Always Room for Cake (Mosel River, Part 1)

I noted last post that London was something of a way point, a convenient entry to Europe thanks to mileage ticket availability. It was also something of a soft-landing, offering an easy transition to other cultures. I do not say that because of the language, although a (mostly) shared set of vocabulary and shared grammatical structure do ease the stress of travel. Rather, I say it because of the bedding.

A sure indication that you have arrived in “real” Europe is the prevalence in bed rooms of triple-folded feather comforters in lieu of sheets. I'm not sure what Germans have against the simple bed sheet, but I have yet to find one in use. I was first introduced to the comforter as an exchange student in 1987, when I was shown my room and left to stare and wonder whether I was supposed to sleep on, under, or in the damn thing. I climbed underneath, afraid to unfold it to cover the full length of bed or body, and as a result slept cold and fretful. I've since grown bolder and decided that the blanket should be unfolded for use. I now sleep with more than 2/3 body coverage, but such a heavy blanket is of no use on warm nights when I would, nevertheless, appreciate a thin sheet. I'm sure there is a reason to shun the sheet—Germans are, after all, a practical people—but I have no idea what it might be.

A second indication that we have left the United Kingdom and landed on the Continent is the reintroduction of the cigarette, something I've managed to all but forget about in the normal course of my life. I cannot speak for the U.K. as a whole, but tolerance for smoking in London seems to be on par with that of the States. Public buildings, including pubs, are smoke free, which is why, I suppose, there were always groups of bankers huddled out front of the bars rather than inside. Germany, in contrast, appears to abide smoking to a much greater degree. Our hotel here in Cochem, for instance, bans smoking in the guest rooms, but allows it in the lobby, permitting smoke to drift in thick clouds up and into our room. This was not a problem until a group of prolific smokers checked in. Their actual number is something close to six, but the passion with which they practice their habit gives the impression of a great host numbering in the thousands. We have also been struck by the number of cigarette vending machines lining the streets, date or production circa 1950. Somewhere Phillip Morris is sitting back and smiling.

Cochem is a small town on the Mosel River, a tributary to the Rhein and a region renowned for an altogether different vice than smoking. The Mosel has been a wine producing region since the Romans introduced grapes in... Roman times. Every little town seems to take a turn hosting a wine festival throughout the pre-, mid-, and post-harvest season, and Poltersdorf, a town 10 km upriver from Cochem, came up in the cue during our visit. We rented bikes to go take in the scene.

Wine at a wine festival is a no-brainer, but cake? Poltersdorf offered cake in spades. The Brits can keep their tea time, what with the funny sandwiches and fine china. I'll take the German kaffee and kuchen any time. Poltersdorf approached the German coffee and cake ritual like the Queen herself was about to forego tea for hardier German fare, with cake after cake, all made in neighborhood homes, presented in a buffet of staggering depth and beauty. How do you choose? I found it best to just guess, point, and to try and flirt with the Grandmothers of Poltersdorf to the best of my limited German in order to try and eek out an extra large slice.

“I have no idea what that is, but I would like a slice.”

“The raspberry torte?”

“Yes, it looks delicious.”

“I made it myself.”

“Well, then, I have no doubt but that it is delicious.”

“Oh, I hope, I hope!”

Like an addict forced to chase uppers with downers to maintain some kind of even-keel, we countered the sugar and caffeine with wine. The wine choices, like the cake before, were staggering too, and all sourced from the hills above town, cheap, and delicious. But all things come at a price, and here the toll was extracted by way of long-winded speeches from the festival dignitaries—the mayor, the wine queen, Bacchus God of Wine, visitors to the region being honored for 35- and 40-years of continuous vacationing, people who may have just randomly picked up the microphone. The Germans make a good cake, for sure, but also make a drawn out speech.

C's sister, M, who is traveling with us during this part of our trip, recently had the misfortune of banging her head to the point of drawing blood against Reno's bureaucracy in her attempt to permit a series of local food events in her home town. Among other things, she was required to submit a waste management plan with details for size and number of trash containers. She was therefore surprised to look around and find only a single trash can at the Poltersdorf festival to handle all of the waste for the entire festival crowd. But then a quick look at our table showed minimal waste despite the gluttony we were demonstrating. Cake and coffee were all served on tableware from people's homes, collected to be washed and reused. All drinks came in returnable glass. All wine was similarly served in glassware. In the U.S., the fest would have been billed as a green triumph, with marketing proclaiming as much on anything that would accept print. Here, it is simply the way things are done. The Germans take sustainability seriously. At the end of the day, we threw away a couple of napkins and screw tops, biked back to Cochem in the rain, and settled under confusing comforters to sleep, bringing to an end a successful day on the river.

 

(Looking down river at Cochem with its castle.)

 

(First stop at the Poltersdorf Weinfest: coffee and cake.)

 

(Five short minutes later, we had devoured the cake, downed the coffee, and replaced the lot with sausages and wine.)

 

(Bacchus, on arrival and moments before he started his speech.) 

A Soft Landing in London

After spending time lost in the warren of tunnels that underlie Reno, Nevada, eating cave crickets and subsisting on what ever water we could collect dripping from the ceiling, we finally found an exit and emerged back into daylight. C's family, delighted to once again breathe deep of fresh air and satisfied that we would, in fact, all survive, insisted on joining hands. Afraid that we would once again take a wrong turn and return to the underground maze, C and I headed immediately to the airport to seek safer ground in London. We brought C's sister with us for good measure, and wished C's parents good luck.

London was for us just a way point, not a destination. It was a place with mileage ticket availability. But you could do worse for arrival cities, and we took advantage by staying three nights. Last time we were in London, I was on a work trip with lodging provided. We stayed in Mayfair, in the heart of some of the most expensive real estate in the world. This time, on our own dime, we found lodging in the suburbs. It was less convenient to the city, but much gentler on the budget. We stayed in West Ealing, former home to a thriving film industry and current home to a clutch of quality Indian and Middle Eastern restaurants.

Our hotel is owned and operated by the Fuller brewery, and accordingly came with ready access to a pub, meaning we had available the finest view in all of London: a row of tap handles.

Somehow, though, C managed to pull me away from the bar and we immersed ourselves in the tides of history. No better place to do so than the British Museum, where the plunders of colonial rule are on display. It turns out, we were not the only people to visit the British Museum that day. The Egyptian galleries were particularly popular.

 

I lost track of many of the details, but I'm pretty sure we also saw statues of British royalty, including these nude depictions of King Henry VIII and Hamlet.

 

What's that you say? Henry VIII was not renowned for his athletic physique or prowess with the discuss ? And Hamlet was Danish? And fictional? Well, as noted, the details escape me. Suffice to say, we saw many a fine butt cheek preserved in marble.

I won't say that we had had our fill of bare butts. In fact, I'm not sure that such a limit exists. But our time in London had nevertheless come to an end.  Much like Reno hides danger in its many and varied subterranean tunnels, London threatens all with unpredictable giant marbles that tend to flatten anyone unlucky enough to be in their path.  Having seen one too many small child lost, we decided it was time to leave, lest we fall victim too.  Next stop: Cochem, Germany, by way of four trains.

A few additional photos:

They Promised Me Cheese!

In what appears to be becoming an annual tradition, I once again signed up for and attended the Trail Runner Magazine photo camp. Really, the decision to return as a repeat offender was easy once I heard the camp this year was in Ouray, Colorado. After all, Ouray is the self-proclaimed “Switzerland of America.” Clearly the camp would include cheese. And chocolate. And cow bells. I'll travel any distance for cheese. I won't travel any distance for chocolate or cow bells, but still considered both a bonus.

I should not have been surprised to roll into Ouray and find neither cheese nor chocolate waiting, and nary a cow to be seen. After all, a quick internet search shows that both southeast Tennessee and the Black Hills of South Dakota have, at various times, also been proclaimed the “Switzerland of America.” Maybe the title doesn't carry as much weight as I thought.

So while the camp did not offer Alpenkase, the good people at Trail Runner did, once again, offer the opportunity to shoot some world class athletes in a world class setting. This year Adidas sent its sponsored athletes and shirts, shoes, and other assorted schwag. As a result, I have become a walking billboard for Adidas, which was, I suppose, the intent. Who knew Adidas even had an ultra team or outdoors division? Maybe no one, which again, may be why Adidas sponsored the camp.

One of the campers, Jenn, was herself a sponsored athlete, albeit sponsored by Patagonia. Hiking into Yankee Boy Basin on the second morning to get shots in the alpine at 12,000', she remarked on the Adidas team camaraderie.

“Holy shit, these guys look like they actually like each other. They're nice to one another.”

“What do you mean.”

“Like I was on a trip with a bunch of the Patagonia climbers and they spent the whole trip trying to pee on each other's tents."

Well, then. Indeed, I did not see the athletes pee at all, much less on anyone else's bedding. Which is probably for the best as I'm not sure the magazine is looking for pictures of athletes urinating.

I assume instead that the magazine is looking for pictures of people running on trails, hence the title banner that runs across the top of each issue. And we got trail running pictures in spades. Twelve students attended this year, a number of whom had and/or were developing careers as professionals. I saw some incredible shots on people's laptops and projected during after dinner critique sessions. To the extent you appreciate pretty pictures, it will behoove you to seek out the photo camp issue, scheduled, I think, for October. [And by “you”, I mean, of course, “my Mom,” the sole continuing reader of this blog.]

But three days came to an end, much too fast in my opinion. I borrowed (and now covet) more high end glass. I had the opportunity to experiment with off camera lighting. I got to further practice and try to refine the art and science of capturing motion. And once the scheduled shoots were wrapped and the athletes gone, I packed my bags and prepared to leave as well. But not before peeing on Jenn's van, just to make her feel at home.

[As with last year, you may note the absence of photos, which is odd for a blog post about a photo camp.  But you'll just have to wait until the magazine comes out to get the goods. In the meantime, a teaser photo of Yankee Boy Basin follows.  Just try to picture it with a runner in the foreground.]

We recently came across a a cheap beer made from adjuncts masquerading as a craft beer. Tired, hot, and hungry, we had burritos in the car, a motel room where we planned to eat them, and a drug store open across the parking lot. In the coolers, a $3 six-pack of Big Flats beckoned. At that price, who did Big Flats think it was fooling? But I still bought it. And the taste? Think Schaefer, Black Label, Rainier. It was cold, though, and went fine with take out Mexican following a hike with the cactus. Everything has its place, even cheap beer.

 

 

C and I are starting our own masquerade. We're pretending to be a man and woman of leisure. It started last week, when we walked out of work, vowing never to return, or, rather, not to return until three months had passed. We went home and drank champagne. And then I went back to the office the next day and put in another full day of work trying to tie up loose ends.

So, it was a slow start. But we filled the day after that with chores at home, bread and wine at Crush, and a flight out of state. Now we're decompressing in Reno, Nevada, because any leave of absence should start in the Biggest Little City. Later we leave for Europe. Sometime after that we come back from Europe. Eventually, we return to the lives we left last week.

A Yosemite climber once recognized that “at either end of the social spectrum there lies a leisure class.”  I'm not sure which end we are aiming for, but definitely hoping for leisure. We should have periodic updates here.  In the meantime, I'll keep my eyes out for some Big Flats here in Reno.  It should balance the champagne out, averaging us out somewhere in the middle of the social spectrum.

Melting in the Sun

We get precious little real heat in Anchorage. As a child from the desert, I sometimes miss it. So I was pleased when, on a recent hike through Arizona's dirt, rock, and cactus, the sun finally broke free from the dull gray clouds, typical perhaps of Seattle but out of place here, and started to beat down with the full intensity of noon. I performed a little ritual of sun-worship, at least in my mind, that involved small offerings of blood and sweat, and the deep drinking of sunshine through every exposed pore. C, meanwhile, is a child of the subarctic. While I, energized, surged, she flushed and felt faint. Somehow we both forget that, on these occasional trips to the desert, C flirts with death with each step whenever we leave the shade.

But it all worked out.  We made it back to the rental car and its air conditioning, and before long we were wondering when we could do it again.

Its been awful quiet around here lately. Things should pick up starting in July.

 

 

Nobody Walks in L.A.

I have long harbored a classic outsider's understanding of Los Angeles, namely that the city includes the vast humanity packed between San Diego to the south and San Francisco to the north (without any particular consideration given to where the borders are drawn in between).  Santa Monica?  Malibu?  Pasadena?  Its all Los Angeles to me.  Hell, I'd probably be willing to throw Santa Cruz into the mix.  Maybe even San Jose.  San Francisco has, after all, carved a more distinct and delineated identity into my psyche, extending only so far south as... Oakland?  Over the years I've spent time in the greater Los Angeles area—family trips to visit friends in Torrance and Long Beach, lavish Indian dinners in Artesia and Pasadena, exploring the great heights of frozen daiquiri bars in Santa Monica, a wedding (my own) back in Long Beach—but I have spent little time in Los Angeles proper.  Last December, with 14 hours on the ground at LAX, I decided it was time to get a taste of tinsel.

Los Angeles (and here I mean both the literal Los Angeles and the broader collection of surrounding cities), while justifiably famous for its freeways and car-centered culture, has taken big leaps in public transportation infrastructure.  It is pretty easy these days to find a “Los Angeles Without Wheels” article, coaching the tourist in use of the light rail system.  At the advice of a long-time friend in Pasadena, I ignored these many transportation advances and took the bus anyway.

I hit the tarmac at LAX shortly after 5:00 am., made my way to ground transportation, found the Fly Away bus, and settled in.  That early on a Saturday, I did not settle for long.  Some 30 minutes later, we pulled off the freeway, passed the neon glow of a strip club in what looked to be an otherwise desolate warehouse district, turned a corner and pulled up to Union Station, my destination.  I may have been taking the bus, but my gateway to the city would still be the train station.  First stop: tacos.

Olvera Street probably bustles at peak hours, but is shuttered tight at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.  Or mostly shuttered.  Luckily one of the food vendors was open with steam rising from pots of broth and meat.  Latinos are now the ethnic majority in Los Angeles, and my breakfast exchange was not so different from any exchange on past trips to Mexico: some pointing, my fumbling attempts at Spanish, a few smiles and nods, and before long the guy at the grill presents me with food and a cup of coffee.  Perfect.  Fuel for the walk.

 
The sun came up as I left Olvera Street with no destination in mind.  I passed some of the landmarks—City Hall and the Gehry designed Disney Concert Hall—taking pictures and stopping to look at the L.A. Philharmonic concert schedule.  Anyone up for the world premier of Gorecki's fourth symphony on the weekend on January 16?  I ended up at the uphill station of the Angel's Flight funicular, a narrow gauge railway covering a city block and maybe 200 feet of vertical.  The system was originally built in 1901, closed in 1969, and moved half a block south to its current location in1996.  It is now closed again following a derailment in 2013.  Luckily, a stairway paralleled the tracks, and dropped me down to the Grand Central Market and my second breakfast.

The Grand Central Market is a shrine to the hipster artisan foodie.   An operating market since 1917, the space “has always reflected the changing population of downtown,” according to its website.  Clearly the population of this portion of downtown has evolved then to include modern twenty-somethings intensely focused on all things artisanal.  If it means that the good folks at Belcampo are willing to serve me tongue and eggs for my second breakfast, I'm all for it.  The counter was not busy, and my server was chatty.

“You live downtown?”

“No, I'm pretty far from downtown.  I just got in from Anchorage.”

We cover the obvious follow-up, what brings you to town? what do you do?  I respond with the facts, and, maybe because I am unlikely to ask the same in return—after all, I know what she does, she works at Belcampo—she continues unprompted.  “I'm a dancer.  I'm studying voice and dancing.  I just do this,” sweeping her arm to indicate waitressing at a counter serving beef tongue, “you know, to pay the bills.”

Ha!  In town for a few short hours and I've already run across the stereotype Angeleno, an artist waiting tables.  I learned she had an earlier life as a real estate broker doing commercial deals but was now following her muse.  I wished her luck and moved on to an estate cold-brewed coffee from neighboring G&B Coffee to bring the meal to an end.  I have no idea what arts my barista was pursuing on the side, but the safe money is always on acting in this town.

I had planned to meet my friend at Unique L.A., a Christmas crafts market that is a bit more upscale—more style than craft—than the Christmas markets in Anchorage, but I had time to kill in the interim.  I continued my walk, down Broadway and into the fashion district.  The shop keepers all looked Egyptian, the signs advertised Italian suits, and the windows offered the best in toddler mariachi wear.  A few blocks over and I was on the fringes of skid row.  The good people leading the Underground Seattle tours will tell you the term originated in the Pacific Northwest, referring to roads originally used to skid logs and the camps that sprung up around them, but L.A.'s skid row is the visual archetype.  L.A.'s homeless have created cities on these streets.  I was a little uncomfortable, not so much in concern for my safety, but more so because it felt like being there by choice (albeit accidentally) subjected other's addictions, mental illnesses, and bad luck to zoo-like display.  So I headed back to the fashion district before meeting my friend and exploring a very different slice of life at the Christmas market.

We later went to his house in Pasadena, leaving Los Angeles behind.  And I ultimately did take L.A.'s light rail, making my way back to Union Station in order to again catch the bus to LAX.  Traffic was worse later in the day, and the return trip—rail trip from Pasadena included—took 1:40.  It makes the 15 minute ride to the airport in Anchorage seem enviable by comparison.  We may not have Gorecki symphony premiers or tongue for breakfast (and I acknowledge that there are those who might not consider that a plus), but we do have quick access to flight, the kind of access that makes a day-trip to L.A. sound like a good idea.  We'll have to wait, though, to see if I learned anything as a result of the trip.  Let's hope next time someone tells me he is from Huntington Beach I don't respond by saying, “Oh, that's in L.A. right?”

Top Ten Nude Celebrities of 2014

Some of you may recall that I wrapped up 2013 with Cobras in Alaska's first annual top-ten list.  That post was a resounding success by any measure.  Subjectively, it was quite easy to write.  And objectively, it has proven to be a real driver of readership.  For one, unlike most other posts, the 2013 top-ten list generated a comment (with a riveting film recommendation).  And second, by titling the post the “The Top Ten Nude Celebrities of 2013,” I actually pulled in traffic.  I've noted before that Google (our benevolent keepers here at Blogspot) provide analytics on the back-end, though I have reason to doubt their accuracy.  Among other things, the analytics provide a list of search terms visitors to the site use to get here.  That list is usually populated (if at all) by “cobrasinalaska,” suggesting that the only people navigating here through the popular search engine are doing so deliberately.  But just this last month, the following showed up in the list: “topten nude blogspot.”  Fantastic!  I'm finally learning the important lessons of search engine optimization!

So, building on last year's success, I am proud to present the second annual Cobras in Alaska year end top ten list, which once again has nothing to do with nude celebrities.  I once again hope the list proves helpful to each of you as you either map out the details of the coming year or prepare to let chance again dictate your fate.

1. Szechuan peppercorns.
2. Dayton, Ohio.
3. Reality TV shows based on musk-ox.
4. Celebrating the pinnacle of modern pop-music by hosting a “Hits of 1984” dance party.
5. Columbus, Ohio.
6. Tibetan throat singers.
7. Voodoo.
8. Celebrating the pinnacle of modern film-making by hosting a “Hits of 1984” movie party.
9. Popcorn.
10. Clean teeth.