in other big cities? read on!