Easy Rider (Palm Springs, CA)

The Greatest American stories begin on the road.

(Preferably from the driver's seat of a Mustang.)

I was 106 miles from Los Angeles, deep in the Palm Desert, ticking past exits for Asbestos Mountain, Cabazon and Idyllwild.


My iced coffee had sweated into a puddle by the gear shift. The temperature outside read 105; it was hot - dry - not Florida sticky, but bright enough to adjust my sunglasses.

In the distance, a palm-filled oasis, full of hipsters, and Frank Sinatra's stale cigarettes.


This is possibly the coolest hotel in all of America, my friends. It used to be a Howard Johnson. (They 'preserved' it, lol). Now tattooed men and women wearing straw fedoras lounge by the pool, while the DJ spins Beck.

I made friends in the pool - we shared some laughs and frozen margaritas, all wonderfully light and meaningless. I swam a few laps and had dinner at the old Howard Johnson restaurant, which now only serves organic meat. Then the sun went down and I took a walk - the nighttime stars were beautiful.


There were hippie trailers and cute little dogs, and, back in my room, a Morroccan caftan. A pile of National Geographics waited for me on the dresser. And possibly the coolest classic rock station on an old-school radio by my bed (which was on when I walked in) - it was playing a song that's been stuck in my head since childhood. Yet its name still eludes me.

Perhaps if I stream it, I'll hear it again.

Mile High (Denver, CO)

To those who get altitude sickness, I offer this advice:


Eat your brains out!

Perhaps the oxygen missing from your head finds its way into your stomach, cause I swear my metabolism sped up in Denver.

Inhaling chicken fried pork, I had a side of peppery Delmonico steak, gulped Shirley Temples on the hour, and something from John Elway's restaurant. (Was it green? I think.)

John's cute, for the record, even if he be peddling contact lenses...



The other Denverites were great, as were those brown-red mesas, but let's be real:


Nothing compares to a bacon, egg, and cheese bfast sandwich on a glazed donut!!

Ireland Again

Earth mothers, hippies and other granola types like to 1) hang crystals from ceilings, and 2) sit beneath them.

They say they feel the good vibes, man.

Seven crystals align with the 7 chakras of the human body. Lay under them and look up, maybe listen to some Enya, and let the healing begin. Colored lights get channeled through the crystals, which flow thru the body's chakras, ostensibly for cleansing.

Finish it off with little yoga, and voila! It's like you, man, only better.

Not too long ago, in Waterford Crystal's Factory cafe, I counted 16 razor-thin facets dancing above my head. They sparkled in rainbow cadence. I was having lunch with my boss, discussing the NY Times circulation program, and altogether enjoying life.

Could've been those crystal vibes that made me feel so good. Or maybe it was the Rhubarb pie we had for dessert.

Austin, Texas

Austin isn't weird. It's fantastic.

The food is nice, the shopping is lovely, but that compares little to cute boys - and Austin seems to have a lot of em.


John's a nomad, like me - in the middle of a road trip from California to New Orleans.

I was exploring Texas for my next travel guide. A guy I met earlier that day had invited me to a beard & mustache party at The Mohawk.


Patrick


Clear enuf

Over cans of Shiner, John's eyes locked with mine. The Decemberists were playing, and college students were dancing. I felt free - completely, 100% me: no job, no stress, no strings - it was like a pheremone.

"I don't have a plan, but I'm sure you fit into it, somehow" John told me the next day.

Better words were never spoken.

Waterford, Ireland

I once ended a relationship with these parting words: "shine on, you crazy diamond." I'm pretty sure there was a lava lamp nearby. And maybe some rolling papers.

I thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived. He wasn't - he treated me pretty horribly, in hindsight, but I guess you overlook a lot when you're wearing those rose-colored glasses.

Umm...there's no point to that story other than loosely relating it to my trip to Ireland. My mind was filled with visions of beautiful green hillsides, lovely, jolly people, and sheep (possibly ridden by leprechauns).

But just like that guy, the reality of the Emerald Isle left me feeling bummed. The plane touched down onto a world of white, not green. It had snowed 4 inches the night before, which was perfectly bad timing - Ireland had just applied for an EU bailout and certainly couldn't afford salt.


"Yer in safe hands, girl." Russ the cab driver told me as we sped through a red light and around a bend. (Driving on the wrong side of the road.) "'Tis better this way," he continued, "keepin the momentum goin."

He deposited me in front of a Georgian house with a red door. It was my office; the gate had frozen, and my boss was wrangling it open. The temperature was -16C and she wasn't wearing gloves. I didn't want to get out! There were no other cars on the road - none of the staff was in except for a brown-nosing editor, Gunner, who had brought a spade from his kitchen garden to shovel the steps.

Breathing smoke, I got out of the cab and offered to help salt the walkway. We'd repeat this scene again, every day for the next ten days. We'd leave an hour early for the six kilometer drive to work (I got to know Russ well), crossing treacherously icy roads that the snow had now frozen. Other cars had spun off the road, and people would leave them there, wheels in the air beside startled-looking sheep, while they phoned the insurance companies.


My shining knight, Russ

One day Gunner didn't show up - he had driven off road by the old Franciscan Abbey. Losing control of the car was just the start of his troubles; he was stuck in the middle of a blind curve with a thousand year old stone wall on either side and needed to push his car to safety before another one whipped around. Any moment he faced sure destruction.

When Gunner came into the office the next day, he was driving a tiny hatchback. He invited me out to lunch, and being devoid of human companionship, as the few downtown shops and restaurants that had opened in the rough weather were closed by the time I finished working, I greedily accepted.

Thus begins my Ireland adventure, I thought. He'll be a lovely new friend. But he wasn't - he blew me off, saying he was too busy to have lunch after all. Then he made and rescinded an invitation to his cottage in Kilkenny due to there being popcorn on the floor. He invited me to the cinema but cancelled that, too. Then he suggested I get a ride from someone else to our company's Christmas party, another treacherous drive further out in the country and one I didn't feel like making.

So I did what any industrious girl could: I suggested he jump off a bridge and went exploring on my own. I discovered a room at a nearby castle.

(Just 60 euros a night!)

It had a roaring old-world fireplace and served a jolly Irish breakfast. "Did you eat love?" a kindly old woman asked me as I waited in the Grand Hall for my cab, "I was noticin ya - ya didn't eat much. There's nice fruit, stewed prunes, pears."

"Caffeine is my breakfast, ma'am," I replied with a smile, "I've had three cups of coffee."

"God bless ye" was her reply.

Later that night, I had a bath with Thymes of London soaps. In this tub:

I never wanted to leave.

"Your name may be Italian by you've got the sparkling eyes of the Irish!" Russ said mischievously, as he picked me up for the next morning's drive.

Home

I spend loads of time writing about the places I visit. But there's nothing quite like coming home, after a long trip in a foreign land, greeted at the airport by your Dad and your dog.

Back when I was in college, I dreamt about tasting that first warm mouthful of a roast beef dinner my Mom made when we came home for Christmas. I'd eat too quickly - the dining hall food was horrible, and I guess my stomach had shrunk, 'cause I wouldn't be able to finish. Later Mom would break out the homemade cookies as we watched Larry King. Then came the narcoleptic bliss from a full stomach - ahh.

But nothing seemed as lovely as coming home this time to Maryland. I had been gone a year - it was like the whole state rolled out its autumnal finest - the leafy trees lining Patrick Street in Frederick were positively golden. While I waited for a homemade mint chocolate iced latte at Cafe Nola, a couple remarked how cute the little dog in the silver car was.


He waits for me when I'm gone.

Goodbye tropical sun, goodbye lizards (sorry George), buh bye sandy beaches and long, lonesome nights. I was going home. To my own old bed and my Mom - she cried when she saw us. How I missed spending time together doing the little things that make life meaningful, like shopping at Target.

Or walking around Fells Point


Or eating cheesecake at Vaccaros.

Man it feels great to be home.

West Virginia

Lonely Planet says that Dolly Parton, Eastern Tennessee's most famous resident, made a career out of singing about girls who leave behind their woodland homes and discover the glitz of the city. (They always end up sorry.)

But I'm not sorry for exploring the Appalachians - the windshield view of six states of 'em, at least. And I look forward to returning and hiking them...

See, my goal is to work on a travel guide for every major U.S. city (16 so far). When that's done I'll focus on the state guides, which deal more with national parks and other bucolic attractions.

But all my life I've had an urge to check out what lay next to the Eastern Seaboard, and I'm happy to report that while there's not too much going on there, there are good eats and disarmingly friendly people.

And so it was, from the palmetto plains of Georgia, through Kentucky's horse country, then into the mountains of West Virginia, where coal mines belch smoke, even on a Friday night.



We needed winter coats and gloves by the time we circled the top of the hill to the Charleston Residence Inn. George ran across the frosted grass to keep his paws warm. I think he smelled a fox. What a contrast from Florida! Was it only a week since we had left?

Lovely D, the best travel buddy of all time, discovered Bluegrass Kitchen, right by the Italianate state capital. Like other rust belt cities, downtown Charleston was pretty forlorn. It wasn't always this way - at the start of the Civil War, Virginia seceded, but the Union held tight to the western part of the state, because Northern steel businesses needed coal from its mines. (That's how West Virginia became a state.) During WWI, it was chlorine, made from West Virginia's salt brines, that made it important. A huge construction boom followed.

Then came depression, and while there was still enough business to build a new airport and a convention center, after the Charleston Town Center Mall opened, lots of shops and restaurants relocated there, making the downtown a ghost town. It's staging a comeback, especially with hipster joints like the Bluegrass, but that doesn't make walking past the uninhabited 1920s buildings any less creepy.

Meet Dan the bartender, a British stay-at-home Dad with a wicked sense of humor.

For two hours he regaled us with his stories. He fed us Polish sausages in pasta shells and pizza with balsamic vinegar and salad. He and D really hit it off - he was charming, she was beautiful, the wine was cold, what more did they need? I was planning my goodbyes when he revealed he had a wife.

Boo I say.

Nashville

In the shop where I bought my cowgirl hat, a man wearing a leather fringed coat and carrying a Chihuahua announced they were taking the shopowner on a date. She was also wearing a cowgirl hat. I loved every minute of it.


I love another Nashville resident, Johnny Cash. (Can you spot him?) The first time I heard Live at San Quentin, I stopped what I was doing - fifty-nine minutes later, when the record finished, I put it right back on. That voice. Those words. My God, it was like I had never heard a song before.

So among my greatest life blessings I count our stop at the Grand Ole Opry. We sat in pews, just like in church, and in the holy hush the sad songs washed over us.



There were five acts that night - this 94 year old man sang about the day his wife turned old and ugly.



I never knew how much I liked country music.

And man! Did we eat. Next morning's breakfast was probably the closest I'll ever get to heaven -


The world famous Loveless Cafe, in all her glory - creaky wooden floors, gentlemen bidding "good morning!" from the smokehouse, and a waitstaff straight outta Steel Magnolias.

Voici: warm, buttery biscuits. Lord have mercy.

East Coast ain't got nuthin on this.

The Unclaimed Baggage Center

"First of all you come to Atlanta and you don't even look me up," my friend Virginia told me.

"Then you go to the Unclaimed Baggage center?? I always thought that place was myth! We talk about it all the time at Delta Airlines."

Yes Virginia, there is an Unclaimed Baggage Center - it's a few miles across the Georgia border. Round these parts:


(The middle of nowhere, in other words).

It's the stuff of legend.


You know when you're waiting in the airport for your bags to bust out from behind the vinyl curtain? Ever notice that lonesome looking pile of leftover suitcases?

Well, some of them make their way here. 2,000 pounds are delivered each day!


This place is surreal. They sell other people's shiz. Designer bags, shoes, perfumes, makeup...

Even their undies!


I saw a room of wedding dresses too. And I'm not even going to think about the provenance of the small cemetery behind the building.

Unclaimed bodies?

Atlanta

I've decided that the best way to start a cold, rainy day is with a fried peanut butter, honey and banana sandwich. (Ex: see Presley, Elvis, 1972.)


My stomach warm with peanut buttery goodness from O'Carr's deli, we left behind Alabama's cotton fields and made our way to Atlanta.

What a fun town! It's where Margaret Mitchell sits in her 1920s apartment, placing yet another sheet atop the 5 foot manuscript that would become Gone With the Wind.

We learned there was a two-year casting search for the movie, and that Clark Gable didn't want to play Rhett Butler.

But Viven Leigh was Scarlett O'Hara - no one else but she could play her. She left her ho-hum husband and baby girl in London to follow Larry Olivier to Hollywood. Their beautiful affair lasted 20 years, until he left her for Method Acting, and she came down with a nasty case of bipolar disorder. I could relate.

We walked down Peachtree Street as day became night and discovered the Fox Theater. It was designed in 1929 as a Moorish fantasy, with hieroglyphs, minarets, and a ceiling heavy with twinkling lights.

"Not only is it on the National Historic Register, but it is one of the most beloved landmarks in the city - people have come here to see their first performance or Broadway show, they had their first date here, and maybe even had their first kiss in the balcony." General Manager Allan Vella said.

I wanted a peek.


But the doors were locked. We could hear violins tuning - the BBC Symphony was playing in an hour.

But Mike, the distinguished head usher with his own Rhett Butler vibe, opened a secret side door to let us in. He was surprised it was our very first time to the Fox, he said. How could he say no to us?

Mike used to work for United Airlines and trained people from Hong Kong to Toronto. Now with a bit of free time, and that magnificent grin, his boss Mr. Vella couldn't help but ask him to oversee their weekday performances. And give girls impromptu tours.

So when you get off, I suggested to Mike with a sidelong glance (my best approximation of Scarlett), why not join us for a bowl of pasta next door at Baraonda?

He laughed.

But halfway through our second glasses of Savignon Blancs, who showed up but Mike! He was dressed in full usher regalia, and with military precision, he handed us two orchestra level tickets. For free. I thanked him with a kiss, and as we melted into our seats for Rachmaninoff's piano concerto, I decided that - no matter where I go - I'll always have a soft spot for Atlanta.