A memorable meal

I’m vaccinated, Linda is vaccinated, and it’s spring — time for a wildflower excursion. But maybe not. We’re in a drought; California is bleached out. So I turned to my main spring resource, the California Wildflower Tipline on Facebook. It features lovely splashes of color that excite wild cravings — “I want that picture, too!” I was cautiously hopeful, and there it was, a post showing carpets of wildflowers near the American River, on the outskirts of Sacramento. Wonderful, because I could also visit with my cousin Steve and his lovely wife, Gretchen. They live in Sacramento. I found a place to stay within 20 minutes of their house, and we were off.

The drive from San Jose to Sacramento doesn’t get dicey until you’re ready to enter Sacramento. There you’ll find a maze of highway signs that has baffled Google Maps. The signs show Highway 50 branching east out of Interstate 80 as you approach Sacramento. Google Maps disagrees. They show Intrastate 80 as the eastern branch. Frantically, I looked for the invisible Intrastate 80 sign. Nearly an hour later, we arrived at our lodgings.

Our “hotel” — a very generous a word — was “SureStay Plus Hotel by Best Western.” It consists of a lobby and adjoining restaurant in front of two rows of cell blocks … er, rooms. The facade is dreary and unwelcoming. No shrubs or flowers separate the blacktop from the lobby. I wouldn’t call it ugly, just a couple of clicks above shabby. Inside, the receptionist sat behind a plate of clear plastic. She seemed safe from our exhalations. We got our room keys and a few vague words about its location. When we opened the door, Linda saw it was a hollow steel plate, which I found consoling. If an axe wielder were to strike our door, he’d be foiled long enough for help to arrive.

After a long car trip, we’re in the habit of choosing the restaurant closest to where we’re staying. In this case, the adjoining restaurant was the obvious choice. It’s called the Haveli Grill and labels its cuisine as Afghan-Indian. Not the sort of food I crave, but tolerable in a pinch. I was sure the menu had a niche for me.

It was almost 6:30 when we went in for dinner, yet the restaurant was empty. The hostess-waitress seated us and gave us menus. I was right — I found edible offerings, but …

“What can I get you?” the waitress asked.

“Well, I think I’d like a lemonade.”

“I’m sorry, we’re out of lemonade. Can I get you an orange Fanta instead?”

“Oh… OK, I’ll have the Fanta. And the Greek salad. Is that a large salad?”

“Yes, but there’s no more Greek salad.”

“Hmm, no Greek salad, either.”

“No, but I can bring you a garden salad.”

“Is that also large, and with tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, can I split that with you, Hon?” (Linda nods.) “Good, and I’d like the lamb kabobs with basmati rice.”

“I’m sorry, we’re out of lamb, but I can get you beef kabobs.”

“Hmm … OK … that will have to do.”

Linda asked for water and ordered their chicken tikka marsala with naan. The waitress retreated, and at least a half-hour passed before I heard her voice again. She was handling a takeout call and ended with, “You can pick that up in 15 minutes.” I blinked and lost it. “What the hell! We’ve waited an eon, but a caller can get food in 15 minutes? I’m ready to walk out of here. I’d rather go hungry than continue this farce.”

My anger was on a short leash when the waitress appeared with a can of Fanta and a bottle of water. No entrees, no glasses. I glared and asked for a glass. We both knew that no more pleasantries would be exchanged.

10 minutes more passed before the waitress returned with our entrees, but we’d have to start on them without the salad, rice, and naan.

I gawked at my kabobs. I expected chucks of beef and vegetables on skewers, but no such luck. The beef had been ground up, mixed with spices, and molded into two unappetizing 6-inch sausages. This ptomaine pit had ignored a rule as old as cooked meat: Without a skewer, there is no kabob. I didn’t know what this dish actually was, but a kabob it was not.

I poked at one of the sausages, broke off a bit of one end, and ventured a taste. It was a touch fiery from the spices. I tried to neutralize the heat with the Fanta and followed up wit a gulp of Linda’s water. My stomach doesn’t do well with spices; this meal was going to be a challenge. Every bite of meat would have to be met with something cold or bland.

I was relieved when the salad, rice, and naan arrived. They might help to smother the fire, and the salad would be cooling. I looked for something to make the salad tastier and saw there was no dressing.

“Waitress, could you bring the dressings?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and brought a small jar of ranch dressing.

I winced. To my taste buds, salad and ranch dressing are incompatible.

“Where are the other dressings?” I asked.

“There are no other dressings.”

“But … I thought I’d have a choice.”

“You do have a choice.” She pushed the dressing toward me. “Your choice is ranch dressing!”

Her rudeness was telling. She must have abandoned any hope of a tip early on and concluded that she now had nothing more to lose.

I worked the food — a bite of sausage, a forkful of salad, a forkful of rice, a piece of naan. I had finished an entire sausage and a quarter of the second one when I declared an end to the misery. I sat quietly and waited for my stomach’s verdict. Would it withstand the abuse? I could feel it musing. Then came a few sharp notes of rebellion and the start of an upsurge. I clapped a hand over my mouth. My quick-thinking wife pushed the rice “boat,” now empty, toward me. I bent over it and filled it with several heaves of what looked like dark vegetable soup. Jackson Pollock would have admired my work.

Linda signed the credit card bill, and we walked out. I felt relieved, happy, and more than a little self-satisfied.

Now a week has passed, and a conviction has grown that the occasion needs to be memorialized in some way. I might even acknowledge it on my tombstone. It would bear the words “KENNETH MARKS LIES HERE, THE INVENTOR OF THE WET TIP.”

Postcard from North Carolina

The opportunities for photographing fall foliage were as good as I’d hoped they’d be. The wonderful thing about taking pictures in the Blue Ridge Mountains is, if your not happy with the amount of color that’s showing, just drive to a different elevation!

In the process of traveling nearly to Tennessee, nearly to Virginia, and getting lost in and around Asheville, a number of experiences left strong impressions. I’d like to share three of them, about a road, a residence, and a restaurant.

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The road is the Blue Ridge Parkway, the most unusual strip of asphalt I’ve ever been on. It angles across the western part of the state, following the Blue Ridge Mountains well into Virginia. It has no highway number and is thinly drawn on all but specialty tourist maps. On Google Maps, it’s visible only under very high magnification. I can think of just one reason why it gets such obscure treatment: it’s not considered a road! It’s actually classified as a “linear park” and, in fact, it’s maintained by the National Park Service.

Work on the Parkway began in 1935. The project was shared between private contractors and a number of New Deal agencies. It wasn’t until 1987 that the full 469 miles of it were open. I think we might have driven half of that, and in all that distance I saw no roadside services whatsoever. No gas stations, no restaurants, no rest stops with toilets. So if you haven’t been advised to pack a lunch and pull off at Information Centers (for non-informational emergencies), you have no choice but to exit the Parkway from time to time. And there’s another rub: it’s not all that easy to get off. Sometimes there are dozens of miles between exits. Furthermore, if you’re not from the area, you get off blind. That is, you have no idea what services you’ll find, if any, when you exit. It would be different if commercial placards were placed near exits, but they are also disallowed.

There are reasons, however, to smile at these inconveniences and think of them as tradeoffs. For example, I saw no speeders because taking the Parkway is the worst way to get anywhere on time. I saw no patrol cars or tour buses, no trucks or commercial vehicles. There was only the trees and the mountains and dozens of scenic overlooks. In the end, I became a believer: the road really is a linear park.

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The most popular attraction in Asheville is Biltmore Estate, a property of 8,000 acres that includes a mansion (modestly called Biltmore House), a French garden, an English garden, a conservatory, farmlands, woods, a pond, and a lagoon. The house is gargantuan, the largest privately owned residence in the U.S. It has 250 rooms that cover just under 180,000 square feet. In driving through the woods toward the house, I could only think, “This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, and some rich bastard owns it!”

When you park in one of the remote lots and take a jitney to the house, the driver reels off a good deal of information about the estate and its creator, George Washington Vanderbilt II, but he does not and cannot address the most interesting question of all. Why? Why does any person use wealth this way? I feel sure that George W. thought himself a “prince of a man,” literally, but that’s hardly an excuse for such a grotesque use of money.

I suppose the answer must have something to do with the context in which the estate was created. George W. was from a family afflicted by the need for ostentation. His seven siblings all built gaudy homes. You might even think they were in competition. It wasn’t long after George W. started building that his oldest brother, Cornelius Vanderbilt II, implemented plans for The Breakers, a 70-room mansion in Newport, Rhode Island. Beyond the family context, there’s the historical context. This was, after all, the Gilded Age, the time when a class of superrich Americans emerged. Erecting a “summer cottage” in Newport was a statement that your family belonged to this class. A sociologist might conclude from this phenomenon that when huge concentrations of personal wealth develop, the imbalance expresses itself in acts that are crass and socially irresponsible. Thankfully, those days are well behind us now. May they never return.

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About 50 miles northeast of Asheville, no more than a stone’s throw from the Blue Ridge Parkway, lies the small town of Linville Falls. Its proximity to the Parkway makes it an excellent base for leaf explorations. The only problem is, it’s not Asheville, where you can get breakfast at the Waffle House, lunch at Applebee’s, and dinner at T.G.I. Friday’s. In Linville Falls, there’s only one place to eat, a roadside diner with the unlikely name of Famous Louise’s Rockhouse Restaurant.

Louise’s is very nearly an eyesore, a ramshackle building with flagstones on its sides (hence the “Rockhouse”). According to our innkeeper, it dates back at least 80 years, when Louise’s father bought it. On the two nights we ate there, our hostess was Louise’s daughter. The famous Louise did not put in an appearance.

When we entered on the first night, I had the sense that a large family celebration was in progress, but I didn’t feel like an intruder. We were seated not far from the fireplace which, according to literature at the table, was at the exact intersection of Avery, Burke, and McDowell counties. I wondered whether this fact had any cosmic significance. Perhaps my fried trout would be delivered through a wormhole. No, as it turned out. The waitress brought it, along with three complimentary hush puppies. (I later discovered that all entrees come with complimentary hush puppies.)

The trout was delicious but the baby back ribs on the following night were out of this world. I ordered them with sweet potato fries, which seemed the perfect side dish. Linda ordered the same, as did a woman at the next table. As I was enjoying my meal, I saw her reach to her right and produce her own personal bottle of honey. She removed the seal and drizzled honey all over her fries. I wonder how many North Carolinians pack their own honey.

Toward the end of the meal, I had to clarify something that had been bothering me for two days. When the waitress brought the check, I asked, “Is Louise famous in her own right, or is it really the restaurant that’s famous?” “Well,” she said, “The restaurant is famous, and Louise is famous, too, because of the restaurant.” OK, I thought, this is a case of a misplaced modifier. For a second, I considered discussing it with Louise’s daughter, but then I thought better of it. If you’re ever in Linville Falls, be sure to give Louise’s Famous Rockhouse Restaurant a try.

Here are the pictures I took on the trip.

Postcard from Budapest

I thought I’d never see a city more appealing than Vienna, but then I saw Budapest. It seemed as if a great hand had scooped up Vienna and put it in a topographically superior place. Vienna is flat and not quite on the Danube. In contrast, the Danube cuts Budapest in half, with the green and hilly Buda on the west bank and the flat and bustling Pest on the east bank.

There’s also a kind of architectural counterpoint that I can’t recall seeing anywhere else. As you sail in from the north, the Buda Castle, once a residence of Emperor Franz Joseph, looks down on you from the right. On the left, the Hungarian Parliament Building stuns you with its neo-Gothic splendor.

In the morning, we took the customary city tour. It consisted of a bus excursion, a stop outside the Buda Castle, a briefing on the history and decor of the Church of Our Lady, and free time for shopping and photography. These were the highlights:

• We passed a gray, ugly building on a major boulevard. It’s known as the “House of Terror” because it was first the Nazi Headquarters and then the Communist Headquarters in Hungary. Now it’s a museum that recounts how the citizens of the city were mistreated.

• We circled a large open area where more than a dozen bronze statues struck heroic poses. This was Heroes Square, where the pantheon of Hungarian heroes are gathered. Our guide spoke about each one, thereby delivering a miniature lesson in Hungarian history. Impressively done.

• We passed an imposing synagogue, said to be the second largest in the world (the largest being in NYC, not in Israel). The Jewish population of Hungary is the 10th largest in the world.

• We climbed to the castle on the Buda side and parked close to some public toilets. The guide declared a “technical” break for those who needed the toilets. I’ve heard many odd ways of referring to a bathroom break, but this was hands down the oddest. Of course, we had to pay; we’d done so at every city. But this was the only time I was given a receipt! I told the guide that I’d declare the expense on my tax returns.

• At the Church of Our Lady, I was tortured by a meandering talk about the church’s history as I struggled for comfort in my pew seat. Had to conclude that in medieval Europe people had no legs and had to walk everywhere on stumps. Outside the church lay Fisherman’s Bastion, an architectural curiosity where, presumably, fishermen had taken up arms (or maybe knives and hooks) in defense of their country. Close by was an extended wall with viewing portals. The panorama was amazing.

• Stopped for some shade and ice cream on the way back to the bus. Pistachio ice cream never tasted so good!

……….

Linda rested in the afternoon. I was determined to take more pictures and so hired a cab for a couple of hours. The driver was a manic type who had her own agenda for the afternoon. Spent 5 minutes getting her to acquiesce to mine. I agreed to one of her suggestions and we shook hands. In the course of the tour, she regaled me with news of the economic and political conditions in Hungary. Pretty sad. High unemployment. Young people leaving. A value-added tax well over 20 percent. Beautiful buildings either bought up by foreigners or falling into disrepair. She especially had it in for the president, whom she compared to Napoleon in stature and in arrogance.

……….

Had our last dinner on the ship, sumptuous as usual. After that, the packing. Called the desk and asked for a 5 a.m. wake-up call. Our vacation will end with a short night and a very long day.

Postcard from Vienna

Naturally, one can’t see a great city in a day. Probably not even in a month. But perhaps one can get a sense of it, or more modestly, begin to get a sense of it.

The first thing to grasp about Vienna is that it was an imperial capital as recently as 100 years ago; the imprint of the Hapsburgs still marks the city. Their somber images are still easy to find, as are the statues of the old empire’s military leaders.

The culture that bloomed under Franz Joseph is present too, and apparently as strong as ever. Music predominates now as then. Strauss’ golden statue, violin in hand, stands at an entrance to the city park. Concert performances are everywhere. The city opera regularly sells standing room, a practice I’ve never heard of.

There are new architectural forms, especially across the Danube, but I saw none within the Ringstrasse. The new parliament building looks as if it might have been built centuries ago. Athena, wearing a golden helmet, stands at the entrance. As I recall, other ancient figures, some in battle poses, decorate the structure. This is not a building that belongs to the present.

I saw just one sign that the past might be losing its grip: Starbucks coffee shops, of all things. I had a private guide this afternoon, and I asked, “Harry, how can Starbucks make a go of it here in Vienna, the coffeehouse capital of the world? And I hear they charge more besides.” Harry’s face darkened. “It’s the young people,” he said. “Smart American businessmen have convinced them.” Then, with exasperation, he added, “And they sell it in a paper cup!”

We wrap it up tomorrow in Budapest.

Postcard from Melk

Spent the morning at the Benedictine abbey, which sits above the city and dominates it. Once a place where monks studied and royalty sojourned, it is now a religious museum and library, with a secondary school, a botanical garden, a restaurant, and two gift shops. It’s full of curiosities. These especially struck me:

• The walls of the inner courtyard depict the virtues held in highest regard: Fortitude, Moderation, Wisdom, and Justice. But what of the Seven Holy Virtues: Humility, Kindness, Abstinence, Chastity, Patience, Liberality, and Diligence? It’s discouraging when holy people disagree about the nature of virtue.

• A fascinating portrait gallery lies inside, and there hangs one of Empress Maria Teresa. Her skin is a sickly white, the very image of “death warmed over.” I’m pretty sure she didn’t get out in the sun much, but I think it’s likely the artist helped her to look “fashionable.”

• Her son, Joseph II, as Holy Roman Emperor, decreed that coffins be reusable. A model, complete with ejection lever, was on display. Don’t imagine that the waiting lists were very long.

• The patron saint of the abbey, an obscure fellow named Koloman, is buried there. Well, most of him is. Some centuries back, they found his head in Hungary and much of the rest in Austria. Anyway, he was hanged from a dead elderberry tree, the story goes, and afterward the tree bloomed again, even though it was winter. What’s really appealing about this tale is that its creator isn’t satisfied in having a dead tree bloom. He needs to push any doubters over the line by making it wintertime, too. In one of the museum rooms, there stands the bejeweled likeness of an elderberry tree. Koloman’s lower jaw bone is set within the lower branches of the tree.

• In another room there hangs a bejeweled cross that is said to contain a piece of the true cross. A pretty ho-hum claim next to the Koloman insanity, if you ask me.

We saw nothing else of Melk, save for a glimpse of the countryside as we traversed from the abbey’s museum to its library.

……….

After lunch, we mounted to the sun deck of the ship to see the sights as we sailed through the Wachau Valley toward Vienna. We braved a strong wind for the pleasure of seeing the lovely towns on the banks of the Danube. None was lovelier than Duernstein, home of the elegant Duernstein Abbey and the castle, now in ruins, where Leopoldo V held King Richard Lionhearted captive during the Third Crusade. I was fortunate to get both in one picture.

Tomorrow, Vienna.

Postcard from Passau

Passau is beautiful in itself and in its setting. It rests almost on the Austrian border, at the confluence of the Danube; the Ilz, coming from the north; and the Inn, coming from the south. Thus it is known as the Dreifluessestadt, or “City of Three Rivers” (your German lesson for today). I’m partial to three kinds of photos: those looking down from hills, those looking up at hills, and those taken from or across a river. Passau gives me all three.

Our guide was superb–good-humored, anecdotally gifted, and well informed. He shared a stunning factoid. The Romans so admired the Batavi, a courageous Germanic tribe that lived in the Rhine delta, that they named present-day Passau, Batavia. Centuries passed and German underwent various consonant shifts. Among them, b became p, and t became ss… And presto! Batavia became Passau (your linguistics lesson for today).

The city tour concluded with an organ recital at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. The organ is advertised as the world’s largest, a credible claim from where I sat. We heard three pieces, two traditional and one modern. Linda observed that the traditional pieces were “bombastic cacophony.” I thought the music was “muddy,” in that the tones interfered with one another. Organ tones sustain themselves for so long that when one sounds out, several of its precursors are still reverberating. The modern piece had cleaner lines, but was impressionistic in style. Seems more appropriate to me for God’s music to make statements, not suggestions. At the end, Linda disclosed that there was no organist; the enormous instrument had been programmed. This raises an interesting question: If recital music has no live player, does it make sense to applaud at the end?

Only three stops left. The next is Melk.

Correction: My research has revealed that the Stone Bridge at Regensburg extends only part way across the Danube to an island in the middle of the river. So closing the bridge to river traffic is not an impediment; ships can sail around the other side of the island! My apologies to Regensburgers. (Your travel lesson for today: Viking employees are experts on sailing, food, and lodging, and not much more.)

Postcard from Regensburg

Regensburg is the victim of hype. Our daily handout describes the city and its people as “entertaining and informative, glorious and gruesome, romantic and racy.” Yes, all that’s ridiculous, but I was at least willing to believe “glorious,” given that it was once more commercially important than Munich and Nuremberg, and that it had escaped the bombs of WW II  (whereas Nuremberg was 90% destroyed). I expected to see street after street of half-timbered marvels, an old city center caught in a time warp. Nothing of the kind. I saw old architectural forms encased in stucco facades. It was pretty, even lovely at times. But it didn’t knock my socks off, and that’s what a UNESCO World Heritage Site is supposed to do. So thank you Stone Bridge, old wurst kitchen, Rathaus, and Dom of St. Peter’s. Thanks for the pleasant memory.

(What did knock my socks off was the news that Regensberg is denying passage to any ship that wants to sail under its Stone Bridge just so it can preserve the millennium-old design of the bridge. This means that any vessel in transit must use the Main-Danube Canal as a detour! The nerve of these guys!)

Also had a tepid opinion of the Danube Narrows, which we sailed through in the afternoon. It would have been an altogether drab experience if it hadn’t been for two or three saving camera shots. The last of these was of the Weltenburg Abbey, site of the oldest monastic brewery in the world. Their beer dates back to the middle of the 11th century.

Postcard from Nuremberg

On the ship at last, after a 4-hour bus trip. Its name is the Viking Njord, which rhymes with “Welcome aboard.” Had never encountered a Njord before, so I googled it. Turns out to be the name of the Norse god of wind and fertility, or, if you like, the God of the Quickie.

The VN has some amazing features. My favorite is the Magic Button. From the bed, you can look through clear glass into the shower and beyond to the toilet. A no-privacy design. But wait… If you enter the bathroom and press the button just inside the door, all the glass partitions fog up! I suppose one could build a house in which all the walls were made of this glass. I’d want to have a master switch that controls all the partitions.

The first dinner on board was memorable, especially the creme brûlée with rhubarb. Tomorrow, a city tour.

……….

What should a 3-hour tour of Nuremberg begin with? A walk through its medieval district perhaps? No, not according to Viking. It began with a 45-minute visit to the old Nazi party rally grounds! Where there was, of course, nothing to see. Afterward the bus took us for a circuit of the courthouse where the war crimes trials were held. I guess we were supposed to close our eyes and imagine justice being done inside those rooms. That done, fully an hour after we left the ship, the real tour began.

The old castle, sometimes the residence of Holy Roman Emporers, was picturesque, and the view from its heights was wonderful. An excellent photo op. However, little was left of the tour but to walk to the old city center, shop, and gawk. The guiding was done, and it was soon time to return to the bus. My judgment at Nuremberg?… Viking blew it.

A lecture on the history of the European Union was offered about an hour after lunch. The speaker was a young woman with a degree in political science. She was stuck with a miserable assignment. Half of us geezers were asleep in 5 minutes. One fellow, just 5 yards from where she stood, was sitting with his head thrown back and mouth wide open, lost in sleep. It seemed to me he represented the entire audience. Still, she carried on as if everyone was awake and alert. I can’t imagine that she’ll be back.

The ship was already on its way to Regensburg.

Postcard from Prague

We arrived via Frankfort in the early afternoon. I don’t believe zombies exist, except at the end of international flights. I would have keeled over in the Prague airport, but I didn’t have the strength for it.

Took a cab–“Fix” was dubious name of the company–and directed the driver to the Prague Hilton. 15 minues later I knew it was all worth it: we crossed the Moldau and beheld the architectural testament of a millennium.

……….

I know it’s a small sample but every young woman here seems to be named Jana. Today, we went on a city tour led by an engaging woman whose name was probably Jana. She walked us ragged, and now every part of me hurts. Got some good pictures, though. Saw a palace, which now hosts government offices, St. Vitus’ church (no dancers present), and a number of arresting vistas. Crossed the Charles Bridge, perhaps the most picturesque in the city. Told Jana I was surprised that the Czechs had given the bridge an English name. “We didn’t,” she said. “We just call it that for English-speakers.” I tipped her anyway.

……….

Long day today. In the morning, a bus took us to Kutna Hora, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. After a silver strike in the Middle Ages, it grew quickly in fame and fortune. Today, signs of its medieval glory remain, thanks largely to two impressive churches. Just as impressive, but in a macabre way, is an ossuary–a bone house, more or less–in which the bones of those dead for centuries are arranged as works of art. Saw a chandelier and outsized family crest made entirely of bones, not to mention many neatly arranged heaps of skulls. I was fascinated. Couldn’t help wondering how often someone came in and dusted the skulls. Not the usual housekeeping job.

Had lunch in Kutna Hora as well–duck and dumplings for me. The dumplings weren’t round but we’re served like slices of bread! I objected and got the unsettling news that the laws of the universe did not demand round dumplings. I washed them down with a wheat beer that had been judged the best beer in the world, according to our guide. To my great pleasure, it tasted like the world’s best beer!

Back in Prague, I ventured out for two hours to photograph vistas of the city. The driver, whom I’d hired privately, earned his money. Invariably, when I said, “I want a picture of that!” He managed to park the car nearby.

On to Nuremberg tomorrow.