May 3, Buffalo-Depew
I had a 10-hour layover here as the train from Toronto dropped me off at 1:25pm and the train to Toledo was not going to arrive until midnight. The wait was a lot harder than I expected. To make matters worse, there was no Wifi! I had read half of the Saturday’s Globe and Mail from Toronto, solved the sudoko and half-way into my first cross-word puzzle. Yes, I was that bored. I realized too late that there were buses to Buffalo downtown and even Niagara Falls, and by my own calculation, I could have gone to the Niagara Falls and back in under seven hours. Having been to the falls just two days ago made the missed opportunity less upsetting. I did have the opportunity to catch the display of rainbow right before the sunset, which was breath-taking. So one hour from my last train ride, and only nine hours from sweet Ann Arbor, something that I never thought I would utter.
May 3, Wrong side of the tracks.
During my trip from New York to Montreal, I sat in front of an elderly couple back from their annual trip to New York. The wife asked a question, “why do we always see run-down neighborhoods on the train?” The answer was obvious, who wants to live close to the train track, with its noises, rattles and perhaps in the old days, train-hopping hobos. It is true that besides farms and wilderness, the most frequent sights from the train include factories, power lines, truck yards, junk yards, graves, trailer parks and back yards of run-down houses. These images fascinate me, but until now I did not fully understand why. It was the same draw that led my uncle and his friends to photograph the old, soon-to-be-demolished parts of downtown Shanghai. All of the dilapidated homes and buildings were once new. They were once beautiful. Someone saw that factory raised from nothing but concrete and steel and the hope of something big. Someone built that tool shed and dreamt of weekends spent inside it with his childhood hobbies. Someone hanged that old tire to the oak in the back yard picturing endless summers spent with children he will have years later. All of them were loved and treasured by someone. We photograph them now because we see the passage of time on the physical and imagine the effect on people’s lives. What did the factory make and where did the products go? Do people still work there or have the job gone somewhere else? When did the owner stop painting the shed? Is the inside empty or still full of half finished hobbies? How many children did they have? Do they have children of their own now? Is this not the same reason some of us go to museums or collect antiques? The only things that I can think of that are made to look old and used are fake antiques and distressed fashion apparels, both of which I despise.
May 3, Side note
The only thing that feels longer than my rail trip right now is the 2008 Democratic Presidential primary season in the U.S. When I left California, an Obama nomination seemed inevitable. Since then, Slate started a HRC deathwatch, Obama admitted something that Democrats in Blue States always thought about their “less fortunate” brethrens in the Red States, Clinton won primaries in a couple of states to maintain within striking distance in the delegate count, Obama’s pastor opened his mouth and the Clinton came back as the next great “White Hope.”
Oh, and I have switched my preference to Obama. The only three things that stuck out in my mind the last two months were the following: Obama’s speech on race where he compared Rev. Wright to his white grandmother, Clinton and Obama’s promises not to raise tax on Americans making under $200,000, and the gasoline tax holiday proposal. I was impressed by the first item though still waved it off as a mere pretty speech. I was dismayed by the second as desparate pandering on the eve of Pennsylvania primary. The third was a revelation. It was a new low for Clinton politicks, but we have come to expect the winning-at-any-cost mantra from her campaign. In fact, many people supported her exactly because she showed that Democrats can play hardball and dirty politics with the best (or worst) of them. Though one had to wonder, why she chose to align herself with the Republican candidate McCain on this issue.
On the other hand, one should admire Obama’s opposition. There was no cost to concur—it was a safe play, and it has been a tough two weeks for him, according to the media. Coming to term with the real price of gasoline is the first step for the country to move forward on the energy issue. During the early stages of his campaign Obama had stated that he want to be truthful to American and ask them to make tough decisions, but he had moved away from that as he became the front runner in recent months. The empty promise of no tax raise was the greatest departure, but the resistance to gasoline tax break signaled a return. Experience can be learned. Otherwise, there would be no term limit on the office. Integrity can be corrupted—it is saddest when it comes at old age. Principle, while transitory, gives one hope. And what is democracy but a hope for "the better angels of our nature."
May 2, The tales of two cities.
Visiting two of the largest cities in Canada provided an interesting contrast. While Montreal clung tightly to its French-Canadian heritage, Toronto has long become a hodge-podge of skin hues and international languages. Since 1969, the province of Quebec passed a series of laws--Bills 63, 22, and 101--culminating in the
Charter of the French Language, which mandated French as its official language. Even English, the other official language, was hard to come by during my time in Montreal. In Toronto, or rather Markham a northern suburb where I spent much of the first two days, I felt that I had been teleported back to Hong Kong, Taiwan or (for worse or better) Fremont, CA. Entire shopping centres were blanketed in Chinese signs. It seemed that every face I saw had brown eyes and black hair. I suppose the common theme here was that you did not need English to survive in either city, but that was not the point here. From what I have gathered, that since the passage of the Quebec act, many immigrants such Chinese have chosen to either move or settle in provinces other than Quebec, such as Ontario and British Columbia. Both cities have their own charm, depending on whether you prefer your foie gras with duck comfit or Peking duck. On a more serious note however, I do know it is more difficult for the French-speaking universities in Quebec to recruit international students and researchers. While broken English is the international language of science, the French empire has not seen its best days in 150 years. Of course, Montreal is still striving in its own right. Canada would not be the same without Quebec. Quebec City is celebrating its 400th anniversary this year, and how many cities on the continent could claim that?
April 30, What New York doesn’t want you to know
New York does not have a monopoly on the best bagels and best pastrami sandwiches in North America. When my friend Louis told me to meet him after work yesterday and save room for a fresh bagel, I thought he was mistaken. Where I came from bagels are made fresh daily, in the MORNING. But I was wrong. There are shops here that make bagels CONSTANTLY. La Maison du Bagel is one of the best in the city. Anthony Bourdain, the idol of traveling foodies everywhere and the prototypic New York chef, once had to concede that the idea of having bagels at La Maison as one’s last meal was not as absurd as he first thought after trying them. I do not have a bagel tasting pedigree such as that of Bourdain, but the warm, light (almost fluffy) and slightly sweet sesame bagel I tried here was the best bagel I have ever had. Period.
Louis regretted that he could not take me to the best smoked meat sandwich deli in Montreal last night. So I made the solo pilgrimage to Schwartz’s this morning. And he was right again. The sandwich is simple—meat, mustard, and bread. The meat is good—tender, with just enough of fat trimmings, perfectly seasoned. The mustard is just enough to wake up your taste buds but not to saturate them. The bread, while almost an after thought, is just enough to keep your fingers from the grease while serving as the delicate boundary between unpretentiousness and uncivilized. That is until you give into the temptation of picking up every little piece of the smoke meat that escaped your initial onslaught. Best I have had. Period.
April 29, Parle vous francais?
A friend once said after visiting Montreal, “It’s weird. People here look and dress like Americans. The city looks like America. But they speak a different language.” Such is bane for the American travelers in Montreal and the province of Quebec. Montreal, the second largest French-speaking city in the world, has a third of its population speaking English as their native tongue, yet English signs are still rare here. While Toronto is still well within the comfort zone of Anglo-Americans, Montreal does feel like a different country (Surprise)! So one is always grateful whenever a useful English phrase is discovered. Which reminds me, how about the increasing use of Spanish in the U.S? While it may seem like a waste of space on paper or extra seconds on the phone, what a life-saver it must be for new immigrants and visitors of Hispanic descent of the country? It is not difficult to imagine what it was like twenty years ago. Whenever I step tentatively into a shop or a restaurant in Montreal, the start of yet another scavenge hunt for English phrases, I am reminded of my father, who first arrived in the U.S. nearly three decades ago, in a time and place where bilingual education was unheard of let alone controversial and all of his money was in his wallet borrowed entirely from family in China instead of a friend with the initials, A.T.M.
April 27, Shea Stadium
It was a miserable day at the Shea Stadium. It was a crowded afternoon game to be sure, and a near-sellout. My seat was back row of mezzanine section at near left foul pole. Sitting with another level hanging over my head, I had no light (though it was a cloudy day). It was a depressing without the sky. I actually went to the upper reserve to get some fresh air for the last two innings. Shea Stadium was entirely without any remarkable characteristic other than the spikes they had installed on all of the buttresses. Jets are constantly flying over the stadium from the nearby LaGuardia Airport. Only inches from the outfield wall, the new Shea Stadium was under construction and due to open next year. It has the brick-laid exterior that has come to be ubiquitous with every baseball stadium constructed since the mid 1990’s.
Before the game, I went to the International Photography Center. While my last experience there was eye opening, the exhibit on this day left much to be desired. Color me jaded, but sometimes I would just like to be awed by stunning scenes and amazing moments captured in a photographer’s lens. Instead, the ICP’s current exhibit was titled “Archive.” The pieces conveyed the artists’ own interpretation of the meaning and authenticity of record-keeping and documentation. Was this post-modern or maybe post-post-modern where anyone with half of an idea and some contrived or ironic explanation can be an artist?
April 26, A walk in the Park.
I strolled through the Central Park today on my way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Many cities have similar parks, but I have not encountered one on par with Central Park in term of accessibility to and utilization by the city dwellers. With the skyrocketing real estates in many metropolises across the globe, it is hard to imagine another like it popping up anytime soon (here is looking at you, Shanghai). Of course, the Central Park of today, like the Time Square, may be unrecognizable to New Yorkers from 30 years ago. And for that, we have Rudy to thank.
The Met was great. Despite spending three hours there, it feels like I had barely touched the tip of the iceberg. I suppose that museums allow photography these days. Miniaturized digital cameras and cell phone cameras have become so pervasive trying to outlaw them would be futile. I suppose there are worse things in the world than for people trying to capture the magic associated with meeting with a magnificent piece of art.
April 25, New York, New York.
I tried to visit the United Nation Headquarter after my arrival in Manhattan. Unfortunately, the guided tour had been sold out, my time there was restricted to the visitor’s lobby, gift shops and the lawn. This must be what the writer of the book of Genesis imagined when he wrote the story about the Tower of Babel. Visitors from all corners of the globe, speaking in their native tongues (though disproportionally in some form of Chinese) and some of the African friends were even decked out in their more colorful traditional garbs. I am fascinated or rather amazed that the UN could get anything done at all. I think most of the visitors just wanted to click pictures and tell friends at home that they had been to the UNHQ. This meant one of the items that received the most photographic attention was the set of portraits of UN Secretary-Generals displayed in the lobby donated by none other than the Republic of IRAN.
April 23, North End Market, Boston
I took a food-themed tour on foot today in the old Italian neighborhood of Boston, the North End Market. Before the Italians, there were the Irish and the Polish, and before them there were the Jews. And now only 30% of the market’s residents have Italian ancestry. Such is the ever-changing demographic landscape of America. The story of the transformation of the neighborhood is the lessons of history of immigration and assimilation in the U.S. Unlike the Little Italy in Manhattan, North End Market still retains much of the Italian characteristic. During the tour, we learned about the connection and difference between traditional Italian cuisine and Italian-American food, various traditional Italian pastries (and tried), and the life-cycle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. In addition to the pastry shop and the deli, we also visited a dry goods grocer, a green grocer, and a wine shop. The sampling of the pastries, cheeses, cured meats, olive oils and balsamic vinegar only wet our appetite to be sure. This is a nice way to see an ethnic neighborhood for anyone, but of course a great date for those foodies out there.
April 22, RED SOX GAME!
I spent most of last night and this morning searching for Red Sox tickets. Fenway Park has sold out since I was born, and only recently have the die-hard fans of Sox Nation been rewarded for their faithfulness and perseverance. I ended up paying $120 for a pair of tickets in the infield grandstand by the first base side. As it turned out, these were “choiced” seats, as in I had the choice of watching either the catcher or the batter from the seat but not both as there was one of the ubiquitous buttresses that obstructed my view. That’s life. But the game was by far the best experience I have had on this trip. An hour before first pitch, the stadium, the streets surrounding the stadium (especially Yawkey Way) and the bars nearby were all packed. Despite the obstructed view, everyone in the stadium was hanging on each and every pitch (though the actual witness of any was optional). It may have helped that I broke my self-imposed prohibition on $7 beers. My friend and I lost track after four rounds, or was that the fourth inning? The game was close, back and forth, with plenty of big hits and runs especially from the phenomenal centerfielder Jacoby Ellsbury. It was the first time where the fans of the visiting team were invisible and inaudible. Sox win and everyone went home happy.
On a side note, perhaps there is such thing as karma. Sports fan of Boston while knowledgeable have a collective disposition to bipolar attacks. Conversations on sports are full of the word, “ever,” and other words that end in “-est’s” and combination of them, e.g. “Is this year’s Celtics team the great-EST team EVER,” or “will he become the Sox’s b-EST centerfield EVER?” When you live and die by your sports team, and see only black and white in games, anything less than a 86-year long curse would be un-poetic.
April 21, Boston
As I traveled from west to east, trains have become noticeably more crowded. The turning point was probably somewhere between New Orleans and Atlanta. One no longer has the luxury of having the seat next to you remain unoccupied. The Northeast Corridor, between Washington and Boston, was by far the most utilized as the area it traversed was the most densely populated region of the country. Nevertheless, between the big cities, the scenery outside the window was still dominated by forests, rivers, factories, junk yards and the occasional small towns. And once we were in Connecticut, bays and docks with sail boats and yachts became a fixture. I wonder if there will ever be a day when all of the cities from Boston to DC would merge into one of those Super-Mega Cities that one always read about in science-fiction novels.
I was happy to be back in Boston, finally at a time when the weather was more amenable to walking. I was also happy to see my friend Chris and his roommate, Josh. I know I was home the first time I was there when I found on their living room coffee table—Zagat’s Guide and 2008 PECOTA’s projections of baseball players. Rarely do I find the qualities of love of food and baseball analysis in people, but Boston seemed to be full of such lovely people. So not too surprisingly, we had some great home-made fusilli at a little pasta place called “Basta Pasta.”
A great irony was, that for the second time, I missed a great sporting even by the matter of hours. This was Patriot’s Day, and the Boston Marathon ended a few hours ago. With the unusual combination of Red Sox baseball game at 11AM (!) and thousands of people running through its streets, I imagine the day probably feels like St. Patrick’s Day and Holloween for Bostonians.
April 20, Philadelphia
Cities are not all about the roads, buildings, waterfronts, museums or sports stadiums. While many escape the hustle and bustle of urban centers, lovers of big cities feel an affinity to those metropolises because its people and the energy they inject into a living city. Perhaps this is why I do my best to visit some markets in each city I visit. Baltimore’s Lexington Market was that city’s oldest, but not a tourist-favorite due its surroundings. Even before stepping inside, it was clear that people, shoppers and shop-keepers, worked, ate, and lived in the neighborhood. The Reading Terminal Market was clearly on the other end of the spectrum. It was more on par with the famous Pike Market in Seattle and Quincy Market in Boston. It had everything from cheese steak sandwiches to BBQ ribs, from ripened cheeses to fresh made cookies.
I saw the Liberty Bell, which was underwhelming. Interestingly, it was not named so until the mid Nineteenth Century by the abolitionists for their cause. I also saw the historic Pennsylvania Hospital, the oldest hospital in America. It is still been used for clinics and administrative offices. Beautiful grounds, but apparently at one point, its basement was used to house the mentally insane patients.
The best part of my time in Philadelphia was the mural art tour. The city has the country’s largest public mural program, boasting over 2800 pieces throughout the city’s neighborhoods. Tours vary their locations from week to week, and this week it was the south Philly which was fortuitous. After a brief foray into a predominantly Italian area, the trolley bus went head long into the most improvished area of the city. The murals there, not surprisingly, focused on civil rights, community, hope and religion. The neighborhood’s attitude toward these endeavors was clear as such murals were rarely defaced by graffiti. The tour was an excellent way to see parts of the city that tourists ordinarily would not venture into. I wondered about the ludicrous sight of the lumbering trolley bus carrying 20 well-dressed, White (except me) tourists meandering through a run-down Black neighborhood, snapping pictures. Though not nearly as bad as the so called “poverty tours” in other parts of the world, this was still disconcerting to me. Most of the residents were ambivalent if not friendly, though a few were less than that, which I could not blame them. I wonder how many of us would have driven into that part of the city, and if there, would had the luxury of slowing down to appreciate the art. After the trolley tour, I also visited a few more pieces in Chinatown suggested by a pamphlet from the mural program. Those pieces were smaller and less impressive. Such was the cultural bias nature of art appreciation.
April 19, Philadelphia
I arrived in the city of brotherly love in mid-morning. On the train, I saw an article about walking tours in many northeastern cities that focus on food. Of course, this is right up my alley. Once settled in my hostel, I quickly called the Reading Terminal Market Tour. Unfortunately, the tour was offered on Saturday at 10AM and I was 30 minutes late. Nonetheless, I decided to walk to the market anyway just to check it out.
On the way I walked past the Independence National Park. The banner announcing the Baseball in America traveling exhibition was on display at the National Constitutional Center at the north end of the park caught my attention. Given the theme of my trip, there was no way I would pass that up. A lot of historical artifacts like balls, mitts, bats, jersey and all kinds of prints, the display was captivating for any fan of the game. I spent a good two hours there and the late afternoon game between the Phillies and the Mets was fast approaching. I was able to quickly walk through the Reading Terminal Market, grabbed a quick lunch buffet plus a gigantic chocolate dipped chocolate cookie, and vowed to come back the next day for a more thorough inspection.
Oh, this was a glorious Saturday. Temperature was in the 80’s with blue sky and fluffy clouds. My excitement was only dampened by the giant sign outside the stadium the game was sold out. I knew that two weeks ago, but apparently standing-room only tickets had been sold out in two and half hours before the game. Insisting to hear the bad news from a real person, I walked up to a ticket window. Amazingly, there were single tickets. One of the players just returned a ticket behind home plate 10 minutes prior, and after oh five seconds of hesitation, I bit the bullet and paid $50 for that ticket, the most expensive of the trip so far. Citizens Bank Park was brand new, though comparing to Nationals Park in DC, it was undistinguished and unmemorable. But it was packed with people two hours before the game. I weathered the blistering sun and tried my luck at balls for batting practice again. Some of the Mets players actually interacted with the fans, which was refreshing. The game itself was uninspiring. The star shortstop, Rollins, last year’s MVP, did not start and only pinch-hit due to an injury. The star first baseman, Howard, struck out three times. The Mets pitcher Oliver Perez was dominating, and the Phillies would lose 4 to 2. The game ended on a sour note, as the drunk fans on both sides became in a lot of verbal and occasional physical scuffles.
When I went back to the hostel, I was finally happy to see a lot more young faces than the one in Baltimore. Though the 24 beds in my room did give me pause, I was just glad that the shower was clean and the water was hot. I looked forward to the snoring lullaby to put me into dream land.
April 18, Baltimore, “Rule of Three” part 2.
So the third thing to drop, after the bird poop and a batting practice ball, were my glasses. The cool cat that I was I hanged them on my t-shirt, which then caused them to fall when I leaned over. A piece of the lens popped out, and now I will have to go the rest of my trip without them. At least the string of bad luck is over.
First stop today was the Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the first Catholic cathedral in America. It was designed by the same architect, Benjamin Latrobe, who designed the Captiol in DC. It was interesting that both buildings were built in the neo-classical style. John Carroll, the first American bishop, chose it over the typical European gothic design because he wanted to convey a feeling of simplicity, openness, and republicism instead of the threatening and awe-inspiring gothic design.
I visited USS Constellation, the last all-sail warship built by the US Navy. It was pretty fun except the three decks below were so cramped that I spent 45 minutes hunched over. I would hate to be stuck on that ship for months on end.
The rest of Inner Harbor was what you would expect for a tourism hotspot. Lots of restaurants, shops, ferry and cruises, aquarium and museums. I did saw an acrobat class going on, which was pretty cool.
The American Visionary Art Museum has built quite a reputation online. One of the museum’s focus is on artists afflicted by psychiatric illness such as schizophrenia or depression, or mental retardation. It is a powerful experience to witness these artists channeling their concentration to produce great pieces in spite (or perhaps because) of their crippled minds.
April 17, Orioles game and the "Rule of Three," part 1 and 2
While walking toward the ballpark, I felt a drop of water fell on my head. Thus begin my travail with the “Rule of Three.” Suspicious, because I was not near any highrise with window-AC, I rubbed it with my finger. The drop was clear. Still suspicious, I smelt it. The pungency almost knocked me out. It appeared that the birds of Baltimore had struck first. I had to find an excuse to walk into a pub and wash it out. Strike one.
The game at Camden Yards was tons of fun. I walked out to the ticket window and got a bleacher seat for $15. Later, I was surprised by the low turn-out at the stadium. Once again, I went to the right field bleacher to catch some home run balls during batting practice. I have figured out that the best place to catch balls is not against the railing at the wall. I usually stand about 5 rows back, in the isle. This way, I could move up and down the isle and move laterally in rows. I could catch balls on the fly or ran over to catch balls after a bounce. Amazingly, I suddenly saw a ball rising up and quickly coming my way. “It’s got a chance,” I thought as I shifted a couple of steps to my right. It was getting closer, and my mind was still trying to come to term with the fact I might have a chance to touch the ball. By now it was obvious if I did not reach out my hand, my chest would suffer a painful bruise. Still incredulous, I saw in slow motion the ball ricocheting of my right hand, and tumbling two feet in the air. By the time I recovered, I had to fend off people on both sides of me and scrambling to find the ball. After the dust has settled, I came away wistfully with only the sting of my right palm to keep as a momento. Strike two.
The game itself was the best of the trip so far. Three home runs within the span of one inning. The Orioles were down by 3 runs in the eighth. They scored one in the 8th. Along came the White Sox closer, Bobby Jenks. All 6 foot 3 inch, and 275 pounds, accentuated by a blond goatee, he throws, or rather, slings grenades that explode in the catcher’s mitt. Somehow, the Orioles scored 2 runs off of him in the ninth, annoying the White Sox fan next to me, while delighting everyone else including his girlfriend. They went on to win in the 10th. I stood for the last three innings and loved every minute of it. Good night to all.
April 17, Baltimore
After Washington DC, the trains to the cities on the eastern seaboard have become regional services that ran multiple times a day, so there is much more of a commuter feel to them. They are also very crowded, at least in the morning. Baltimore’s Penn station continue the trend of restored train depots. It has these beautiful stained glass ceilings.
Baltimore’s downtown consists a narrow strip of few city blocks extending from Mount Vernon (a memorial for George Washington) to the inner harbor. The Inner Harbor has been extensively renovation from commercial piers to a shopping/dining/tourist trap. To the best of the harbor is the Baltimore Convention Center and Oriole Park at Camden Yard. I spent my first day near Mount Vernon, visiting some of the public buildings and museums there, before catching the Orioles’ game versus the Chicago White Sox.
My first stop was the Lexington Market. It was on the top of my list since it was the oldest of the public markets in Baltimore. I was initially curious why a different market was suggested in the NY Times’ “36 hours” guide to Baltimore. While Charles Street, which connected Mount Vernon to the Inner Harbor, was unremarkable as far as being yuppy-ish and commercial, Howard Street, only two blocks to the west, appeared deserted during the mid-day. Once I reached the Lexington Market the reason became obvious. There were crowds both inside and outside the market. They were mostly African-Americans, with some Hispanics and Asians. I suppose this could make some people nervous even during the middle of the day. The market itself was pretty run-down, only a few butcher shops and fresh seafood stalls. Most of the stalls were selling food. Curiously, a lot of the business was owned or run by what appear to be Koreans—even behind the Back-country Soul Food place. I had some $10 crab cake, though they blatantly reheated it in a microwave, it was still the best crab cake I ever had.
The neighborhood around Mt. Vernon was fantastic. I visited a Gothic-styled Methodist Church was a striking exterior made up of six different colored stones.
There was the Peabody Institute. It had a breathtaking library that I imagine harkens back to those at institutions of higher learning in England, or Hogwarts.
Then there was the Walters Art Museum. The museum itself has an impressive collection of artifacts and antiques from ancient Egypt to 20th century. I spent a lot of time in their collection of western European weapons, as they say, “boys will be boys.” There was also an exhibit on maps. Unlike the rest of the museum, there was an admission charge, and I ran out of time to see the majority of the maps. But I was thoroughly impressed by a map from the 17th century, which depicted Asia with striking accurate details.
April 16, Panda and Orangutans
It was the National Zoo today. DC must be a great place for kids to grow up. So many public (free!) museums, parks and zoo and so few weekends and holidays! I only pity the fathers who have to carry the pink, Dora the Explorer backpacks that their lovely daughters are too tired to carry after 30 minutes. Of course, other than the precious children, the stars of the zoo were the Giant Pandas. Children's love of the cuddly pandas is universal across language and cultural barriers. Pandas have been the good-will ambassadors of People's Republic of China for the last three decades, as a symbol of friendship and peace. It is probably the most associated symbol of China these days that does not involve Tiananmen Square, tanks, or crying lamas. The Giant Pandas are an enigma though—carnivores with teeth and claws yet consume an entirely vegetarian diet and barely surviving while surrounded by external dangers. Is this what China should be in the eyes of its international critics? Let us adore you and sing your beauty as long as you stay within the “cage” that we have built for you. Quietly use your sharp claws and teeth to crush the bamboo that we gave you, but be careful not to discover what the true power of such tools. By the way, I also saw orangutans, among the strongest of the apes species. They were flying high on ropes 50 feet above the ground, hopping from one tower to another while pissing and flinging poo at people below. Who wants to be like that?
April 15, Washington DC.
I went to the International Spy Museum today. It has been touted as the most expensive museum in the District, of course unlike most of the national museums, it is privately owned. Nevertheless, it was tons of fun. I found myself sinking four good hours in that place. Despite the museum's policy of allowing a fixed number of people in every hour, the place still felt somewhat crowded on a Tuesday. But it must be an even more exciting place for kids with the numerous hands-on opportunities. We are all fascinated by real life spies. We are envious of their exciting lives of action, deception, danger, and money. We read spy stories eagerly perhaps a part of us secretly wish they can retire successfully after mission accomplished. Yet the real life spy stories in the museum often follow the trajectory of "Cover," "Caught," and "Consequences." I suppose that truly successful ones never get caught or never kiss-and-tell.
I finished the day by visiting the National Cathedral. It was a beautiful building, inside and out. The sight of it reminded me of the cathedrals I had visited while in Italy. It undoubtedly would have evoked feelings of devotion and spiritual yearning in most people who were in its presence. I wish I could have followed one of those guided tours, but it was late in the day. One surprise was the tomb of Woodrow Wilson in the cathedral. Alas, long gone were the days of the scholar-in-chief.
April 13, Washington DC
This leg of my trip, via the Crescent route, from New Orleans to Washington, DC, was the last of mine overnight train rides. It was more interesting than my previous trips because of a fellow passenger. A Vietnam vet/professional bungee jumper/expat, who is doing a similar rail trip, we talked for much of the first half of the trip. Or rather, he talked and I listened. One can imagine the topics given my previous qualifiers.
The scenery on the Crescent gave one some flavor of the Southeastern U.S. albeit at 50 mph. It was similar to that of the Sunset Limited route between Houston and New Orleans, but it was more rural rather than wild with a lot of small towns and buildings. Also, I really loved the forest, which I believe may be some type of cypress.
The train ran on time, which was nice for once. We had a group of young people, mostly men, dressed alike with shirts, suspenders, and hats. I wondered if they were Amish since they were headed to Pennsylvania. They did share a curious accent and the same haircut. However some of them did smoke, so I wonder if they are on
rumspringa.
The train was pretty empty when we started in New Orleans, but it started to pick up passengers in Alabama. I had both seats on one side to myself until around 3AM, somewhere around Greensboro, when another passenger took the seat next to my assigned seat. So this was the most uncomfortable night I had to spend on the train, and I was glad that it would be my last.
Arriving in Washington DC, I was excited to get a glimpse of the beautiful Union Station. I have read about the restored train stations on the east coast, and this one did not disappoint. Most Amtrak stations of large metropolitans are located conveniently in downtown, and their restoration surely would only add to any downtown revival effort. This was something that Houston could learn from. Then again, the state car of Texas appears to be the Hummer, but I digress. Having been to DC several times in the past, I nevertheless look forward to this visit. But boy, was it cold (compared to New Orleans) today.
April 12, New Orleans
It was HOT. In hindsight, a pair of short would have been handy in Houston and New Orleans. Even in the evening, the air in the Big Easy was warm and humid. I also regret carrying my backpack. The St. Vincent’s Guesthouse in the Garden district was nice, and I met a few fellow passengers on the train there who were doing similar rail treks on passes. After settling down, I decided to walk to the French Quarter. The locals here had a way of naming directions according to the positions relative to the flow of the Mississippi River, which I was not too keen on trying to decipher in one night.
The walk was easy and I saw buildings some appear to have been renovated recently and some in distress often juxtaposed next to one another. Unfortunately, it was getting dark. I entered the French Quarter via Royal, and began my search of the boiled crawfish. The good news was that the crawfish is in season, evident by the farms of flooded cages during my train ride. However, several restaurants had run out by the time I arrived while others only serve them at brunch. I suppose that the best ones are probably at hole-in-the-wall joints infrequently frequented by tourists like myself. After an hour, I finally found it in the Desire Oyster Bar. The crawfish was over-priced ($8 per pound!) and somewhat smallish. But the crawfish boil seasoning carried a memorable punch. It was definitely a unique experience and delicacy.
French Quarter was what I expected. A lot of people and a lot of drinking on the street. I guess if anything, there was a lot less boobie-flashing than I imagined, but that was fine by me. Crowded live music joints next to crappy daiquiri bars next to stripe clubs next to drinks-to-go stands. Off the main Bourbon Street were more galleries and shops selling anything from antiques to art to voodoo crafts. Had they been open, I could have easily lost an entire day in them. I finished the night walking past the Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, Café du Mont and the river front. By then the heat had gotten the best of me, and I couldn’t wait to get back to St. Vincent’s for a nice long shower.
April 11, Going to New Orleans
“…becomes humid during summer and like Florida it has the occasional hurricane.”
- USA by Rail, 6th ed., 2005
Perhaps THE understatement of the book, in light of Katrina. I am looking forward to the city though my stop will be brief.
Sunset Limited is a great route as it covers a vast area of the southern half of the U.S. Post-2005, the line east of New Orleans has been suspended due to the devastation to the Gulf Coast so one could not ride from New Orleans all the way to Orlando as of now. Nevertheless, from Los Angeles traveling eastward, I got to see the landscape outside my window transform from the Wild West to Bayou Country. The desert sunset and sunrise in Arizona. The rare green vegetation, such as that in front of the Tucson station, was always a refreshing change after a long day of delays in the desert. Then there was the seemingly endless of prairie in Texas accentuated by the patches of wild flowers here and there. After Houston, we entered the Bayou country, and the scenery became more varied. The nature beauty of rice paddies, crawfish farms, cypress forest, and swamp land has to compete with the eccentricities of back country homes, general stores, churches, lumber yards and auto shops. The land shifts from one color to the next. It was the cracking yellow of the arid desert. It was the beckoning orange of a Texas sunrise. It was the crispy green of a new spring. It was rusty red of the backyard tool shed. All of them were pitted against the back drop of the bluest sky I can remember. It was all so damn distractingly mesmerizing. Doing my best, but my photographs are hopeless trying to catch one tenth of the live show. Like the Amtrak’s brochure, “it is the best scenery you ever slept through.”
April 11, “Baghdad on the Bayou”
Everything in Texas is big. It took us 12 hours and nearly 900 miles to go from El Paso to Houston. When it comes to size, Texas is definitely numero uno. From the steaks at the Taste of Texas to the constellation of hospitals at the Texas Medical Center, small is not an option. Not to mention the rockets and space shuttles at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. About the only thing that is built in disproportion to the state and the city of Houston, which is the fourth largest metropolitan area in the U.S., is the Houston Amtrak station. It is a small one story shack nestled, or rather tossed aside, under a highway overpass.
What I love about Houston? The FOOD. From the oyster po’boy to stinky tofu, I never ate so good in the U.S. when traveling alone. Thanks to my long-time friend, Patrick, I got to visit some of the venerable culinary institutions of Houston. The Goode Company has mastered the many of the Texas delicacy, from BBQ to seafood, from steaks to Cajun cooking. I will not forget the oyster po’boy I had right after I got off the train. My only regret is that I ate a hamburger on the train, which deprived me both the money and the extra room in my belly for a second po’boy. We later went to the Goode BBQ, and it was a carnivore-heaven. 3-meat combo dinner was only $11, and it came with jalapeño sweetbread and two “veges.” This presented two serious problems. I had to choose from a list of over ten meats—brisket, ribs, chicken, duck, two kinds of sausages, pulled pork, ham, and others. I HAD to settle for ONLY the brisket, sweet water duck, and jalapeño sausage. I also got to try a piece of the ribs. Like a father with kids, it would be insensitive for me to pick one to be my favorite. The second problem was that I don't really care for any veges. But a more careful examination of the menu revealed that the closest any of the items comes to resemble an actual vegetable is cole slaw. So I opted for baked beans and jambolaya. Next time, I will opt for the a la carte menu, “meat only” baby!
NASA’s Johnson Space Center, or rather the JSC, was pretty cool. I did took a wrong turn and had an hour of detour driving by the numerous chemical and oil companies along the gulf coast. Apparently the JSC has become much more restricted to the public since 2001, and the guided tour only showed us the original mission control center, now defunct, that was used for all the Apollo missions. Amazing how ancient the technology were, yet they put men on the moon with essentially 800 kb of computing power and some analog, rotary phones.
We also visited the training simulation facility. I found it interesting that it has the emblems of space programs from nations around the world, and the only one missing, perhaps obviously, is the Chinese. The stalemate would only continue, given the recent political climate and the potential retreat of the Chinese from friendly engagement with other world powers. The rest of the space center open to the visitors play more like a children’s hands-on museum and science center. But you did get to touch a piece of moon rock. I easily spent more than four hours in it, which put me way behind schedule for Galveston…
…and that was a good thing. Once referred to as the “arm pit of Texas,” the Galveston I saw was pretty desolate. Perhaps it was the overcast day, or the salty humid sea wind that clinged to every square inch of my exposed body, or the empty streets in front of the “renovated” downtown district, I felt depressed. Once the biggest port in Texas and boasted an opulent city, the island today, at least on April 9, 2008, felt empty.
Yesterday, I finally got to visit the famed Texas Medical Center that I have heard so much about. Even after walking through the area, I am still confused about the affiliation of the various hospitals and the two medical schools, UT-Southwest and Baylor. My friend Patrick wondered out how the hospitals survive the competition from such close proximity. But they appear to be doing quite well, if the hospitals’ lobbies and soaring towers are any indication. My three days in Houston happen to be overcastted, but I still felt humid and icky when walking outside. Boy, was I hungry after walking around the medical center for four hours.
And we had just the right place to have lunch. There is a nice Taiwanese restaurant in the de facto Chinatown to the west of downtown. We ordered stinky tofu hot pot, snails stir fried with basil and deep fried intestine, some of my favorite. Hands down, the stinky tofu there was the most pungent I have encountered on this side of Pacific. Yum-yum. A brief stroll in the strip mall revealed a variety of establishments essential for survival by oversea Chinese: restaurants ranging from southeastern Asian cuisine to Beijing-style lamb hot pot; shops from video rental to Chinese bakery; Chinese grocers to stores where one can buy utterly useless but ultra-cute accessories.
Our last meal was steaks at the Taste of Texas. The restaurant was decked out appropriately with the paraphernalia of the state. Still recovering from our gorging at the Taiwanese restaurant, I was initially relieved to read that the steak was ordered by the ounce. That was until I saw in the smaller print, “16 oz. minimum.” Oh well, I went with my trusted old friend, the Rib-eye. And the steak was huge and was fabulous, probably one of the best I have ever had. It was no 72 oz freak, but I can still feel the sucker this morning.
Leaving for New Orleans today. The train is ONLY one hour and 40 minutes late today. I am sad to say good bye to Houston. With great friends, great food, and great achievements, Houston is a city I will be coming back again. I guess I will have to beat down my sorrow with a few pounds of boiled crawfish in NOLA.
