Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Bucket List
A few months back, with our time in Philadelphia finite, Gus and I made a "Bucket List" of sorts. A list of stuff we want to do, food we want to eat, places we want to go (for the first time or to revisit), before we leave the east coast and its unique offerings behind.
One entry on the list was to revisit New York City, stay overnight and dine at a spectacular restaurant. A couple we're close with was also interested so the four of us put our heads together and made plans for a fantastic weekend, which has finally arrived and begins tomorrow!
A well-timed coupon lets us stay at the recently opened Hotel Eventi in Chelsea for only $199 a night, an all but unheard of price for nice digs the Big Apple; the Mega Bus will have us arriving into Midtown in style. But the real highlight of the trip will be tomorrow evening, when we taxi to dinner reservations at Daniel for 6:30 PM. Yes, Daniel, the restaurant of French chef Daniel Boulud that was recently awarded three coveted Michelin stars and is ranked as one of the top ten restaurants in the world. It's a splurge, yes, but we've saved our pennies and, c'mon, you only live once...and you definitely only live in Philadelphia once! This is not likely to be an opportunity that will pass this way again, what with us living down the street from New York and our dear friends close by to share in the extravaganza.
And so suits pressed, jewelry packed, reservations printed and menus sufficiently drooled over, we are all madly texting one another like Twihard tweens with giddy countdowns to the grand event. Tall tales of gastronomic gluttony to surely follow...
One entry on the list was to revisit New York City, stay overnight and dine at a spectacular restaurant. A couple we're close with was also interested so the four of us put our heads together and made plans for a fantastic weekend, which has finally arrived and begins tomorrow!
A well-timed coupon lets us stay at the recently opened Hotel Eventi in Chelsea for only $199 a night, an all but unheard of price for nice digs the Big Apple; the Mega Bus will have us arriving into Midtown in style. But the real highlight of the trip will be tomorrow evening, when we taxi to dinner reservations at Daniel for 6:30 PM. Yes, Daniel, the restaurant of French chef Daniel Boulud that was recently awarded three coveted Michelin stars and is ranked as one of the top ten restaurants in the world. It's a splurge, yes, but we've saved our pennies and, c'mon, you only live once...and you definitely only live in Philadelphia once! This is not likely to be an opportunity that will pass this way again, what with us living down the street from New York and our dear friends close by to share in the extravaganza.
And so suits pressed, jewelry packed, reservations printed and menus sufficiently drooled over, we are all madly texting one another like Twihard tweens with giddy countdowns to the grand event. Tall tales of gastronomic gluttony to surely follow...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Oppressive Regime
Today the heat is stifling, gobbling up every molecule of air with its slobbery lips and hot breath. What's left surrounds you tightly like a big hug from a bear wrapped in a wet wool blanket, quickening your heart and slowing your pace, leaving your hands sticky and your feet bloated. The humid temps of August without the promise of September. My energy use guilt creeps up with the mercury as the air conditioner remains on a continuous cycle of cooling. Relief may be just a cloud away -- as I pulled the laundry off the line, towels scratchy against my legs, thunder rolled across the horizon and a few drops of rain darkened the bedsheets.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Holy Lunch Hour!
Trapped beneath the fluorescent lighting and feeling a desperate need for a little spiritual uplifting, I came to the idea of googling mid-day church services in University City. As rare of late luck would have it, a Lutheran church offered Eucharist starting in fifteen minutes. I made the quick two over, four up walk to their location, silently walking into the narthex where a small number of chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle. I chose one and settled in, holding the new red hymnal on my lap.
After quieting a few familiar and friendly but noisy inebriated folks outside, the young pastor began the service. It was just him, three older men, and me. Scripture was read and prayers recited as we sat around a cross-shaped pool. The doors to the outside were open, bringing in a strong, rustling breeze along with busy street noise. With it, the wind carried the sound of our three part a capella harmony, clear and in tune albeit bottom heavy on two familiar tunes. Many passers-by glanced in curiously at the hearty hymn sounds of our motley group, but the embarrassment of my youth at participating openly in something like this was long, long gone.
Peace given and brochure taken, I rejoined the masses on an increasingly hot and crowded city sidewalk and right-angled my way back to the windowless abyss of nine to five.
After quieting a few familiar and friendly but noisy inebriated folks outside, the young pastor began the service. It was just him, three older men, and me. Scripture was read and prayers recited as we sat around a cross-shaped pool. The doors to the outside were open, bringing in a strong, rustling breeze along with busy street noise. With it, the wind carried the sound of our three part a capella harmony, clear and in tune albeit bottom heavy on two familiar tunes. Many passers-by glanced in curiously at the hearty hymn sounds of our motley group, but the embarrassment of my youth at participating openly in something like this was long, long gone.
Peace given and brochure taken, I rejoined the masses on an increasingly hot and crowded city sidewalk and right-angled my way back to the windowless abyss of nine to five.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Old School
Nary a leaf is moving here in Lower Merion, a haze hangs on me and my every word. Nevertheless, the air conditioner is off and an incoming storm is on our hopeful radar. Lacking a microwave, Gus reheats leftovers for dinner in boiling water and tin foil, washed down with a freezer-chilled Chardonnay. Our kitchen table, moved to the living room for a floor cleaning and not yet returned, allows me a television show during dinner. My selection, a Carole King and James Taylor reunion concert on PBS. Am I thirty-four or sixty-four?
This music is goodly reminiscent for many, including me, twice over, some might say thirty years too young. Once is my first time around -- my mom playing LPs on the record player, singing along in a clear, young voice to Carole and Cat, Mary, Peter and Paul. Humming along to Bill. Garfunkel and Simon. Joni. There was nothing to entertain, no Einsteins, baby or otherwise, just record jackets, kitchens, gardens and the wide world around me.
The second is much later, 2001, having returned from an extended vacation in Europe. I was unemployed and looking, but meanwhile, taking continuing education guitar lessons and living in Greenwood. Trying with Gus to hash out the next chapter following his decision mid-Sicily to go back to school. On a whim, we sold our piece of shit and paid cash for a roadside car with a real personality, a Volkwswagen Type 3 Squareback, a gal whose presence I miss to this day.
In any event, I remember rattling the old girl's stick shift back and forth to strumming lessons, listening ad nauseum to a James Taylor CD, made possible by a dummy cassette tape I inserted into my car's dash, which simultaneously plugged into a walkman, allowed James' clear voice to come through my small stock speakers, circa 1973.
Those are good times, both. Different and simple, but good times and ones I miss sincerely this hot faraway night.
There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway/
A song that they sing when they take to the sea/
A song that they sing of their home in the sky/
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep/
But singing works just fine for me.
--James Taylor "Sweet Baby James"
This music is goodly reminiscent for many, including me, twice over, some might say thirty years too young. Once is my first time around -- my mom playing LPs on the record player, singing along in a clear, young voice to Carole and Cat, Mary, Peter and Paul. Humming along to Bill. Garfunkel and Simon. Joni. There was nothing to entertain, no Einsteins, baby or otherwise, just record jackets, kitchens, gardens and the wide world around me.
The second is much later, 2001, having returned from an extended vacation in Europe. I was unemployed and looking, but meanwhile, taking continuing education guitar lessons and living in Greenwood. Trying with Gus to hash out the next chapter following his decision mid-Sicily to go back to school. On a whim, we sold our piece of shit and paid cash for a roadside car with a real personality, a Volkwswagen Type 3 Squareback, a gal whose presence I miss to this day.
In any event, I remember rattling the old girl's stick shift back and forth to strumming lessons, listening ad nauseum to a James Taylor CD, made possible by a dummy cassette tape I inserted into my car's dash, which simultaneously plugged into a walkman, allowed James' clear voice to come through my small stock speakers, circa 1973.
Those are good times, both. Different and simple, but good times and ones I miss sincerely this hot faraway night.
There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway/
A song that they sing when they take to the sea/
A song that they sing of their home in the sky/
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep/
But singing works just fine for me.
--James Taylor "Sweet Baby James"
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