Blue Moon of Kentucky

We're checking out Northern Kentucky with its view of Cincinnati. Outside of Covington, Bellevue, Fort Thomas, and Alexandria garner a look. But we're disappointed. And we're driving, a lot. It all looks and feels the same. And, we're feeling conflicted: city vs. country, urban vs. suburban, bustling vs. quaint, crowded vs. sparse, snooty vs. humble, gourmet vs. rustic, city parks vs. walkable subdivsions, etc. It's easier to identify what we don't want to live with or how we don't want to live. Much is gray. Little is certain. Much is possible.

Cincinnati Magazine enticed us with the possiblity of Bellevue: "Bellevue is minutes away from downtown and right next to Newport on the Levee. The eminently walkable Fairfield Avenue business district is full of charming shops and restaurants." We aren't charmed.

Fort Thomas is a moderately sprawling genteel town. The public library is busy and everyone looks content. We meet a man who takes a rest in the library each day. It's the half way point on his walk to visit his wife who has Alzheimers and is in a nursing home. It's terribly hot today and he's rambling, upset that he's late, yet happy he took a morning trip to a museum with his church's senior citizen group. Some trips are better than others, he says. He really enjoyed the time they went to My Old Kentucky Home. We had never heard of it. He talks for nearly ten minutes pausing only to drink water out of a library provided paper cup. He asks us nothing but says it's nice to talk to young people.

In the library parking lot a haggard woman is staring at out New Hampshire license plate. She explains a game she and her husband have played with their daughter for the past five years. Using license plates is a way to teach their children about the states. There are many rules and rewards regarding the game. Did we mention it's horribly hot standing on the blacktop watching her sweat? We're happy her eleven year old daughter knows the states and their license plates. You'd be surprised, she says, how many cars from Hawaii are in Kentucky. We can't understand the game and its intricacies. So, we make the only connection with her we thought we could make. We tell her the Old Man of the Mountain doesn't exist anymore, not since 2003. First the chin fell, then the rest fell away in May 2003. She's not sure what we're talking about but her daughter is now learning all the state capitals.

Covington is rough around the edges. It's been through a hell of a time. Drugs, prostitution, crime, corruption, neglect. The pitiful economy isn't helping the efforts of those who love Covington and are investing in its restaurants and cafes. We're told it's a great place to live but addled with its urban problems. We eat at the Greenup Cafe so we can try the house-made goetta. Theirs is made with pork, pin oats and spices. Although when we ask a handful of locals about what goes into a good goetta, there's not a clear articulation about the ingredients. Interesting. It was tasty but overdone and overpriced. We'll make our own version in our future kitchen. The beautiful tile work on the cafe's fireplace is our fondest memory as we skip Alexandria and head to the Volunteer state.

Cincinnati Blues

On a recent flight from Rome to Atlanta, Morgantina sat beside a delightful pilgrim from the Cincinnati area. The slip of paper with her name and e-mail address has been misplaced, and it’s a disappointment to go to Cincinnati without making contact. We’d never have chosen to check out the ‘Nati if it weren’t for this woman. Did she divulge some secrets about Cincinnati or tell Morgantina where to go or eat? No. She’s was just so utterly pleasant that we wanted to see where a person like that hails from.

Nothing we know about Cincinnati is useful. Ken Anderson and the Bengals lost Super Bowl XVI to Joe Montana and the 49ers in 1982. The last line of the WKRP in Cincinnati theme song is "I’m at WKRP in Cincinnati” which goes unsung when Morgantina sings instead “I’m going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come.” We don’t think it’s an omen or a subconscious affinity for Wilbert Harrison, but it may be proof that our hearts are elsewhere. And, in fact, writing about the Queen City is a drag.

Like any other city of its size (330K and over 2 million in the metro) it has museums, a zoo, botanical garden, amusement parks, friendly library staff at the local libraries, opera – think Kathleen Battle - and professional sports. In addition it boasts the largest Octoberfest in America, the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and tons of chili. When we asked locals what they liked most about living in the area we heard the phrase, “it’s home” most often. We got the distinct impression that people living outside of Cincinnati proper most liked that they didn’t live in Cincinnati. When asked what they disliked most crime topped the list. Lack of diversity and traffic were also mentioned.

Random Cincinnati:

Mt. Adams: Mt. Adams is described by some as San Francisco-like. We thought the comparison a two thousand mile stretch. It’s a compact hilly neighborhood in Cincinnati’s East end. Colorful, overpriced Victorian homes are convenient to Eden Park, home of the Cincinnati Museum of Art. If we had to live in the city, we’d live here. There’s a plenty of green alongside plentiful food and drink. United Dairy Farmers has the best peach ice cream and it gets five cows. It was time to leave when vacuous thirty-something posturing prospectors in ill-fitting suits started pointing at vacant storefronts with Blackberries in hand and telling tales of just how many e-mails they receive each day.

Chili: It’s not twelve alarm and it doesn’t have beans. It’s more like a Greek inspired stew served atop spaghetti or hot dogs, with or without cheese, onions and beans. Cinnamon and cloves feature prominently with the chili powder and cumin. It’s fantastic and flavor reminiscent of our French-Canadian gorton/creton. Skyline Chili and Camp Washington Chili were our favorites.

Hyde Park Gourmet Food and Wine: (Really more spirits than food). At the suggestion of the amicable beer advocate, Nelson, Pellew picked up a fine six pack of the Cincinnati based Mt. Carmel’s Blonde Ale. A lengthy discussion about palate and taste ensued with the copious use of the terms differentials, regionals and regions. After a bit of head scratching and an invisible decoder, we deduced these terms could only have been intended to convey differences, preferences and reasons for drinking beer.

Personalities: Chummed it up with Christian Bradley of Fly Society Entertainment who was interviewed for Cincinnati Magazine's monthly Style Counsel section. Had a conversation with an itinerant raccoon which behaved much like a peckish canine.

Fini.

To GPS or not to GPS?

Morgantina loves maps, atlases, guidebooks and all their variations. When driving in a a smaller area she really prefers regional maps drawn on a 1:25,000 scale. They're most useful for finding alternate routes, short cuts, nature areas, less publicized archaeological sites, chapels and Madonna shrines. You can't go wrong with these maps detailing major and minor routes, rough stretches and goat paths. They're perfect for finding the a good shortcut without having to rely on the highway; and that was always Morgantina's goal until driving in the heart of Sicily where sign post, map and road don't speak the same language.



While Morgantina likes the challenge of finding her way in and out of a town using map (when at hand), street signs and intuition. Pellew tolerates this tendency more than he appreciates it. Morgantina reasons that her preferred system works all the time because they've always made it home. But this method isn't without its drawbacks since there must be ample time and patience, both of which have been known to wane at an accelerated rate when physiology is a factor.

For this journey Pellew insisted on using a GPS. Morgantina concedes its usefulness. GPS will always tell you where in the world you are. That's a comfort. Want to go to the movies? Just tap on the screen. Craving sushi? Query and ye shall receive a moderately accurate listing of bars probably still in business. Directions to base camp in rural WV? Sure. 3 routes. 2 of which are navigable atop a snorting quadruped, not the XB.

Morgantina hypothesized all the adventure and spontaneity of the trip would be negated by a satellite signal. Geographic ineptitude would increase as navigable skill decreased: a classic inverse relationship between woman and machine. GPS isn't emboldened with conviction or guts. At least when we'd mistake East for West at midday we'd be attuned and engaged with interpretation of the landscape, signs, markers, constructively figuring out how to get to our destination. We'd argue a point. GPS's mistakes would yield a blameless and heartless situation of foggy recalculation. When GPS gets it wrong, we'd be missing what the land and sky are trying to tell us. We might as well don the blinders as we're hunched over stupidly punching at the screen begging GPS to lead us in the right direction. But Morgantina could be wrong.

Frank's House

It’s rare to wake up in the morning and not know that later in the day you’ll cross an item off your bucket list not because you’ve decided it’s unrealistic or unattainable or foolish, but because the item was experienced and it was superlative enough to count for the long term. We must state the obvious: there’s a ton to see in this world so there are wide variances in bucket lists. There are big generic bucket lists, lemming lists, quiet, personal lists and all other sorts to fill a lifetime of wanderlust, genuine curiosity or keeping up with the Joneses. All these lists are fed by tantalizing tales of adventure read in guide books, magazines, literature and travel writing and money-shot cinescopic images seen in movies and soft core television shows following beautiful and fearless people around the globe. As the years pass the few things that kept you awake during history and art classes resonate with you and make it to the list. We know enough to recognize what we’ve studied when we read a travel expose in the New York Times or watch a movie which takes liberty with its set masking one location in the guise of another. Be assured that the treasury at Petra used in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is more magnificent to see after emerging from the mile long Siq than anything captured on film. Most times we plan the pilgrimage to these known and heard-of places. Other times we’ve the good fortune to stumble upon them finding ourselves closer than we had thought.

Being in West Virginia we forget what’s connecting us to the rest of the world. That while we are in WV we think little of the states that border us is indicative of the reality that we think little of WV when we are in Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Kentucky and Ohio. West Virginia is wild, wonderful and ignored. We didn’t realize our campsite at Chestnut Ridge was only 15 miles south of the Mason-Dixon Line. (A line Morgantina knows is right where it should be but always imagines much farther south. Additionally, being north of the Mason-Dixon Line gives Morgantina a slight, unarticulated comfort). Initially there were three reasons to head north of the Line: new shower flip flops, a visit to Panera and an interrupted tour of Uniontown, PA, the home of George C. Marshall, the man with the plan. Thanks to the AAA guide book we found ourselves mostly unprepared and ignorant of southwestern PA’s Laurel Highlands and its diverse attractions which include: biking, summer stock, French and Indian War sites, the Big Mac Museum Restaurant, white water rafting for the experienced and for us, the clueless, the Great Alleghany Passage, beloved rails to trails, and Fort Necessity. All of which will be wonderful to experience some future May or September. The idea of PA is growing on us even though we’re still not considering living there.

So it isn’t the kayaking or tubing that takes the breath away. It is the shock of discovering we were near Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater on PA Route 381, for us, the treasure of the Laurel Highlands. The multistoried stone and concrete cantilevered house was designed in 1935 for the Kaufmann family. Fallingwater is Pellew’s favorite American house and has had a place on the architecture bucket list for two decades. Pellew is amazed at how the house's interior and exterior and the surrounding nature are joined; the house is integrated into the natural landscape and that integration feels seamless whether standing creekside or on one of the cantilevers. The sound of Bear Run’s waterfall can be heard and felt throughout the house. Its effect: tranquility. However, as the tranquility permeates, Pellew’s annoyance that he couldn’t experience Fallingwater without the crowd intensifies. Morgantina is enamored with the design and its execution. She’s inspired and encouraged by Wright. The design of Fallingwater proved to be a personal renaissance for Wright who turned 68 in 1935. He continued to design homes and public buildings including the Guggenheim in NYC until just before his death in 1959. It’s a shake-your-head, mouth wide open, stars in the eyes kind of day. It’s hard to say goodbye.

P.S.
Our description is abbreviated and insufficient and any attempt to further editorialize about Wright and the design of Fallingwater is ridiculous. Fallingwater must be experienced.

Maybe It'd Be Nice to Live in a College Football Town...

Clean air, clean towns, mountains, John Denver's dream, Paul Dooley (you know, the dad from Sixteen Candles), small town charm, bridges, Appalachian heritage, coal mining, back country roads and West Virginia University brought us to Morgantown, West Virginia. We were hoping Morgantown would be an idyllic riverfront college town. But it's a little town with an invasive student body and a fanatical local citizenry devoted to the Mountaineers and the Pride. Beloved WVU has a lovely brick campus, PRT (Personal Rapid Transit) and a mountaineer for its mascot. If Pellew could join the Varsity Club upon enrollment at WVU, we could fit right in! However, we suspected early on that if WVU vanished, the spirit of Morgantown's people may vanish as well.

A comic shop guy whose happy-to-recommend voice is like a snarl warned us when school's in session it's impossible to get in or out or around downtown from Thursday to Sunday. A trip to the public library with too many year-old flyers and a disinterested staff left us feeling indifferent. While trying to view the town from a bridge spanning the Monongahela River we were rudely interrupted by a local and his lifted red F-150 with 33" wheels. The pep in our step faded and any fantasy Pellew had of joining the glee club dissipated with the roar of glass-packs. All in all, the tasty gyro and friendly staff at the Pita Pit weren't enough to help us imagine living in Morgantown.

About fifteen miles east of Morgantown the view of the Cheat River Gorge from Cooper's Rock, named after a fugitive who hid out in the mountains and made barrels for locals out of the blighted American chestnut, should have been spectacular but was hazy. However, it was a treat to see the buildings constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) are still in use today. Along the interstates we see signs that the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act is "Putting America to Work," and although we don't feel the progress and haven't seen anyone actually working, we like to think that whoever designed the sign was paid well enough. We're doubtful the ARRA will have any chance of a hope of achieving the impact, longevity and creativity of the New Deal's WPA. They're incomparable and that's a shame.

Connecting on the Road

We're feeling a bit stressed trying to stay connected with friends and family while on our journey. Connected means taking time to stop at a library or cafe to use the free wi-fi to e-mail, send pictures and blog. Neither of these three seemingly essential activities contribute to the journey in itself. Writing about what we're experiencing is enriching our travel, but the self-attributed notion that we must be in contact is stymying. The process of shifting from the tangible experience to the virtual is surreal and disenchanting.

We've decided to give ourselves a maintenance day every four to five days. The postings will be back-dated and added when we're off the road. We think it's for the best and the writing will be better for it; not to mention Morgantina's blood pressure.

Chambersburg, PA joins the hundreds of other towns which have transformed their suburbs, highway hillsides, and outskirts into strip mall look-alikes. The homogeneity of these outposts are both disconcerting and undeniably useful. We hate them for their generic duplicity while we benefit from their familiarity and convenience. (Gandalf nod: "He loves and hates the ring as he loves and hates himself").

These town centers, super centers, market places, or whatever your local developer likes to call them, are plentiful and are standardizing the American landscape. For now, each time we pass a mega center we're disappointed and can't help feeling tricked somehow. In 1960 Steinbeck observed the following about the American city:

But now I have been through hundreds of towns and cities in every climate and against every kind of scenery, and of course they are all different, and the people have points of difference, but in some ways they are alike. American cities are like badger holes, ringed with trash - all of them - surrounded by piles of wrecked and rusting automobiles, and almost smothered with rubbish. Everything we use comes in boxes, cartons, bins, the so-called packaging we love so much. The mountain of things we throw away are much greater than things we use. In this, if in no other way, we can see the wild and reckless exuberance of our production, and waste seems to be the index.

However, what many downtowns can no longer do, either because of lack of will or ability, or because people who live in suburbs need or simply prefer the new outtowns, these uniform shopping centers can do. They provide a space to congregate, shop, and socialize. People of all walks and statehoods can come and be known or remain anonymous and feel just as they do the next state county over. Chances are, in this little big world of ours, Mr. Ryan Jones would never have spotted Pellew if Panera didn't offer free wi-fi and the immutable pick two combo. And, in the middle of all this sameness, in this earthtone cookie cutter eatery, they talked about old times on the USS Whidbey Island and their land-bound futures ahead.

Bird Embrace?

Certainly Morgantina's brother has never heard her utter a kind word about a bird unless it's her favorite flightless puffin Opus. These cranes which keep visiting our end of Pinchot Lake have to be good luck bearers. If they're not, then surely the butterflies and this intrepid hummingbird must be auspicious. Pellew is the bird whisperer.

Gettysburg

We don't know much about the Civil War. But we love Gettysburg and we love Lincoln. Gettysburg is a charming town. If we were both two decades younger, Gettysburg College (est. 1832) could be a fine small college to attend. If we didn't have to worry about school or work, we'd consider living in the area. The surrounding battlefields are filled with monuments, signposts, and reverent tourists drawn to understand the war's bloodiest battle during three days in early July 1863.

Given our lack of knowledge about Gettysburg we can only comment on what most resonated with us on this day.

Eternal Light Peace Memorial on Oak Hill: Confederate and Union soldiers came together in 1913 wanting to erect a monument to 50 years of peace. With the ensuing Depression and scarcity of funds, the memorial wasn't dedicated until 1938. Sadly, 75 years after the battle, many of the veterans who had envisioned the peace monument had passed on.

David Wills House: In short, Wills invited Lincoln to "make a few appropriate remarks" at the dedication of the battlefield on 19 November 1863. Lincoln stayed the night of 18 November at Wills's home where he revised the Gettysburg Address. Pellew and I read several times the 273 word address with a new found regard for Lincoln and new interest in the politics of the war. Pellew particularly appreciated that Edward Everett, the day's keynote speaker, commented that Lincoln said more in two minutes than he, Everett, had said in two hours. Smart.

Soldiers National Cemetery: We took a guided tour through the cemetery with a national park guide. The cemetery's focal monument is topped with the Greek muse of history, Clio, Ceres the goddess of grain, is the muse of history, and two male statues depicting both war and peace, which is unusual. It's not possible to stand at the exact point where Lincoln gave the address since it's most certainly located beyond the fence line in the adjacent Evergreen Cemetery. Also, Richard Nixon's great-grandfather is interred here.

To spend one day in Gettysburg is an absurdity. We're looking forward to visiting and seeing Elvis again.

Camping and the Civil War

Words of wisdom from an apathetic wine salesman: "Two things happen when you go camping: it gets hotter or it rains." He was right. On the subject of camping, I, Morgantina, know little: My memories of camping are peppered with drudgery: packing up kitchen items to take to a camp site to be washed in cold water only to be unceremoniously returned back to the home kitchen 48 hours later; frustration: odoriferous out-houses and the nearly-there, almost nearby running water; toil: tent - enough said. However, two days into the trip there are three certainties: we love the Scion, the hibachi, and the tent. Camping is most fun with the right tools. Walking around the camp, I gawk and question the other campers' sites. Pellew will explain repeatedly the different types of camping styles:

Bivouac
Tent cot
Tent for 2 or more people
Tent in a truck bed
Tent for SUV
Pop-up camper
Camper-Trailer or 5th Wheel
RV (sized as small as a minivan or as big as a Grey Hound Bus)

I understand everything but the last two. How is it considered camping if one has AC, satellite, etc in a camper-trailer or an RV? After seeing multiple trailer/RV sites adorned with flags of all sizes and all promotions, country kitsch decor and signs reading: "home is where we're parked," "stop in and say howdy," and "on the road with the Schillers," I don't get it and don't want to. Pellew is much more accepting if not a bit disappointed about the number of military guys he's noticed and has a suspicion that although he's on a trip to get away from them, they're everywhere. However, both Pellew and I have soft spots for the those campers flying the POW-MIA and Vet flags and assumes those campers must wave them at their homes too. We think that's alright.

Today's Lessons Learned:

Pellew must eat at regular intervals. When Morgantina says she's tired, she means it and she's done. We're not moving to Harrisburg, PA. Although it'd be great to have a neighborhood barber shop like Just Kut'n It Up.


The National Civil War Museum in Harrisburg is promoted as the only museum in America that portrays the war without bias and we thought that description to be fair. Highlights: uniforms (particularly those of the Zouaves), weaponry, slavery articles, and the Lincoln exhibit.

Pennsylvania Impressions

Gifford Pinchot State Park in southern PA seems an unlikely place for us to begin the first leg of our American tour. If it weren't for a new interest in the Civil War, we'd have bypassed PA altogether. GPSP is between Harrisburg and Gettysburg, two places we'd never contemplated until we visited Antietam and Harper's Ferry last April. Our previous knowledge of PA was singular at best: the annual car show in Carlisle, cannoli at Reading Terminal Market, Ben Franklin, the Liberty Bell and the Constitutional Convention, Andrew Carnegie, snow, farms, industry and rust.

Driving up from our super secret cousin's place in Alexandria we happened upon the Dutch Markets at Shrewsbury near York. For us food and food shopping are significant elements of travel. If the food is good (and especially local), troubles are diminished, frustrations are soothed and irritations usually forgotten. We judge a place by its food, wine and beer, restaurants and markets. And, we think it's one of the best deciding factors about whether we'd return to an area for either vacation or an extended stay.

Pellew chatted up David who had a most terrific accent and suggested we try Amish butter cheese. Assuming we weren't from PA, he asked us if we were moving to the area. We told him PA wasn't technically wasn't on our list of states we were considering and it was our first stop, more of an impromptu blind date. We're fairly sure he said one day he'd like to do what we're doing, but we were dually mesmerized by his accent.


Market finds: blueberries, half a cherry pie with a gorgeous lattice crust, bread, PA Dutch version of chocolate whoopie pie, country ham, Amish butter cheese, a variety of pepper and onion, apple, garlic and sage sausages, 2007 Saintsbury Pinot Noir and three other wines now forgotten. (Items in bold are big yums).

A white crane welcomed us into our camp site at the tip of Pinchot Lake. Chris says cranes are good luck. We believe her.