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.
