Doug visited the Australian embassy in Auckland today and they placed a peach-coloured sticker in his passport which will be “activated” as a visa when he re-enters the country next Tuesday. Yay!
Now that he’s got all the official stuff out of the way, he’s off to the Great Barrier Island for five days, starting very early tomorrow. I am ridiculously envious. It looks stunning! I am sure there will be photos…
Back in Cupertino… We just did 26 states in 30 days and it was just a tad insane.
I guess I was overcome by election fever in Austin. The next day in Austin was great, late morning cuddling listening to the rain fall on the roof, dragging ourselves out around 1ish for breakfast and getting a callback from Sandy Stone saying she’d love to meet up for coffee or something, so we all head to a place called Omelettry for fabulous omelettes, superb conversation and catch-ups.
From there, we planned to drive to Santa Fe, but a freak snowstorm halfway up I-10 put us behind schedule, so we decided to head straight for Palm Springs instead. A quick check of the map and we saw that Tombstone was only a few miles off the road. We stopped there for a cool but bizarre afternoon filled with whiskey at Big Nose Kate’s Saloon and re-enactors in the street.
Stopped in Phoenix, Arizona to have a meal with another friend of Doug’s. Finally made it to Palm Springs (there’s a lot of empty in the middle of this country). Met Doug’s ex-bf, Randy, who is absolutely fabulous, had the most amazing dinner at a Thai restaurant, talked about Randy’s current projects (I will be writing some great articles soon), watched his hummingbirds. Next morning I interviewed Randy officially on tape and then we headed out to a great Jewish deli for delicious latkes and sandwiches.
Reluctantly dragged ourselves away from his delightful company. Headed for Fresno to see Doug’s daughter and then back to Doug’s sister’s place.
So. Glad. To. Be. Done.
We had an incredible, incredible time but we’re both pleased to be stable for a little. Now there’s a whole lot of organization and then we’re on a plane next Friday heading for Melbourne.
Our second and final day in N’awlins was divine. Breakfast at the Camellia Grill in South Carrollton with far too much butter in the omelette (I could feel the weight piling on) followed by a driving tour of the Garden District, a trolley ride into the French Quarter and a meander around Jackson Square and Decatur Street. We had café au lait and juice at the Café du Monde, jambalaya and red beans and rice for lunch, walked more around the Quarter looking at the old lacework, stumbled upon an absinthe bar down Pirate’s Alley, talked to old men painting walls, and then as the sun set, headed to Frenchmen Street to find Snug Harbor, where we knew the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra Jam was playing.
I ordered Chartreuse while Doug tried out a new rum and we enjoyed blackened catfish for dinner and then one of the best, sharpest, wildest live jazz performances I’ve seen, all of us calling out, “oh yeah!” during solos and the clarinet sang sweet, deep sugar while the cornet wailed and the saxophone laughed at them both. The big guy playing the double bass burbled to himself as he plucked those strings, bee doop and bing, baby. And we clapped along, joy in our hearts and all the troubles in the world forgotten. When they played slow, it was a swelling wave of love.
We went down the road to DBA to see blues legend Walter “Wolfman” Washington after that, but it was too loud and not right, so we poured ourselves into a cab and home to our couchsurfing couch near Napoleon and St Charles, slept like babies and woke up early-ish to drive to Austin for Thanksgiving.
Arrived in New Orleans and wandered around the Vieux Carré. Resisted the impulse to revert to Anne Rice and Poppy Z Brite fangirl worship (but did go to Bourbon St for Lost Souls‘ sake). Ate oysters there. It’s an awful strip of strip clubs now.
The rest of the quarter is gorgeous: old terraces and iron work. Razor wire strung with mardi gras beads is the only odd note, an indication of the poverty here and the crime rate.
Doug went to bed early, having slept badly last night but I wanted my New Orleans experience, so, after dinner at Kyoto near where we’re couchsurfing (and one of the restaurants recommended by PZB), I went out to see John Rankin play at a nearby hotel. While I was there, I got chatting to someone at my table who said that if I was only here two nights, I had to go see the Rebirth Brass Band at the Maple Leaf because they were the coolest band in town right now.
Sho’ nuff. I went there and they are awesome. They are Ozomatli quality and energy with an extra dose of soul and jazz and minus the hip-hop. No time for a proper review, sorry.
Tomorrow, jumbalaya and gumbo and other delights.
The last days in New York were overcast then rainy, but we walked the Brooklyn Bridge and I spent a bunch of time in MOMA and the Met. I didn’t make it to the Guggenheim because it was closed on Thursday when I tried.
Still, the Georgia O’Keeffes at the Met were divine, especially her Black Iris which ‘makes vision drunk’, I loved Yves Tanguy’s future cities and bodyscapes and landscapes, good old Cy Twombly whose soft canvases always make me smile, Georges Braque, the Still Life with a pair of Banderillas right next to Picasso’s Still Life with a bottle of Rum, both 1911 and both the same palette. And some new names: John Cedarquist’s clever Little Wave sculpture, a trompe l’oeuil take on marketing and the overused Japanese wave and Joseph Cornell’s shadow boxes, especially Untitled (pharmacy) – little glass bottles filled with sand and shells and other mementos, something I think I might do with the glass bottles we have from Doug’s mother’s estate. And Calder mobiles hanging gently in the stillness of the gallery.
MOMA had an exhibition celebrating 50 years of Helvetica, which was fantastic. Yes, I’m a typography geek. Deal with it.
And I voted at the Australian Consulate, an odd experience, these familiar cardboard voting booths in the middle of New York. But I’ve played my part now, dutifully numbered 1-68 below the line for the Senate and 1-8 in my seat for the Lower House. For those voting back home on Saturday, let’s get Lying Johnny out. And check the AEC’s site for preference flows. Let’s give the Greens the balance of power in the Upper House and make the major parties do something meaningful for the people for a change.
We went to see Beowulf 3D with Matt on our last night and it was terrific but not exactly the story of Beowulf. It was cleverly done, almost an attempt to say “this is the real story… we know the tale you’ve heard, but, you know, tales change…” This night was also the start of a bunch of mishaps for me that I won’t go into. Mishaps = grumpy Ro.
The next day was bright and sunny and perfect, so of course we had to spend it in the car getting to DC. Grumble.
By sunset, we were just in time to hit traffic and miss seeing the Lincoln Memorial against a stunning sky, but we did get out into a freezing night and see him lit up. It was sobering: this is Lincoln, and reading the Gettysburg address on the wall was humbling. But I was aware, reading on the other wall, of the language of “insurgents” that is not so far from today. I was also aware of the challenges we face trying to maintain a world of equality and freedoms when one country cannot even do so. I think this ties very strongly into my fascination with utopias and how and why they fail.
I also stood on the spot engraved “I have a dream” where Martin Luther King stood to give his address to the March on Washington. Looking out onto the reflecting pool, tears in my eyes, it’s an incredible thing to look at how far this country has come with Barack Obama running for President and how far it has yet to go with the state of the mostly black homeless people in DC and the proportions of black men in the prison system.
We’d planned to spend the next day ensconced together in the various Smithsonians — although one day would never be enough — but Doug saw the clear blue sky and decided he needed to go chase images, so I was left to wander the museums alone. I spent a little while in the Museum of the American Indian and then through the 150 objects in the Treasures of American History that are being housed in the Air and Space Museum while the American History Museum is being renovated. Finally Doug joined me for a little of the Natural History Museum — oh my, some of the crystals in there are gorgeous! — but we’ve agreed that DC is definitely a do-over place and this was just a reconnaissance mission.
This is already long enough and I want to go into more detail about the American Indian Museum and the concept of identity and language, and my various reflections of the American History treasures, but I want to say one last thing for now.
There’s a new museum opening next year in DC, to be called the Newseum. It will be a museum of the media, of the history of newspapers with interactive photography and broadcast spaces and more. On the side of the building is a six-story high wall, engraved with the first amendment of the US Constitution. If you haven’t read it recently, it makes for interesting reading.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
An interesting collection of rights. That speech and the press and protest should be intertwined. That freedom of religion should be so prominent and right now be so near to erosion. I have a dream, indeed. But I’m afraid my dreams are but tattered shreds now and reading the words of the dreamers before me brings tears to my eyes.
I have a new (or perhaps the same old) interlocutor arguing for “Anglocentric exceptionalism”. I’ve spent a bit of today in the car thinking about the various ways in which I disagree with this person but I think I’m too tired to write a full reply just now. I certainly know I disagree that believing in human rights necessarily means I reject Derrida and Foucault. Baudrillard, maybe. The other two, not so much.
One thing about New York that is instantly evident in comparison to the mid-western towns we’ve been passing through is the quality of the food, although we did have one excellent example of unusually good road food in a little town called Le Claire on the Iowa side of the Mississippi. That was still effectively New York food, though, as the chef was a New Yorker who had, like us, stopped in Le Claire and seen that it was a lovely little town. He decided to stay and build a restaurant called Faithful Pilot, though, with superb duck (usually with blackberry pepper sauce but served with peach sauce for me because of the gluten issue), amazing mushroom spring rolls with soy ginger reduction, according to Doug, and delicious flourless chocolate cake.
In New York itself, we’ve had a great dinner with my cousins, Vanessa and David and David’s partner Rachel at Thai Market on Amsterdam near 107th Street, where the fish was incredible (caramelized tamarind sauce with sweet chilli), the crab fried rice was just right and the tapioca pearls with coconut milk were delicate and subtle. The conversation there was also great, catching up with my cousins I haven’t seen for more than a year, hearing about their adventures in the New York film industry — Vanessa’s been working with starlets on Japanese television commercials and is in charge of shutting down highways for helicopter shots for another one soon, David is in the process of finding satellite Internet for an entire newsroom that will be camped out in some warehouse somewhere for a special event. We gave them the presents we bought in Peru and they were well received. David and Rachel are also Burners so there was some talk about Paul Addis and various other burner things, and discussions of good vodka bars.
Then yesterday, Doug and I had breakfast at Café Mogador down the road from where we’re staying with Matt in the East Village. Moroccan poached eggs with a spicy tomato sauce and fried potatoes done perfectly. Another spiced dipping sauce for Doug’s pita bread; I just put it on my eggs. Matched perfectly with sweet Moroccan mint tea.
And for dinner, I asked Matt to find the gluten-free pizza place I’d heard about. It’s called Risotteria and it’s on Bleecker near 7th Ave. It was unbelievably good. The gluten-free breadsticks were soft and fluffy and you wouldn’t know they weren’t regular bread. The pizzas we had were roasted garlic prawns and gruyère and the second was mozzarella, portobello mushrooms and truffle oil. The crust was a little thin but held together and the toppings were superb. The lemon cheesecake and chocolate brownie were also great. We forgot to buy the packet mixes they sell so I guess we’ll just have to go back (chocolate cupcake mix!).
In a parallel world, where I was still with
, or if I were a world traveler like
, I would have more details for you of the self who split off from me as we made the decision to go down I-90 to Rapid City instead of 385 to Deadwood on our way to Mount Rushmore as the light faded.
That alternative self would have seen a town where little has changed since the 1880s, streets lined with saloons, a town where Wild Bill Hickok was shot in the back of the head playing poker, hand full of black aces and eights, now called the dead man’s hand, the town where Calamity Jane is buried. That alternative self would have then had 35 miles of winding mountain road to climb as the sun faded and would have got to Mount Rushmore long after dusk.
She would have had more stories to tell.
: I was really hoping to say bye before we left the country) but I came down with an awful cold in Olympia and spent four days on
‘s sofa.
We saw a bald eagle, stayed at Chico Hot Springs, saw bison and elk and muledeer and a coyote and we heard a pack of wolves howling the sun down. We saw — and smelled — mineral hot springs and the multicolored travertine years of flow have created.
Sunset was glorious: oranges and tangerines glowing on the underside of beautiful clouds. I love the way the trees here are outlined sharp against the sky.
Elk at rest
Mammoth Springs
Rosanne’s first snow in about 15 years
Trees at sunset
Our last day in Cuzco was the day of the national census. To our astonishment, everything was closed. We had planned to get a bus to Maras, a taxi to Moray and then a bus back to Chinchero for the Sunday market. With no buses running, we ended up convincing a lovely taxi driver named Juan to take us all the way (it’s about an hour and a half drive) for 50 soles (a regular taxi trip in town is about 3).
As we drive out of the city, we end up in breathtakingly beautiful countryside. Juan tells us that his pueblo is nearby and we stop with a friend of his for a jack. The mountains ahead of us are covered in snow. The day is crisp and clear.
When we get to Moray, it’s amazing. We’ve seen so many ruins, but this is entirely different. This was the Incan agricultural lab — rings of terracing with a 30 meter drop from top to bottom but with a more than 15 degree drop Celsius. The Incas used it to test what crops could be grown at what altitudes. We are standing in a 600-year old scientific laboratory and it’s an awesome concept.
Chinchero turns out to be a lovely village which would be quiet and serene if it wasn’t for the clamor and push of the market folks demanding we look at their items instead of someone else’s. We buy various gifts for various friends and family.
Then it’s back to Cuzco, an early night for a plane at 7.15am, the day in Lima, first at the art gallery (excellent) and then more trinket shopping. Last stop, the bones of the Spaniard invaders under the church, just to fill in time, then a midnight flight back to the US.
All in all, a wonderful, wonderful honeymoon, and one we’ll remember for a very long time.
PS:
and
: Check out this stuff on quantum physics and consciousness. I think you’ll appreciate.
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