Seattle/Vancouver

I only half-believed my weekend trip would actually take place, due to the atypical rainstorm in L.A. Thoroughly zombiefied after 2 hours sleep, I headed to the airport in the early morning and saw a familiar blonde head in the security line. Followed by a familiar brunette head. I stalked Ben and Paisley throughout security, who were on their way to their own French Laundry weekend (jealous!)

I had only been to Seattle once, on a trip with a jaunt to Victoria with my grandma when I was 12. I didn't remember much about my few days there, except stumbling upon a Ziggy Marley concert on a pier with aforementioned grandma, who warned me "not to look" at the mysterious plant circulating around me.
My flight to Seattle was spent writing a travel piece and a story due that evening (Procrastinator I am not; being in-flight was my only “free time” of the week.) After landing, I walked through the airport to board the Light Rail, where I was disappointed that I only needed a one-way ticket and not a PugetPass. On the train I uncharacteristically recommended hip-hop to my neighbor before getting off at Pioneer Square. And walking to the wrong Showbox theatre – Showbox Market when I wanted Showbox SODO. Stupidly enough, I knew there were two Showbox venues, wrote down the address to the correct one, and STILL looked up train directions to the wrong one in my pre-flight scramble. After lugging my small pink suitcase in the wrong direction downtown for a mile I finally gave in to hailing a cab, which was surprisingly hard to do in Downtown Seattle. I was rejected once because he was “going in the opposite direction,” even though I am quite sure that all cabs are meant to be aimless. Thankfully, one stopped to deliver me to that lanky man standing outside of the bus two miles away.

After our reunion, Reno dropped us back off from whence I came - on the same street corner I stood minutes before. We ate at the Taste, the museum café at SAM, and had a delicious grilled cheese, tomato soup and fries. Afterward we walked around Pike Place Market, looking at vendors who all felt obligated to wear or chew whatever it was they were selling.



We weaved in and out of the market and stopped to buy a face-shaped ginger molasses cookie:


We made a pilgrimage to the very first Starbucks which had a soothing acapella quartet singing out front. As far as I could tell, they kept it as it was when it opened in 1971. So while charming and borderline-historic, it was also probably the shabbiest Starbucks I've ever been in.




We walked by the most beautiful open-air cheese shop. Cheese-ladelers scalding the curd. Panini's awaiting the press. The smell of parm wafting out.


(My great grandfather was a cheese-maker in Italy. There is cheddar in my veins.)






Being enamored by mysterious ocean life, I appreciated the hanging giant squid sculpture. This is the size of a baby giant squid, which would be double the size at full length. Terrifying and incredible.

We continued strolling Pike’s Place Market, then started heading back toward the venue, stopping at some boutiques along the way. Watson Kennedy had pretty French music and bus rolls, and the boutique next door specialized in my irrational décor obsession: white ceramics. Sadly, the only thing I could afford was a piece of white ceramic toast that I rationalized as unnecessary.

Even though I was only there for a few hours, I was really impressed with Seattle. I like the balance between the relaxed, crafty Pacific Northwest vibe and a big, bustling city. We walked all the way back to the venue, past rows of old warehouses-turned-galleries that still bore their original faded signage (including the J+M hotel.) I finished my writing assignments during soundcheck and a ten-pound weight dislodged itself from my brain the second I sent them off.







Later, we walked over to the day room for showers, and had a mediocre dinner in the lobby. Then, the show, which was fab-u-lous of course. The venue got extremely hot extremely quickly. A good sign.

For this show I had an optimal Jade-side photo-taking location:








I always enjoy the camaraderie-through-standing in the bean-shaker song.

My new SLR shoots HD video!


Afterward, we attempted to watch Conan's final Tonight Show on the bus, but the tv signal was not allowing it. We retired early, anticipating a 4am wakeup to cross the border. When I awoke in a dark, stacked coffin (after successfully sleeping a handful of hours for the first time in days), I groggily assumed it was 4AM. I was quite surprised when I learned that it was actually 10AM and we were in Vancouver. The border-crossing didn't require our wakeup in an unprecedented occurrence of international generosity.

We had a rounded-corner room on the top floor, with a view of the water, mountains and city.


My Canadian resumé was previously limited to Victoria and Toronto, which I can now add “one day in Vancouver” to. Aimlessly, we walked through Downtown, which seemed to soley be made up of hotels, over to Granville St. to shop. We meandered through the "entertainment district" and the high street shops on Robson St.


Later, we shuffled our cold bodies over to Gastown’s faux-cobblestone streets. It is somewhat preserved as Vancouver’s first Downtown area, but seems to be hover between ritzy and rundown. For example, very lavish furniture store with a toothless patron vomiting out front.

My favorite store:



My second favorite store was Nood, which had modern furniture, housewares and gadgets. And a miniaturized Eames chair and table for stylish babies:


We stopped for lunch at Chill Winston and had a prime perch at the front window for people-watching. I would never be able to properly interpret our particular language of romance to anyone, but it was confirmed when we simultaneously became bummed at the sight of a men's satin trench coat. That is a like-minded connection one could never explain.
We ordered poutine, a Canadian dish which I definitely do not approve of. An intentionally soggy french-fry is a travesty. The yam chips were deliciously sweet and crispy though.


Afterward, we watched the gorgeous view of the sun setting from our room. And we may or may not have watched Jersey Shore.




Our reservation for dinner called for our return back to Gastown, in a side-street with the grimmest Tim Burton address ever: 45 Blood Alley. We ate at the Salt Tasting Room, which doesn’t have a regular menu. There is an ever-changing chalkboard of 10 cheeses, 10 meats and 10 condiments from which you create a tasting plate. Predictably, we ordered 3 cheeses, which were all tasty but on the mild side. However I could have made a meal from the fig bread alone. We ordered an additional ‘special’ cheese, the Berkswell from the UK, which was nutty, grainy and delicious.

The only photographic evidence that I was actually on this trip:

I opted for variety and ordered a wine flight of 3 smaller glasses of red wine that were paired with the cheeses. Much like the cheeses, they were good but not standout must-have-again flavors.

We returned our cold bodies back to the hotel for room service dessert and a single-teared goodbye to quality late-night television.

The next morning we went to the venue, which was coincidentally limiting in my introduction to Vancouver by being located on Granville St. We ate at an upscale Italian sports bar nearby that had a Vespa hanging above the door and various aphorisms about meatballs on the walls. We were the only diners not very interested in "the big game" and ate a Jughead-esque lunch of pizza and French fries. Followed by cookies of course.


I have been lamp shopping lately. No light fixture will evade my attention ever again.


Loonies? Toonies?

We sought shelter from the drizzle on the bus until our pre-show goodbyes when a very lovely runner drove me to the airport. Since we didn’t explore any area beyond walking distance to our hotel, I was a dismayed to see what could potentially have been more interesting parts of the city whirr by from the passenger window. We took Granville St. to the airport, and passed what appeared to be a really cute (for lack of a better word) neighborhood that reminded me of Queens St. in Toronto and seemed like an area that we would have enjoyed walking around moreso than downtown.
Earlier in the day, I was concerned about the airline not letting me check in for my flight online. Then, looking through my passport, I grew more worried that I didn't actually receive a stamp upon entering Canada. Customs agents always succeed in making me feel really guilty and I am convinced 'the nature of my visit' sounds suspicious when I say it out loud. This time my flustered state became defensive after the agent flipped through my passport and interrogated me only about my Israel stamp. Her face told me "cousins in Tel Aviv" was not the answer she was looking for.
In summary, my first visit to Vancouver was very short above all things. Our downtown-captivity combined with the unusual buzz of preparation for the upcoming Winter Olympics may have made my impression of Vancouver a little unjust. All the more reason to return one day.

Joshua Tree

December was a doozy.
It involved an unanticipated move, a hectic holiday-time scramble to find a new place, and then a delay between move-out and move-in that left us un-housed for 5 days. With the majority of our belongings in storage, we set out with suitcases full of what-I-might-possibly-need-or-want-for-a-week to spend a few of these itinerant nights at my grandparent’s vacation home in Palm Desert.
It was nice to get a chance to just simply exist. In the mornings, we would drive to get our cup of coffee in the new golf cart (oddly financed by Obama by way of an electric vehicle incentive rebate.) Our other activities were very non-active (besides a very squeaky bike ride.) They were not interesting enough to mention unless you also (happily) watched Gidget Goes to Rome for the tenth time.

However, the highlight of our desert diaspora was our spontaneous evening jaunt to Joshua Tree.
First we had lunch at King’s Highway at the new Ace Hotel in Palm Springs, which the hotel-nerd in me has been anxious to see. And it was just as I suspected: totally, totally cute. It stayed true to the sloped, open-beam mid-century modernism that is Palm Springs but a little bohemian hipster chimed in along the way. The wildlife diorama above the reservations desk was perfect.




After getting back in the car, we swapped our plans to furniture shop for an attempt to race sundown with a drive farther into the desert.

The single paved road that runs through Joshua Tree is 65 miles long through the Pinto Basin and can be entered through the north or the south. We entered through the south entrance, which took about 30 minutes past Indio and our exit from the highway coincided with the sun barely peaking over the highest mountain.




We debated whether or not we should begin such a lengthy (and most likely unsafe) drive, but we powered on through as the single car on the desolate desert road. Every so often there were a few granite rock formations, but mostly just sand. The pinks and purples emerged as the sun officially retired so we pulled over to enjoy what we considered a beautiful sunset, but soon realized that stage was only child’s play. Sunsets never capture well on film, so I fiddled with the low-light flash settings yet what revealed itself to me on playback was still nowhere near how bright it was.







We continued on and began seeing sparse Joshua trees every so often. By the time we got to the fork that seperates the road to 29 Palms and the route through Joshua Tree, we were submerged in the wonderfully weird environment. Both of us expected the trees to be few and far between, but the assigned nomenclature of forest is indeed apt. The trees aren't organized in groups or rows in the way that I picture a Yogi Bear type forest, but there are plenty of them in their own haphazard, eerie way.

The trees appeared even less earthly at night and their silhouettes in the headlights emphasized how freakish and sinister these plants actually look. Coicidentally, my writing professor gave me a book to borrow this week that cited Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, which captures the mood perfectly: “Other than sagebrush the only vegetation was Joshua trees, twisted freaks of the plant world that looked like a cross between cactus and Japanese bonsai. They had a dark petrified green color and horribly crippled branches. At dusk the Joshua trees stood out in silhouette on the fossil wasteland like some arthritic nightmare.”

The scenery called for a very specific category of spooky, isolating music to compliment it. Kate Bush, Bat for Lashes and Pink Floyd played throughout.



When I was not attempting to take pictures out of the sunroof with 40-degree wind whipping my face, I had Jade be a lighting assistant with the headlights:


Then, a prop:


The sunset would not surrender.





When I told my dad about our drive, he mentioned that people often go to Joshua Tree at night to take LSD. From what I can infer about acid from movies, I would expect that a bizarre tree graveyard with mammoth rock formations would not be the best atmosphere to induce a pleasant 'trip.'

The following night we went back to the Ace Hotel after dinner in Palm Springs to try the sticky date pudding. And then we ordered another. Which is the most honorable distinction from our collective sweet tooth.







We only returned back to LA for the weekend because we had tickets to see Conan (my television idol), but missed the taping because of traffic. What timing.

Happy/Merry

...and hello 2010!

Preface:

Before I write about our weekend getaway to celebrate Jade's birthday, I beseech you to watch the following clip of A Cook's Tour. This is the show Anthony Bourdain hosted before No Reservations. Bourdain's tragic flaw may very well be his poor joke-telling but he has certainly earned his title as the authority of global cuisine. To see how nervous such an esteemed chef and foodie gets about Thomas Keller and the French Laundry really puts its reputation into perspective. Keller's attention to detail and creativity are legendary, and the honors he has received as a result have posited him as one of the best chefs in America, and quite possibly the world. The man has earned SIX Michelin stars!



We too have been waiting a culinary lifetime to dine at the French Laundry. The following book has been on our coffee table for a year, which is close to the wait-list to dine there. (Fine, hyperbole: two months to the date to try the call/busy signal/hang up/call routine.)



The book contains photos and recipes of the most famous dishes served there, which each involve about a day of prep and the freshest and most high-end ingredients imaginable. I could go on and on listing French Laundry's accolades, but I think watching the clip will give you a clear idea of its degree of importance.

Ukiah/Napa Part 1:

We flew into Oakland on Thanksgiving Day to give Jade's family and Ukiah some face-time. I’m so glad I got to spend time with his family. So much fun: talking dogs! The tastiest thanksgiving ever! H-O-R-S-E shootouts! AND his dad brought me crab he caught just the day before – the absolute freshest and tastiest shellfish I have ever tasted.
That night we all went to see New Moon, where I tried to leave my vampire biases at the door. I haven’t read any of the books, but was definitely not impressed with the meandering storyline and poutiness.



We stayed at a hotel in town. In the morning we couldn’t locate the blowdryer so we called the front desk for one. The maid barreled in with a replacement blowdryer, paying no mind to me leaping into the corner in my underwear trying to cover my whole body with one pant leg. Awkwardness followed when we realized the unseen blowdryer was, of course, affixed to the wall.

California’s beautiful redwood trees, in very many pieces:





We took a scenic route from Ukiah to Napa through Geyserville, which took around 2 hours. It was the perfect season to drive through wine country: miles of orange and yellow vineyards, dotted with horses and cows and adorable little towns.
Remember when I said California didn’t have pretty east-coast leaves? The ones in Northern California were not quite as vibrant as the changing of seasons we saw in MD and Boston but apparently Jade had forgotten about the gorgeous changing colors that he experienced growing up while I was climbing palm trees, running from brush fires and playing with cement blocks.

We entered the valley from the North, driving through Calistoga, St. Helena, Yountville and ending in Napa.











We checked into our hotel in Downtown Napa, the Avia. They gave us an upgrade at check-in, which was a wonderful surprise since the room-rate for the regular room was already a great deal.

It was a really elegant suite with a marble bathroom and two flat screens three yards apart from one another.






After settling in, we attempted a one-mile walk to Starbucks, when it started pouring sideways.




So we tried to walk to the Oxbow Public Market, which was advertised as a “7-minute walk" to us by the concierge. Not so!
The Oxbow Market was great though; you can really see how integral food is to the identity of Napa. It reminded me very much of the Essex Street Market, with all of the vendors featuring artisanal food and local ingredients. Organic produce, ice cream, gourmet chocolates, cheese and wine, coffee - a really great place to get gifts.





We rewarded ourselves for the minimal activity with a pumpkin cream-cheese cupcake for later.