travel

Skin Deep Is Deep Enough

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I reconnected with an old friend while in New York City last week. We met at a Starbucks (not that Starbucks, as it turns out; the other one, just half a block down and across the street), and she didn’t know me for a moment, in part because someone else had approached her a moment before thinking that she was someone else, and in part because I have a healthy crop of whiskers and shaggier hair than in our college days.

She had just finished a videotaped interview or some such thing in which a makeup artist had prepared her for her “close-up” – and she mentioned how strange the whole thing seemed: she’s not one to wear a lot of makeup, much less have someone apply it for her, and she’s yet to fully realize or release her inner diva. It reminded me of the story I promised to tell a several days ago, about the last time I flew into New York. This is how I remember it now.

I watched as the plane passed over the city and couldn’t fathom the enormity of it. Dad once summarized his dread of New York City as the feeling that, if something went wrong, there was no way he could walk out before sundown. I could see his point firsthand – the skies were clear, and the only open space I saw for miles was the Atlantic. All else was rooftops.

For a moment the plane dipped its port wing earthward, and I saw Yankee Stadium, lit for a home stand, the interlocked NY gleaming white from the green grass. Then we tipped starboard, and I turned to look out the windows across the aisle.

Across the plane sat a young woman I’d seen in the airport: shoulder-length blond hair in a loose ponytail, a few loose strands tucked behind her ears, deep blue eyes and freckles, a simple white t-shirt and jeans. She was beautiful, sure, but seemed even more so in that comfortable-in-her-own-skin way. She laughed easily on her cell phone; she slipped off shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the seat while she read.

She wasn’t reading when I turned to look out her window, however. She was gazing into a tiny mirror, dusting her cheeks and nose. I watched the cityscape pass outside the window, then glanced back at her. Eye shadow now. The freckles were gone.

I tried hard not to stare, but the process was fascinating and her concentration was absolute. Her lashes black with mascara, she went to work on her lips – gleaming pink edged with just the right shade of lip-liner; her ready smile replaced by a mouth poised to pucker or pursed for profanity – one couldn’t be quite sure.

She shook out her ponytail and arranged her hair just so around her new face, which had taken on a cool and porcelain perfection. She was still beautiful, I was sure. I shivered – strangely, our corner of the plane seemed to be getting colder as we descended. She must’ve thought so, too – she covered her t-shirt in a short, stylish black jacket, and slipped into her heels.

I wondered at her transformation – wondered if she did this for herself or someone else, someone who might meet her at the airport and whisk her off to dinner. I wondered what fool would prefer this flawless, frozen mask to freckles and teeth and bare feet.

Moments later, we touched down. She was home.

Who Is My Neighbor?

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

My driver from the airport to the hotel Saturday was an older Romanian man who welcomed me to New York four times over, showed me a cell-phone photo of Jane Fonda at LaGuardia from earlier in the afternoon, talked about a movie he’d seen her in as a young man (called “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”), then about another movie, which led to a conversation about the war and his views on U.S. politics as an East European immigrant from a long-suffering nation. He combined a great love for America with high expectations, a heavy dose of skepticism, and no illusions about the potential for political leaders to disappoint. Fascinating.

I told him that one of the things I love about getting into a car outside an airport is the roll of the dice: you never know who you’re going to cross paths with. He smiled and said, “You get in with an open mind – not everyone does that.”

* * * * *

I walked from the hotel through a crush of humanity to the intersection of 50th Street and 5th Avenue, to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Mass this evening. It’s amazing what you pass along the way: the destitute and the fantastically wealthy, posh restaurants and corner hot-dog stands, fashion-forward boutiques and knock-off handbags.

Yesterday the cathedral was bustling with tourists (and a scattering of prayerful, mournful, and presumably faithful). I lit a candle and said a prayer for the folks back home, made a lap around the church, then left. Hard to find peace with so many people milling around.

I arrived tonight about five minute before the service. The ushers were stationed at each aisle, asking people if they were here for Mass. If yes, they were given a program and allowed down the aisle to find a pew; if no, they were directed to the outside aisles to observe and take photos. I wound up three-quarters of the way back, just right of center, and when the massive pipe organ started, you could tell how big the space was to fill – it sounded surprisingly soft, almost muffled. It took several minutes for the church to reach some semblance of quiet, and even then, there was a constant influx of church-goers and tourists. Between the priest and me were hundreds, maybe thousands, of worshipers of every nationality you could imagine.

The readings, of course, were the same ones many of you heard. Monsignor Ritchie, however, said (in a voice equal parts joyous preacher and wizened New Yorker) that he would speak about the readings from Tuesday’s Mass – in part because the cathedral clearly held so many visitors, many of whom he feared may not realize that the Church doesn’t just celebrate the Mass on Sunday.

So he preached what he described as a second set of commandments in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Ch. 12), and ended with a verse from the next chapter: “For the commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ ‘You shall not murder,’ ‘You shall not steal,’ ‘You shall not give false testimony,’ ‘You shall not covet,’ and whatever other commandments there are, are all summed up in this saying, namely, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” (Romans 13:9)

The procession to the altar for Communion was slow going, not unlike the sidewalks outside, except without the cell phones and exasperation. People were patient; people were kind …

* * * * *

I filed out with everyone else, back into the neon whirlwind outside. I walked past 30 Rockefeller Plaza, past Radio City Music Hall, where the annual Christmas Spectacular (featuring those leggy Rockettes) is the only show in town due to the writer’s strike, past Lindy’s New York Cheesecake and back to hotel, not hungry enough to eat dinner. I stopped at the little lobby store to get a Coke and peanuts (curse you, Bob!), smiled and thanked the woman at register, wishing her a good night.

I got snack-hungry later and ran back down to get some popcorn. She recognized me, and we talked about the weather, here versus Minnesota, then about her love of the City. “I’m more of a country boy,” I said. “I couldn’t live here, but I do like to visit.”

She smiled and said something I didn’t understand about my education showing through; after a few moments, I realized she was talking about my upbringing. She said, “Where I come from in Cuba is a town, but not big. It is country. I like it, too. People come here; they say, ‘Hello,’ like you. They are nice, friendly people. That’s their education.”

We talk a bit more, then I start back toward the elevators. “You have a great night,” I say.

“Good night,” she says. “You say, ‘Buenos noches.'”

“Buenos noches,” I reply.

“God bless you,” she says, and waves.

The Wilds of Manhattan

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I’m writing tonight from the 22nd floor of a hotel near 52nd and 5th, New York, NY. I went to college in Connecticut, but money was tight, so I only visited The City (as my friends called it) twice back then: a biology visit to the Bronx Zoo and a tour with Jodi, led by my then-boss, Walter.

I’ve been back once since, the first week I worked for Hanley Wood – maybe I’ll share a story about that trip tomorrow night. Tonight, an observation, then bed.

We broke through the clouds this afternoon, and the terrain took my breath away: canyons and arroyos, stony ridges and spikes of granite, unbroken to the horizon. At street level, sundown comes early, and you can’t see clearly more than a few hundred yards at most. It’s louder and busier than where we hunted elk this fall, but the feeling I get coming into New York City is remarkably similar to the feeling of hiking off the beaten trail in Rockies: neither excitement nor fear, but anticipation of the unknown.

Like the mountains, there’s beauty here: St. Patrick’s Cathedral is incredible, as are the faces and languages in the streets. There’s savagery and survival, too: you can see it in the faces of the street people; in the trash and food littering the streets; in the constant security presence, the flashing lights, and sirens. There’s monotony: the hurry-up-and-wait of traffic (both on the streets and the sidewalks), the constant background noise, and the caramel-colored night skies.

And, like the mountains, there’s the constant opportunity for excitement – and the constant threat of the same.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Note: Naturally, I’m here when the Yankees are dormant and the writers are on strike. No Jeter, no Letterman, no shows on Broadway. The Cathedral was packed with tourists, however – hopefully it’s quieter for Mass tomorrow …

Road Rations: Cars, caffeine and the culture of convenience

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

It’s the car-culture call to arms, as American as Mt. Rushmore and as loud as Las Vegas, the siren song for legions of cooped-up auto owners. It signals a change of scenery and the chance for adventure — not to mention bloodshot eyes, backaches and piss-poor public toilets.

Road trip!

Two days and 1,200 miles? No problem. Amtrak? Greyhound? Who needs ’em. The car’s got a CD player, a sunroof and cruise control. Not to mention a console between the seats. That’s key. Because the appeal of the road trip extends beyond getting from point A to point B, beyond our love affair with open road, our need for speed, all of it. Road trips represent the freedom to go where we want and do as we please. Wanna give a passing trucker the old airhorn fist pump? Go for it. Chinese fire drill at the next stop light? Absolutely.

A supersize cola and chili cheese fries? Now you’re talking.

Food is integral to our love affair with automobiles. Consider the ’50s drive-in burger joint: Sharp fins, rolling fenders and gleaming chrome; pompadours and poodleskirts; window trays and rollerskates — an American icon built around the idea that eating in your car is cool.

In the decades since, the cool has turned practical. Today, automakers tout the number of cupholders in their vehicles, and minivans are equipped with tailgating tables and in-floor coolers. And practicality has turned cool, as well, as evidenced by the meteoric rise in the late ’90s of the PT Cruiser — a compact station wagon with a surfin’-safari makeover. Soccer moms now have flames on the fenders of their grocery-getters.

* * * *

The appeal of the road trip — and its close connection to food and freedom — starts before we ever get behind the wheel of a car. Kevin Seymour, my best friend since the first day of kindergarten, lived a half mile down the blacktop from a tiny red-and-white convenience store with no gas pumps. Van’s Grocery stood on a sandy lot next door to nothing and across the road from less. Even so, we rode our bikes down to Van’s every chance we got for a couple root beers, a bag of Fritos and some Big League Chew, shredded bubble gum in a foil pouch that featured a caricature of some scruffy slugger with a lump in his cheek.

I loved Big League Chew, in part for the connotation, and more so because my parents would never get it for me. When I rolled into Van’s on my bike, though, the folks weren’t with me. I could flip through MAD magazine if I wanted, gawk at the well-endowed bikini model on the cover of the hot-rod magazine, and steal a sidelong glance at the adult magazines, wrapped in their black plastic sarongs you could almost see through. Nobody said boo.

* * * *

Another shift has occurred since the 1950s. The drive-in has changed to the drive-thru. No longer a destination themselves, the biggest burger joints serve your food in to-go bags, nearly as fast as you can order it. Now the cars come to the server, who scarcely has to move. Even the cups fill themselves.

Why the shift? Because we expect to go farther faster, and with so much ground to cover, there’s little time to eat. Although food is necessary for life, on the road, sustenance is almost an afterthought. Eating serves as a stimulant and a distraction. It’s idle amusement — we tickle our taste buds to stay awake.

Check the numbers: Driving burns roughly 110 calories per hour, depending on your weight. (Somewhat more, perhaps, if you’re driving a stick; more still if you’re in heavy traffic). 110 calories an hour. That’s a single serving of Mt. Dew — the high octane stuff, not diet. According to the label, a 20-ounce bottle of Dew contains two and a half servings, totaling 275 calories.

In theory, that single bottle of non-diet soda should fuel you for 150 miles behind the wheel.

On the road, Mt. Dew is liquid defibrillator — it keeps your eyes wide and your heart pumping, but it doesn’t stick to your ribs. The calorie count says you don’t need anything else, but that growl in your stomach suggests otherwise. So you eat. Maybe a Snickers from the rest-area vending machine. A bag of chips from the Shell station. (Not the little bag, either; 99 cents for six freakin’ bites, when the big bag’s only a couple of bucks!)

It ain’t sustenance if you don’t need the calories. It’s just eating — but it tastes good and passes the time. A burger and fries from Hot’n’Now? Supersize it; what the hell. Chicken-fried steak and eggs at a truck stop? Why not? Road trip!

* * * *

The earliest road trips as a child are formative, setting your expectations for adult excursions. To this day, I rarely drink root beer or chew bubble gum unless I’m driving, and I still can’t resist Big League Chew …

From third grade until I started football in high school, Dad would take me out of school each October to hunt and fish the Tahquamenon River and the swamps near Paradise in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. In the early days, the highlight of every trip was our traditional late-night breakfast at Big Boy just before we crossed the Mackinac Bridge going north.

I’d often be sleeping when we rolled in — I’d rub my eyes and look up through the amber glow of the parking lot lights to see Big Boy himself, cheerfully chubby in red checked overalls, smiling down at me like an old family friend, a giant burger held aloft on a platter above his head.

I wasn’t up for the burgers, though. For me, Big Boy was, and is, all about french toast. Thick slices of fluffy golden sweetness, dusted with powdered sugar and served with whipped butter and a warm maple syrup. It was better than my mom’s (which I loved all the same), better than Big Boy’s signature burger, better than dessert, even!

Big Boy, Happy Chef, Perkin’s or Country Kitchen — on the road day or night, I still check the breakfast menu first. Two eggs over easy, hashbrowns and toast? Biscuits and sausage gravy? Pick your poison, or better yet, pick ’em all. Breakfast isn’t just for breakfast anymore.

* * * *

Further evidence that eating on the road isn’t based on need: You eat things while driving that you wouldn’t think to any other time: Slim Jims, Corn Nuts, prepackaged sub sandwiches, pork rinds, you name it. Fruit by the Foot? Twinkies? Some road rations scarcely qualify as food; others may be food, but are barely edible. Doesn’t matter. On the road, people will eat anything.

Case in point: As a kid, I saw my dad buy a package of hotdogs from a gas station “meat case” in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He put them on the dash of our old van as we drove south, and by Mackinac City, they were warm through. Roll ’em in a slice of bread, and voila! Lunch on the road, no stopping necessary.

I’ve told that story a time or two, and the general response falls somewhere between revulsion and concern: Aw, man! Did anyone get food poisoning? Nope, I say, and those dashboard dogs looked a lot better than the day-old brown one rolling slowly under the gas-station heat lamps.

Has anyone ever eaten that last, shriveled dog? Count on it. Some dark night, some saddle-sore road warrior pulls into the Kwik Mart just as the night manager turns off the big sign. He fills up, pours the last of the coffee — the thick stuff — into a foam cup, sees that last weiner and hesitates.

“Go ahead,” the night man says. “You can have it.”

He takes it, of course, because hey, free hotdog. It’s dry and a bit chewy, I’ll bet — like the ancient teriyaki beef sticks I picked up with my fishing license at the sporting goods store in Gunnison, Colorado, last summer. Brendan and Gabe, age 7 and 5 respectively, were scoping out the candy selection, which hung in little plastic sacks on long rods next to the bait cooler.

Bren was eyeing the candied peanuts; Gabe had his heart set on sour gummy worms. The beef sticks seemed healthier somehow.

In the parking lot outside the store, several Hispanic women were selling fresh peaches and chili-pepper ristras under a makeshift awning made from old two-by-fours and a blue plastic tarp.

“Those peaches look good!” said Bren.

“Yup,” I said, and smiled at the women as we walked by.

“Why are they selling peppers out here?” Gabe asked.

“Just trying to make a little money,” I said, handing him a beef stick.

His face fell. “I wanted candy,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Some people don’t ever get beef sticks.”

He took a bite, and his face read lucky them.

The truth is, when my dad bought those hotdogs and warmed them on the dash, he was making do. We had bread with us, left over from our fishing trip, so a package of hotdogs made a meal on the cheap.

Convenient? Yes, but more important, cheaper and less wasteful than buying snack food.

* * * *

Patterns become habits over time, and our road-trip routines become less and less rational. My college buddy Damon was a sucker for a Denny’s late at night: always the same order, their version of ham and eggs, dubbed “Moons Over My Hammy.” His love for ham and eggs ran deep and true, but he could never bring himself to call the dish by name. His ears red, his eyes fierce, he would simply point to the picture when the time came to order and dare us all to laugh.

My wife and I have our own routines now. Case in point: Each time we cross her home state, we stop at the world-famous Wall Drug, the tourist mecca where we met. In addition to offering free ice water, cheap coffee, western art and souvenirs, Wall Drug makes the best homemade, frosted donuts in South Dakota. The Husteads give ’em away to honeymooners and veterans, and, as it turns out, former employees like Jodi and me.

So every time we’re headed west, we find ourselves watching the horizon for the 30-foot green brontosaurus that marks the Wall exit; find ourselves scoping the license plates of the cars, pickups, RVs and Harleys that line the main drag in front of the drug store (which now occupies an entire city block); find ourselves herding four kids past the Western wear counter where we met and through the boot department where I passed three summers daydreaming about marrying her.

Invariably one of the managers recognizes us and puts an order in for a dozen donuts on the house. We leave with an assortment — creamy chocolate, sweet maple and sugary white icing — and I don’t make it to the freeway again before I’ve swiped the first maple.

We don’t need donuts. We’re an hour from Grandma’s house, and Lord knows she’s planning to feed us. But westbound on I-90, what else can you do? It’s Wall Drug — dig it?

* * * *

Dad still travels pretty lean — a bag of pretzels, a couple apples and coffee. Occasionally he’ll splurge for jerky, but a $5 bag will last days.

Me? I eat 16 ounces of Cheezits in two hours flat and chase it with a quart of chocolate milk. That should be enough to fuel 24 hours of hard driving, easy.

“Well,” I belch. “That should hold me for a few minutes.”

I’ve never had to “make do.” My cupboards are full, and my fridge is stocked. I have my own kids, and we travel with coolers of food, most of which is ignored as we move from town to town and treat to treat. We don’t waste the food we’ve brought per se — it gets eaten, as an afterthought, when we reach our destination.

We say grace before meals, even in the car, but it’s generally said with salty lips over greasy fingers. We eat on demand and drink on a whim. It’s straight-up consumption, not sustenance. We’re living to eat, not the other way around.

* * * *

You know you’re a road warrior when the routine slips into the subconscious. Confined to a car on day seven of a 10-day tour to the Rockies and back, I absently open a bag of Doritos. It’s half gone before my head registers the growing brick in my belly. Enough junk food, I think. I need to eat better.

I remember the women selling peaches in Colorado, and I can almost feel the juice sticky on my chin.

“Oof,” I grunt. “We really need to buy more fresh fruit.”

“We can stop and pick some up,” says Jodi, “if you’re hungry.”

* * * *

Blogger’s Note: Yeah, it’s another re-run. This genius creative type I used to work with (the guy behind Cerdo in the “Friends and Good People” menu to the right) and his Squad 19 buddies got the idea of doing a series of prints and selling them to raise money for America’s Second Harvest.

The prints were all representative of convenience-store and road-trip food, the idea being that while we’re eating to pass the time, some people don’t have enough to live on. The project was called Fuel, and the boxed set of prints was accompanied by a book that, among other things, contained this essay.

Thanks, Steve, for letting me be a part.

Fishing Followup

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

It’s been quiet around here, mainly because my off-line life has been anything but. Just a quick one tonight: The long-promised group shot of the intrepid trout fishermen from our trip to Colorado. From left to right, it’s Sasquatch, the Kid, Cowboy Bob, and the Buddha. Why the Buddha? Because he smiles often and says little; you rarely know what he’s thinking, but when he speaks, it’s important. Always.