Carlsbad, Oh My

Carlsbad Caverns
Carlsbad, New Mexico

Carlsbad Caverns is the most awe-inspiring, dynamic, exquisite, glorious, mysterious, and interesting thing I have ever seen, save for the faces of my two babies. Even the approach is breathtaking. We started from the desert, a panorama so vast no ordinary camera could ever capture it. Forty miles later, we turned into the gate of Carlsbad National Park and suddenly we were in a canyon on a serpentine road going up up and up for ten miles until we reached the top, where we were afforded a view of the valley, desert and mountains in the distance. We turned reluctantly from this visual gift and headed into the building that housed a gift shop, restaurant, bookstore, and the elevator to the cavern.

Once again, we had neglected to pack a picnic lunch, so we grabbed a sandwich in the restaurant, purchased a self-guided audio tour, and headed down, down, down into the Great Hall for a walk of a couple of miles with 50 different stops along the way. I took thousands of pictures, none of which came out. You can’t expect to capture the bottomless pit with a mere flashbulb. And the noble stalagmites and stalactites shun the ordinary camera. So I bought a CD from the bookstore. Which turned out to be un-copy-able. So here are some of my pictures, and some from Google, with apologies to the original photographers.

Ah So uthwestern

Carlsbad, NM KOA Campground

Coming from New York, I naturally assumed that the most popular foreign cuisine in America would be Italian. I know, of course, that the most popular—or at least the most prolific-- cuisine is the one called “Fast.” But we’re talking imports here.

Well, it appears I could be wrong. We have not hit one town that doesn’t have a Chinese restaurant. The tiniest, one-block town included. And Chinese Buffet seems to be the most common.

My long-time Chinese girlfriend would dispute this, stating that most of the dishes served in Chinese Buffets are American adaptations of Chinese dishes and therefore not true Chinese food. Having been to China, I have to agree.

Chow mein, for instance, is not Chinese at all, but an amalgam of available vegetables and rice cooked up by the Chinese immigrants who built the transcontinental railroad. What my mother would call “make-do.” Another difference: in China people rarely eat meat, whereas most American/Chinese dishes are meat, fish and shellfish-based. Most real Chinese food is not mix-y, but single vegetable, and each is cooked to its own particular specifications. And some Chinese vegetables aren’t even available here, like those incredible foot-long green beans I’ve never eaten before or since. American beans as a substitute? No wei ho sei.

I confess, there’s probably a pizzeria in every town too, but I don’t consider pizza real Italian food – more like Italian fast food. If you ask a local to point out the best Italian restaurant, they’re likely to point to Olive Garden. Okay, we’ll eat in.

Around these parts, of course, Mexican is pretty popular and Tex-Mex is the popularest. We ordered brisket delivered to our RV tonight, and I’d bet my entire life’s savings, such as it is, that it will bear no resemblance to a good old New York Jewish brisket, but will instead be smothered in barbeque sauce and slow roasted like the pulled pork I had a week ago. That’s fine. This is the West, so I shall eat Western.

Which brings up a question: does New Mexico’s Chinese Buffet taste any different from South Carolina’s? I don’t know. I only eat Chinese food in San Francisco and New York. Forgive me. I’m a purist.

Betty

Happy Thanksgiving from Carlsbad NM

We're parked in the middle of a desert, with absolutely nothing but scrub for miles. We're told you can see 40 miles in any direction. Our pot-luck campground dinner goes on at 2, and I'm bringing the stuffing, since I noted twelve green-bean casseroles on the list and no stuffing. It smells heavenly in my convection oven.

Which I've had for almost six months and never baked a thing in it. I didn't know what convection was. I finally read the manual this week. Whaddya know.

I thought we were watching the Macy's Parade on television, but we were watching the history of the parade on Modern Marvels. (Guess who had the clicker in his hand.) Actually it was wonderful to look back at earlier parades and learn about how it developed into the spectacular it is today.

The show was just over, and it was followed by "Mold & Mildew." You gotta love the History Channel.

Happy St. Turkey's Day, as Father Gillick used to say to us kids. We laughed every year. We were easy.

Betty

Remember the Alamo

I remember the Alamo. I also remember Where’s the Beef and Does She or Doesn’t She. That didn’t mean that I knew much about it, except that it was a place where “Americans" made a stand against dem ebil Mexicanos.

In fact, although most of the Alamo heroes were from the then United States, many were Texans, then a Mexican possession, Native Americans (Texicans and Tejanos) and even a few Irishmen, Scots and Englishmen (what were they, nuts?).

Although it is said that everyone died at the Alamo, the women and children survived, as did a few men, identified as couriers, one really crafty guy who convinced the winners that he was a prisoner, and at least one slave, probably because the Mexicans, more enlightened than we ever gave them credit for, abhorred slavery.

I didn’t know, for instance, that Six Flags, the big amusement park, was so named because Texas has flown six flags in its recent lifetime. God knows what the aborigines flew – probably their underwear once a year. Before anything else, they were practical.

Here are the six flags:

Spain 1519-1821




France 1685-1690




Mexico 1821-1836




Republic of Texas 1836-1845





Confederate States 1861-1865




USA 1845-1861, 1870-Present




Forgive the history lesson. I just like flags. And now I know why the amusement park is so-named.

The Alamo, for all its sad history, is really beautiful. It sits in the center of town and has been carefully restored and beautifully landscaped with native plants and trees. We entered from the back gate into a large area that was once the holding place for livestock. Walking around to the front, we passed an original tree that bore a sign asking people not to sit on its branches. We had to step around the guy with the camera taking a picture of his kids in the tree.

Inside the old church-cum-fort, we saw lots of David Crockett (not Davy, please) memorabilia. He was the leader of one of the three contingents manning South, East and West approaches and lost his life there. We saw the knives of James Bowie, also an Alamo hero. It was an incredible education. And I couldn’t help reflecting on the fact that if Mexico had eventually won the war for Texas independence, we would be a different country today. And Mexico, with all that Texas oil as a resource, would be far richer.

Betty

Hurricane Ike Aftermath

Galveston Oh Galveston

Dickinson Bayou
Texas City, Texas

If you didn’t already know that Galveston meant the oil business, then let me describe the ride there from Texas City, Texas. You drive down a bumpy road, past shacks and small homes, then turn onto a four lane road bordered by auto stores, gas stations and convenience stores, then pick up the expressway south. On either side of the expressway lie more malls than you have seen in your life, and heading into them, a traffic lineup the likes you haven’t seen since rush hour on the FDR in Manhattan.

There appears to be no serious shortage of cash down here. Retail is booming. The clerk at the Verizon store told me that he had arrived at five in the morning for the launch of the Storm phone, and people were already lined up for the store’s opening at seven. He said it had been the worst day of his life.

After our brief stop at Verizon and back on the road at around three in the afternoon, we saw in the distance the reason for the strange clash of abundance and poverty that seems to identify this area: refineries. Not just one or two, but an endless landscape of enormous tanks, pipes, strange-looking structures I have no words for, and parking lots filled with the cars of the workers there. No Cadillacs in the parking field. Just working class cars. And no people. Just steel structures. And effluvia, thick and acrid, filling the sky.

Once on the bridge to the island (Most of the city is not on the mainland), we saw an orange-grey cloud, and it appeared to cover the entire city. We thought at first that it was pollution but the smell of fire soon convinced us otherwise.

As we came into the outskirts of town, we remembered that they had been hit with a ferocious hurricane this fall. We were smelling the cleanup. Now we understood why all the billboards were down, and all those tall fast-food and gas station signs along the highway seemed to have been ripped out of their frames. We were seeing the place that took the biggest hit from the winds right off the ocean.

Our noses were running and our eyes tearing by this time, but we decided to look further. The RV campground we’d planned on staying at was a few miles ahead, another beach stopover.

Typical tall beach houses surrounded the canals that dot the outskirts of the city, and these appeared relatively unscathed. Then we noticed the broken windows, and torn fences, the debris littering every yard.

And the boats. Not little dinghys, but big sailboats and cabin cruisers, not in the water, but alongside the road, with signs on them warning the curious to keep away. The water rose, the boats floated onto shore and now lay on their sides, damaged, some permanently, beached whales that might never see the sea again. We probably saw 30 of these as we drove along.

Turning into the road for the camp, we saw small houses and apartments, their complete contents emptied into their yards, waiting for the trash trucks to haul them away and set them afire. Most windows were broken, most doors were ripped off hinges. Fences were gone or at best, bent over. A whole block of apartment garage doors were dented inward at the same level above the ground. If that was water damage then they had had about two-to-three feet of flooding.

The campground was another story. Every single RV was damaged, and none of them was livable. Some were overturned. A row of hastily erected tents housed the people who were obviously trying to salvage their possessions and clean up the site. John looked at me and said, “Well I guess we won’t be staying here this week.” You got that right. We decided to leave, since by now neither of us could breathe normally and our throats were burning. We never did see the dumpsite or the fire, but it was obviously one hell of a blaze.

As we began to appreciate the depth of the destruction, we began to notice the resilience of the town’s people. Hastily erected signs – Sir Speedy, or whoever the town sign maker was, must have been working around the clock – announced OPEN FOR BUSINESS, and WE’RE STILL STANDIN’, and KITCHEN OPEN AND WE’RE STILL HOPIN’ and BACK SOONER THAN YOU EXPECT. Obviously one little hurricane wasn’t going to stop Galveston, not here in Texas where everything’s big, including hope.

On the way out of town and back to breathable air, we saw one image that seemed to typify the story, and made me kick myself for not having brought my camera.

There on the side of the road was a beat-up old camper. Half of one side had been torn away and its contents were obviously in a state of ruin. New rust stains dotted its chassis, some of its windows were broken and its single remaining windshield wiper was sticking forlornly out at an angle. There on its side, facing the traffic, its owner had spray painted his message: FREE.

Betty

Bouncing Around

Outside Atlanta, GA

It seems to trouble some people that we have no itinerary. Wherever the wind blows us, that’s where we go. It’s not exactly saving us money on gas and tires, but then again gas prices have gone down by half since we started, haven’t they.

Other than being tethered to Syracuse – and if you’re getting sick of hearing about our repair delays, imagine how we feel – we have just sort-of bounced around, up and down, left and right, here and there. We’re not exactly zig-zagging, but we’re not going in a straight line either. How dull would that be. How predictable. How unlike either of us, now that you think about it, right?

The only thing I know is that we’d like to be on both coasts for the holidays. West, to see Jeff and spend some quality time with him. East, to see friends and family, and oh god to get my hair done by the only one who ever gets it right, Barbara at Miwa Alex on 22nd Street. I have a decidedly pink cast to my head these days. Looking more and more like Mom as I go my merry way. She was an at-home dyer too.

How do we accomplish this double-edge goal? That’s the point.

Leave the bus, leave the dog and fly to San Francisco? Drive the bus, keep the dog and skip New York? This is one of those “drop the guns, put up your hands, drop your hands, put up the guns” old-time jokes that we are just incapable of resolving until those darn parts come in to Syracuse.

Of course, even if that does happen, we’ll still have the quandary of where to live for three weeks, what to do with the dog, and how to get hold of some warm clothes and a suitcase, my old suitcase and warm clothing having been tossed as a result of mildew, caused by the original accident buckling the floor so water could pool there. It’s a conundrum.

So instead of planning, here I sit, warm and cozy in the Georgia Fall weather, the coffee perking, the dog sleeping in – thank you, whoever trained this pooch to sleep to 11 o’clock – and writing my blog. I don’t even know what we’re doing today. When I do whatever I’m going to do, I’ll let you know.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, just in case.

Andersonville, Georgia

You know you’re in the Deep South when a doublewide is upscale living, and every road has cotton instead of litter alongside. This is just past the picking season, so we assume that the ground cover of white puffs is coming from the trucks that transport this incredible stuff from field to gin or from gin to processing plants. We stopped at one point and gathered some of it to send home to our niece and nephew, who probably thought we were crazy for sending them a plastic bag full of this stuff.

But I recall as a kid being transported by the sight of such a rare treasure – cotton as it was picked off the plant! I hope they were as excited as I was when my aunt sent me some.

The beauty of traveling with your computer and a mobile connector is the that we have the ability to immediately find answers to those silly questions that pop up as we go along. Like who was Oglethorpe? (Answer: English general, founder of Georgia.) And as we were entering Plains, GA, where was the peanut hero, George Washington Carver, born? Plains? No, Diamond, Missouri. And then, since it was there on the web page for us to read, a little more about Carver, expanding on what we had learned back in grade school, and impressing us with his accomplishments even more because now we’re adults and can appreciate how hard he must have worked. Did you know, for instance, that his father died before he was born, and he and his mother were kidnapped by slave raiders when he was only an infant? He was returned to the plantation without his mother and never saw her again. And this little slave boy turned out to be the first African-American professor in a southern university. Amazing, and that was only a beginning for him.

As we head up the road towards Atlanta, we’ll be stopping in Andersonville, home of the infamous Civil War prison, our own little Dachau for Northern Soldiers. I expect to be equally enthralled and appalled. The only thing I know about it has to do with the book by MacKinlay Kantor that I never read, and the TV special that I did see back in the 60’s.
Now, finally, I’m about to be educated.

Later: Sad, what man does to man. Below, some of the state monuments that dot the original prison area, a remnant of stockade that has survived, and some of the rudimentary tents created out of sticks, clothing and found objects.

Betty

St. Mary's Georgia

I do not want to live in a town with signs like this. Any town that would permit people to post their personal religious signs on their lawns is no town for me.

It's prejudice. Whoremongers and adulterers are people too. Where are they going to live if not in St. Mary's, Georgia? Should they travel the roads, welcome nowhere, living off the kindness of strangers and stranger people? I thought all that went out with the Civil War.

Who's going to provide the fun evenings, if not for them? Even if we're not inclined to join them, are we to be denied the pleasure of sitting around of an evening and judging them? Shall we then turn the spotlight on ourselves and begin to pick at our personal foibles? The overeaters among us? The ones who sleep in on Sunday? The speeders? I think not.

And what's a monger anyway? Do mongers produce mongrels? Do mongers live in mangers? Is that why the "g" sounds different in each word? So you can tell them apart if you run into a monger in a manger?

Do you suppose they have any whoremongers or adulterers in those garbage cans? Those are pretty big cans. The house wasn't that big. Just a little ranch on a side street.

No. I'm moving on. Religious prejudice is too upsetting.

Betty

A Beautiful Leg

Crooked River State Park
St. Mary's Georgia

As we head north to supposedly, allegedly, presumably, hopefully and stupidly believe we will finally get the repair parts for this big bus, I’m thinking a recap of the first leg of this adventure would be a fun thing to do.

After a great sendoff from NY, and a wonderful weekend in Pennsylvania, we spent the summer in Canada, where it rained practically non-stop. Nevertheless, it was cool and beautiful and wide-open and forested and unspoiled in a way to make you understand the downside of the rampaging growth we have become inured to.

In a nutshell, Ontario is the US with more trees, Quebec is France without the snobbery, New Brunswick is half and half, a wonderful blend of French and English influence, Nova Scotia is one of the most beautiful places on earth – a veritable Christmas present of fir trees and blue sky – and Prince Edward Island is golden and green and doesn’t have very many mussels, or oysters, for that matter.

We were hauled back to Syracuse in the fall, where they still didn’t have our RV parts, and as a result, we were able to see a little bit of every state in the Northeast, all of which are wonderful, but since Vermont gave us Lyme Disease and no-see-ums, we were less entranced, even though I’ve skied there, and nothing can compare.

After a lovely break in the NY area, where we saw friends, and missed everybody in my family, all of whom were otherwise engaged, we headed out to Nashville to see the Eagles. I’ve never been a groupie before. It was fun, despite the fact that I fell off a ladder and badly sprained my wrist, and John was diagnosed with shingles on top of the Lyme Disease two days prior.

We tooled around that area, from Tennessee to Cape Hatteras for a week of R&R in North Carolina’s Outer Banks. When we were exhausted from resting, we dragged our flaccid muscles back aboard the bus and headed for some more national parks. Congaree in South Carolina, Hot Springs in Arkansas and Mammoth Cave in Kentucky.

We headed south through Mississippi to Alabama, stopped there for a few days, and then proceeded towards Destin, Florida, and stayed directly on the beach. Give us a beach and we’re happy. We headed to Tallahassee, where we got some maintenance done on the RV, traded in our ugly 9-year-old Saturn (the one that went on fire) for a Jeep, and visited the State Museum of Florida.

After a lovely weekend spent with friends in Palm Coast, Florida, near Jacksonville, we headed north to St. Mary’s Georgia, on our way to the cosmetician who will restore our coach to its previous loveliness. If you believe what they’re saying.

All in all we’ve visited and spent at least one night in 21 states and 5 provinces, and once we set our sandal-shod feet in Delaware, we’ll have seen all of the Eastern States, Eastern Canada, and then some.

Then of course, we’ll have to drag out the sneakers and boots, the gloves and jackets, and face the reality of colder weather. I for one am looking forward to a late-season taste of Fall, but my husband is not as enthusiastic. I think if he had his way, we’d chase the sun endlessly.

But we both hope that this will be the last time we have to trek to Syracuse. In our lives. No offense, Syracusians. But I don’t believe you guys have a beach.

Betty

Heading Home

We just spent the weekend with my oldest friend Carole Marinello Bryant and her husband Sumner in Palm Coast, Florida. Carole and I met at age 3 in pre-K dance class. We still argue about whether our most memorable dance step was hop-brush-down or hop-step-shuffle-step. And we never see each other without singing "I'm a Little Teapot" complete with the motions. If you've never seen us do it, drop me a line and if there are enough requests, we'll make a short video and send it to you. It's up to you if you want to put it on You Tube and spread this treasure around the world.

Our most recent performance was last night on the street in St. Augustine for her two cousins Cami and Stephanie. They were enchanted by our vocal and terpsichorian skill, but were too shy to ask for an encore. Your loss, girls.

Yesterday was my first day apart from my husband in all these months. We four women took ourselves to the spa and had facials, pedicure, massage and later, dinner. It was a fun day, and I'll daresay John enjoyed his day alone too.

Today we head home, our collision expert having assured us that our parts will be ready for installation by the time we get there. I am sorry that our Florida excursion has been cut short, because we have many family and friends here that we really wanted to see. But we'll be back after the holidays to annoy all you transplants, hopefully with a whole and beautiful motor coach. If we haven't wrapped it around a tree by then.

So goodbye Flagler Beach, goodbye roar of the ocean, goodbye blue skies and goodbye t-shirts and sandals. We're hauling out the sweaters and boots, jeans and jackets, and heading back to the equally wonderful sight of fall, friends and family at home. Goodbye Florida. See you in the Spring.

Betty

Tallahassee Lassie

Tallahassee Florida

This song has been bouncing around in my brain all day, so forgive the plagiarism. I mean it in the nicest way.

We’ve now been in the South for almost two months, and I am learning some Southernisms and Southern Truths that we Northerners ought to be mindful of.

Let me share my learnin’ with y’all.

1-Southerners believe I have a pronounced accent. The fact that most television announcers sound like me and not like Little Luke seems to have escaped them. I may be an outsider, but I definitely do not have an accent, youse guys.

2-Southerners say y’all, and in some cases, modify it with all, so it becomes “all y’all.” They believe it makes much more sense than “all of you,” if only for the time it takes to say the three-word term. I was told as much, and thus learned that y’all isn’t just a cutesy Southern term, it actually has a philosophy behind it. And they say Southerners are slow.

3-Southern time is different from Northern time. It breaks up into three distinct segments: a) A while (pronounced awhahl), which is longer than b) a little while, and a lot longer than c) “jest a minute more.” If you ask how long it’ll take to mount the six tires you just blew $4000 on, the RV guy says “a while” and that’s as good as you’re going to get. In our case, it took 24 hours.

4-Never buy Chinese food at a gas station.

5-Florida may be our southernmost state, but it is by far the northernmost of all the southern states. Is that totally clear? Florida has bagels, Dunkin Donuts, a Saks Off Fifth Outlet, fancy cars, higher prices and people with New Yawk (the only kind to have) accents living in palatial houses. I almost feel at home here. If only the darn sun weren’t out all the time, and the temperature so moderate, and the sky so blue, and the streets so wide, and the pace so relaxed.

Betty

Throwed Rolls

Foley, Alabama
Anchors Away CG

After a great day at the U.S. Naval Aviation History Museum in nearby Pensacola, Florida, we decided to visit Lambert’s Restaurant in Foley, the “Home of Throwed Rolls.”

This Lambert’s is one of three Throwed Roll restaurants. The original Lamberts was opened in 1942 in Sikeston, Missouri by Earl and Agnes Lambert, and it has continued as a family restaurant for 66 years. Their son Norman opened the second store in Ozark, MO in 1994 and the one here in Foley opened in 1996.

The story goes that the down-home cooking at Lambert’s was so good, and the atmosphere so inviting, the place would fill up and the staff would be overburdened. On one particularly busy night, one of the regulars shouted across the room, “Just throw a couple a them rolls over here.” The rest of the night, the wait staff tossed rolls to everybody. The next night, somebody came in and asked, “Is this the place with the throwed rolls?”

Ah, a USP is born. USP, FYI, is Unique Selling Proposition, the thing that makes you different from everybody else and therefore worth having.

I went for a throwed roll because of the grammar, but I’d go back because of the food. Except that I don’t have to go back, because I brought enough food home for the next two days.

Not only do they serve enormous portions, they also have a cadre of servers walking around the restaurant offering extras. First, there’s the throwed roll boy, who with his plastic-gloved hand tosses the rolls from a foot away or from way across the restaurant.
Hot out of the oven and incredibly fragrant, they are the fun beginning. Next comes the girl with the pot of apple butter. You hold out your roll and she’ll put a big dollop right on your roll. If you don’t want the apple butter, then you can have the sorghum molasses, prettier than honey, and to my tastebuds, even richer.

While we munched our throwed rolls, a lady with a huge tub of fried okra came around and ladled a whole bunch onto a paper towel in front of us. Yum, more finger food.

Two seconds later, the waitress arrived with our sodas – in half-gallon mugs, and the refills are free. I ordered the meatloaf and mashed, and John ordered fried chicken. We got two sides with that, so I chose fried apples and pickled beets, and John got mashed potatoes and the beets. I had no idea I’d be served a full half a meatloaf, but that wasn’t the only mind-bender.

No sooner had we been served than a woman came around with a tub of black-eyed peas for anyone who wanted some. She was followed by a guy offering macaroni in tomato sauce, who was followed by a young girl with the most wonderful looking home fries and onions. I made room on my plate. I don’t think anybody in the room ordered dessert. But there were a lot of huge bellies in that restaurant, so I could be wrong.

This is what we got for our $32 tab:

5 throwed rolls
A gallon of soda
Half a meatloaf
Half a chicken
1 lb. mashed potatoes and gravy
1 lb. pickled beets
1 lb. home fries with onions
15 fried okra balls
½ lb. fried apples

We had so much food left over, it took two big Styrofoam boxes to carry it home. But no way was I leaving any of it on the table. I saw not just great home cooking in my future, but the prospect of no cooking for at least two days. I like a restaurant that feeds you the next day, and the day after that. No wonder they’ve been in business for 66 years. On the other hand, with all that staff and all that food, it’s a mystery to me how they can afford to stay in business.

I think I’ll have meatloaf for dinner tonight. Or maybe chicken.

Betty