Beach Blanket Dermabrasion

I've been a terribly indifferent blogger lately, no doubt disappointing all three of my faithful readers. Everyday life keeps me busy, and when I get home I've been too tired to do much more than check my mail when I settle in front of the computer. Nonetheless, I wanted to post a few pictures and let you know what I've been up to recently.

Early April marked three years of sobriety for me, and nine of us piled in our cars and drove out to the country to have a celebratory Sunday dinner. Boy, did we eat like pigs! We went to Tanglewood Ordinary, along Route 6 in Maidens, where the food is served family-style in heaping bowls at your table. There was a whole lot of "Pass the biscuits, please" being said at our table (can anyone name what song that's from? hint: it was the third of June...). We had fried chicken, country ham, pot roast, cornbread, biscuits, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, macaroni & cheese, cole slaw, black-eyed peas, and stewed tomatoes. Everything was made right there, and it was so good it made our toes curl.

We had time to relax on the porch while we waited for everyone to arrive. It couldn't have been a sweeter early Spring day.

Tanglewood Ordinary is much newer than it looks. The original two-room cabin was built in 1928, with additions added in 1935 & 1942. Starting out as a filling station and sandwich shop, it became a well-known honky-tonk with its downstairs dance hall. It was even a popular hang-out for lesbians back in the 1950's.

Below, the countryside stretches away in all directions from the restaurant. This photo was taken from the parking lot.

In early April, I went to a state assembly in Virginia Beach to give a presentation. I stayed at the (new) Cavalier Hotel, and I made sure I was up in time to see the sun rise over the ocean.

The new Cavalier Hotel was built in the 70's, and is a typical high-rise beachfront hotel. Across Atlantic Avenue sits the old Cavalier Hotel, which opened in 1927. The old hotel is only open now during high season. Back in the 20's, the Cavalier boasted its own railway spur which brought guests to its private depot. Guestroom bathtubs offered extra spigots for saltwater baths. One guest must not have found everything to his liking. Adolph Coors, founder of Coors Brewery, plunged to his death from the sixth floor in 1929.

Shuffleboard, anyone? Does anyone know how to play shuffleboard these days?

The coastal winds create sculptured & twisted trees. In areas that aren't trampled constantly by people, foliage just off the beach is dense, lush, and close to the ground.

Take a look at this piece of homemade coffee cake I snagged from the hospitality suite! It pays to be an early riser. The crunchy topping was an inch thick, and the cake paired well with a cup of coffee as I watched the sun climb over the Atlantic.



This past weekend I returned to Virginia Beach with Sadie & Sheldon for an overnight stay. Sheldon found a great bargain on oceanfront rooms by booking in March. We got to the hotel before our rooms were ready, so we walked out to the beach to catch some sun. I had forgotten how windy it is on the beach this early in the season. In high school, my friends & I would go to Fort Story where we could sun on the rocks above the sandy beach.

Saturday afternoon, I endured about thirty minutes of free, painful dermabrasion on the beach in front of the hotel. I lay prone on my beach towel, fruitlessly seeking Nirvana, as stinging sand blasted my skin. When I sat up, there was an outline of me on my sand-encrusted towel. I reflected that sandblasting is the method of carving epitaphs on granite tombstones, and I grumbled that I was returning to the hotel. By then the rooms were ready, and I washed about a half-pound of sand down the drain in the shower. The picture to the left, taken at Fort Story, shows the native seaside foliage when left unhindered. Seen up close, it reminds one of Br'er Rabbit's briar patch.

The photo below was taken from my hotel balcony.


Sunday, after checking out, we rode to Fort Story and took pictures of the lighthouses. Both stand on Cape Henry, and the brick lighthouse dates from 1792, and was the country's first federal construction project under the Constitution.




The newer light was erected in 1881.


Before we returned home, we drove across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, since Sadie had never seen it. Altogether, the bridge linking the mainland to Virginia's Eastern Shore is twenty-three miles long. When I was a tyke, and my grandparents were visiting from Iowa, my grandfather & I would sit on the beach to watch this engineering marvel being constructed. I'm sure that Grandpa's farmer friends heard all about it when he returned home.

The Eastern Shore, below, is a quiet refuge compared to Virginia Beach.


Below, the Sunday morning beachfront as seen from my hotel room.

Blue Stone Cabins

Back in the mid-1980's a friend wanted to buy her first home, and asked me to move in with her to share living expenses. At the time, I was living in Stuart Court on Monument Avenue, and the shock of moving to Oregon Hill is something I'm sure I will cover in a later broadcast. Today I'm thinking of a serendipitous overnight trip that my roommate Virginia & I made across the Blue Ridge mountains into the Shenandoah Valley.

Most of our Interstate highways parallel older, established roads, and I-81 is no exception. It runs alongside Route 11 on a mostly north-south route, anchored at the northern end by Winchester, and Bristol in the southern tip of Virginia. The interstate has, of course, eclipsed Route 11, acting like a younger, more popular step-sister. But Route 11 is where the more interesting sights will be found.

My father told me that Route 11 was once called "The Broadway of the South," because it passes through Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, ending in New Orleans. Broadway of the South it may have been, but north of Virginia it continues through West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York, where it adopts a different number when it crosses the Canadian border near Rouses Point.

Interstate highways bore me to vexation, and I avoid them unless I am truly strapped for time. They are monotonous, dull, and have no soul. The older highways offer glimpses of the wonder of touring by car in times past. Here, I get a sense of history, and understand the unique flavor of each section of the state I am passing through. Most of us are so obsessed with getting there that we forget that the journey is often the most splendid part of the experience.

Okay, okay, enough of that. I'm supposed to be writing about the weekend road trip that Virginia & I took. We headed out of town on Route 250, through Charlottesville, waving hello to Tommy Jefferson's Monticello and the Rotunda at the University of Virginia, and crossed over Afton Mountain. At Staunton (with a wave and a yawn to Woodrow Wilson's birthplace) we turned north on Route 11 and meandered up the Shenandoah Valley.

We poked around Harrisonburg, ogled the cute James Madison University students, and found a diner downtown for a lunch purchase. Back on Route 11, various antique shops offered leg-stretching opportunities, and we stopped at a ramshackle shed that was surrounded by acres of the tackiest yard ornaments we had ever seen. It was all there in cement, the garden gnomes, lawn jockeys, saints, deer, kissing Dutch boys & girls, and uncomfortable benches that promised a souvenir case of piles if you sat on them too long on a cold day.

Outside New Market we saw a bewitching sign floating on a Blue Ridge mountainside to the east. Endless Caverns it proclaimed, looking like our Commonwealth's response to the Hollywood sign above Los Angeles. We took a neglected road that led to the sign, and as we drew closer, the trees encroached so that all we could see framed between the boughs was ENDLESS. Now offering tours once again, the caverns were at the time boarded up and abandoned, and the road ended at a chained gate.

By now dusk was settling into the valley, and we decided to find lodging, preferably at a cabin court or a Norman Bates motel. We eschewed more comfortable and modern establishments in favor of the Blue Stone Cabins, a string of tiny cottages behind a roadhouse restaurant dating back to the 1920's. After we checked in, we headed out for a southern-style meal at a family operated restaurant, and returned to our miniature home-away-from-home.

It certainly was little. The bathroom looked like an add-in, and it invaded the front half of the room, resulting in an L-shaped bedroom with twin beds mashed in however they would fit. A space heater offered comfort from the cold winter night, along with the likelihood of incineration or asphyxiation. There was a strange cannister apparatus attached to the outside of the bathroom wall. The bathroom itself, which loomed large in the bedroom, was quite cramped upon inspection. First came the sink, immediately followed by the toilet, and then a shower stall. The commode was conveniently close to the opposite wall so that a fellow could rest his forehead if sitting upright proved too taxing, and entrance to the shower stall required a large step over the toilet bowl.

We fell asleep as the heater clicked and wheezed threateningly, and I was the first to awaken the next morning. This was not unusual; I'm a morning person and Virginia is a direct descendant of Rip Van Winkle. I brushed my teeth and hopped (literally) in the shower. The hot water felt wonderful, because our wee heater was no match for a winter night. Just as I rinsed off the last bit of soap & shampoo, the hot water turned arctic cold in a split second. I leapt reflexively over the toilet and landed in front of the sink, wide-eyed and startled utterly awake.

When I exited the bathroom, Virginia was just stirring.

"How was the shower?" she yawned.

"Great!" I assured her, eyeballing the mysterious cannister, which I now realized was Thumbelina's water heater.

As I got dressed in warm clothing, Virginia shuffled into the bathroom. I sat on my bed and waited.

Sink noises. Toilet flushing. Shower curtain drawing closed. Almost show time.

The shower thundered for a few moments, and then a piercing shriek split the Shenandoah Valley. I clutched my sides and rocked with suppressed laughter. I barely composed myself before Virginia, her platinum hair obscured by shampoo suds, shot out of the bathroom like a cannonball.

"What's wrong?" I queried, my voice smooth with concern and innocence.

Virginia was nearly incoherent with shock, and I reflected with satisfaction on the numerous mornings that she had beat me into our bathroom at home. Her showers were long and languid, and I knew all too well exactly how she felt as she stood in the middle of the floor, teeth chattering, clutching a bath towel for lack of hot water.

Bulgarian Rhapsody

One of my treats this past Sunday was getting an impromptu phone call from Wendy. Wendy is my pal Suzanne's mother, and we call each other from time to time. When I was growing up, Wendy was the Interesting Mom who taught foreign languages at a local Tidewater college, practiced Transcendental Meditation, and served green spaghetti with green sauce to her daughter's unsuspecting guests. She is still filled with a love of learning, and took a Japanese language course as well as folk dancing lessons following her retirement from a Norfolk university.

One of the topics Wendy brought up was her daughter's upcoming trip to Bulgaria - had I heard about it? Yes, I had. Wendy expressed her concern that Suzanne would decide to move to Bulgaria, because it would make calling her by phone even more inconvenient because of yet another time zone differential. She did allow, however, that the folk dancing opportunities would be richer. Suzanne currently lives in Amsterdam, after spending about six years or so in Spain.

Suzanne and her boyfriend, Brett, have made several forays to various places in Europe, but Bulgaria is the most obscure country they have included in their travels. I had a vague idea about its location, knowing it was near Greece, but had to look it up on a map to pinpoint it. Oh, there it is, on the Black Sea! It's not a country I hear mentioned much in the news, but I remember hearing about a change in their political climate several years ago. Tourism in Bulgaria is growing, and I was eager to hear from Suzanne about her impressions of this wallflower of Europe. This morning I got my wish when Suzanne sent me a message from her hotel, and I asked her if I could share it with all of you. I think you will find it an interesting read, so here you go without further ado.

WOW!!!

We're fascinated. This is really something different! We are day two in Veliko Turnovo. It took us just about a day to get here from Amsterdam. On the down side, the town is shrinking and a bit decrepit, lots of faded paint jobs and abandoned buildings. On the up side, gosh so much. What's not to love. The people are gentle and curious, eager to learn English and friendly.

The town's history is considerable, and monuments dating back to this city's glorious medieval heritage dot the surrouding hillside. We are staying in a very upmarket hotel by Bulgarian standards. Ninety euros a night is exorbidant in a town where the best rooms go for 50 euros a night, and many a room can be had for 20 euros or less. However, this must be the most modern, chic, lovely, well-equipped hotel in a 100 mile radius, and we are well-pleased to be paying the rate. When visiting a depressed area, it's kind of nice to come back to something upmarket at the end of the day. This is really in the chic boutique hotel category.( I cringe to think of the horrid hotel room you could end up with in Amsterdam for 90 euros a night.)

Things are astoundingly cheap here. Brett and I dined at a lovely local tavern last night. I had a crisp white Bulgarian wine, Brett a local lager. He had some local dish of pork Kavarma, a stew sort of a thing, and I had an innovative stuffed trout. We sat on a spotless patio at a cute polished picnic style table next to a box of bright impatiens and gazed over the clay rooftops at the nearby lush green hills. The entire bill came to 24 leva, or twelve euros. In Amsterdam we pay more than that for a snack from the local taco hut. Brett and I figure on paying around 45 euros when we dine out at a restaurant, and we don't go to the Ritz.

While dining there an American approached us, astounded and grateful to hear English. He was visiting VT with his wife, who is from here. He told us the name of another town that sounds intriguing, Povdiv, with Roman monuments and a thriving art community, but three hours from here, so we'll save that for the next trip.

We saw the Veliko Turnovo light show from the rooftop of our hotel last night. It's a breathtaking light and music extravaganza that involves the entire excavated fortress collection of buildings...and ...I can't even begin to describe it. Maybe I was tired, but I was moved to tears, it was so beautifully executed, so professionally done. There seems to be a native intelligence among the people here. I find it interesting that they excel, as a nation, in mathematics.

We've observed that the native television shows have better production values, especially where lighting is concerned, than homegrown Netherlands TV.

We're off to explore the fortress. Just in to escape a sudden sun shower, but it seems to have cleared.

Ciao!
Your Wandering Expats
Suzanne and Brett

First Encounter with a Vibrator

I have always loved motels and hotels, and the anticipation I feel when I slip the key in the door of my assigned room. Even as a child, I begged to be the first one in the room, ready for a new adventure. Our family trips to visit my mother's family in Iowa involved two nights each way going out and returning home. We never stayed anywhere that didn't carry the AAA rating. My parents didn't think it would be wise.


On one return trip to Virginia we had to settle for a cabin court that was not recommended by AAA. I believe we were somewhere in western Pennsylvania, and there was some type of convention, festival, or hootenanny that lit up the No Vacancy signs at motels for miles and miles. We usually stopped driving before dark, but on this night it was well-dark before my parents gave up and pulled up to the office of an old cabin court style lodging place. I was thrilled; our own tiny house! We had never stayed in a place like this before.


My mother was horrified when we entered our little cabin. There was a big tree in our room. More accurately, the cabin had been constructed around a large live tree, and the trunk was at the far side of the beds. You had to squeeze past it to enter the teensy bathroom. My mother, of course, envisioned insects and weasels swarming in as we slept. I thought the tree was enchanting. It was like staying in a tree house. My mother probably made us sleep in our clothes.


The room was clean and tidy; neat as a pin. I was intrigued by a mysterious metal box at the side of the double-bed. It had a coin slot, and I cajoled a coin from my dad. I experienced Magic Fingers® for the first time. The magic wore off quickly, but at least I had crossed another threshold in my life journey. No need to try this ever again.


The owners of the establishment were very nice people, and when we checked out the next morning they gave me a toy for my car ride. It was a thick cardboard clown head, brightly colored, with an attached ring on a string. The clown had a very long, upward curving nose. The idea was to swing the clown head by the handle to catch the ring on the clown's nose. I kept the souvenir toy long after we returned home.


A regular stop for us for an overnight stay on our Iowa trips was a huge Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge. It was anchored by the familiar orange-roofed office with adjacent restaurant, and had several buildings that contained the motel rooms. The establishment featured inside corridors that all led to the main building. The connecting links were plate glass which had been pasted with decals that looked like splatted eggs. I couldn't imagine why Howard Johnson intentionally decorated his motor inn to look like it had been visited by vandals. My father explained that these decals were an attempt to prevent birds from flying into the plate glass.


We usually had a room on the top floor, which meant we had a cathedral ceiling. My favorite thing about the room was the large switch panel between the two beds. The various switches would operate any light fixture in the room, as well as the television. I was a lazy child, and I thought this was a spectacular idea. The motel also featured an indoor/outdoor pool, and you could swim between one to the other by swimming underneath the huge glass window that separated the two. De-luxe!


As swank as the Howard Johnson's was compared to the tree-enhanced cabin court, it does not compare in splendor to The Grooviest Motel in Wisconsin. This was surely the zenith of the American Motel. You can click your way through the motel tour, and you won't want to miss a moment, believe me. This segment is part of James Lilek's larger Institute of Official Cheer. Be careful, you can get lost in there for days. Pack a lunch. Drop breadcrumbs.