coming up for air: two thoughts on aging from george orwell

I came upon these passages in George Orwell's 1939 novel, Coming Up for Air. They seem very appropriate to me today.

* * * *

The change in his appearance after twenty years had actually frightened me. I suppose you think I mean that he looked older. But he didn't! He looked younger. And it suddenly taught me something about the passage of time.

I suppose old Betterton would be about sixty-five now, so that when I last saw him he'd have been forty-five -- my age now. His hair was white now, and the day he buried Mother it was a kind of streaky grey, like a shaving-brush. And yet as soon as I saw him the first thing that struck me was that he looked younger. I'd thought of him as an old, old man, and after all he wasn't so very old. As a boy, it occurred to me, all people over forty ahd seemed to me just worn-out old wrecks, so old that there was hardly any difference between them. A man of forty-five had seemed to me older than this dodderer of sixty-five seemed now. And Christ! I was forty-five myself. It frightened me.

* * * *

If I'd had a mirror I'd have looked at the whole of myself, though, as a matter of fact, I knew what I looked like already. A fat man of forty-five, in a grey herring-bone suit a bit worse for wear and a bowler hat. Wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs written all over me. Red face and boiled blue eyes. I know, you don't have to tell me. But the thing that struck me, as I gave my dental plate the once-over before slipping it back in my mouth, was that it doesn't matter. Even false teeth don't matter. I'm fat -- yes. I look like a bookie's unsuccessful brother -- yes. No woman will ever go to bed with me again unless she's paid to. I know all that. But I tell you I don't care. I don't want the women, I don't even want to be young again. I only want to be alive. And I was alive at that moment when I stood looking at the primroses and the red embers under the hedge. It's a feeling inside you, a kind of peaceful feeling, and yet it's like a flame.

happy birthday to me: retirement update edition

I have been alive on this planet for 64 years. Didn't I just write my last "happy birthday to me" post, like, a week ago??

I looked back at my last few HBTM posts, and I do have a few updates. 

Last year, in "happy birthday to me: retirement vs travel edition," I thought retirement was 10 to 12 years away. Plans have gelled since then, and I am planning to retire at age 70. I downloaded a countdown clock, now on my desktop. Today it clicked over from six years plus something to five-plus! 

I still love my job. In fact, I like it more than ever, now that I have set better limits on how much time I spend working, and feel so much a part of the community. I'm not counting down because I hate what I'm doing. 

The purpose of the countdown is to help me stay on track with our financial goals. This doesn't come naturally to me, it's something I need to be conscious of all the time. Seeing those very finite numbers helps.

Also last year, I was feeling like these important goals meant travel was no longer possible for us. I've had a mental shift about that, too. We had a great trip this year, and -- possibly for the first time ever? -- paid for the entire trip in advance. We paid for airfare and car rental with points, something we've never done before, and saved thousands of dollars on dog care by using TrustedHousitters. (More on that in a future post.) The rest I was able to save for, thanks to the privilege of our two decent incomes. And I was able to do this while sticking with The Plan. 

Upshot: we will still be able to travel, maybe taking (what I consider) a good trip every few years. For me, this feels monumental. A weight lifted. 

(Right now, instead of a trip, we're saving for a good digital sound system, something Allan is more excited about than any travel I could plan.)

For the rest, I'll do that thing where a writer quotes themself. In 2021, when I turned 60, I wrote:

There are tough things about aging, for sure. Unpleasant things. There's no denying it. But there were tough things at every stage of life. Being a child is not the proverbial picnic, nor being a teenager, nor a young adult. There are always issues, always heartache, and sometimes much worse. If we're lucky, there is also love and joy, wonder and excitement, adventure and meaning. 

Aging is a privilege. I feel incredibly lucky and grateful to have it.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Thank you for being part of my life.

what i'm reading: two by two favourite authors: part two: zadie smith's the fraud

In an earlier post, I mentioned that I recently read novels by two of my favourite authors, Roddy Doyle and Zadie Smith. I wrote about The Women Behind the Door here. Here's the second part: The Fraud.

A writer of vast and diverse talents

The Fraud is technically historical fiction, but this is Zadie Smith, so it's unlike any historical novel you've ever read. Whether or not you enjoy historical fiction, set aside your ideas about the genre before diving in to this gem.

I've read all but one of Smith's novels, and some of her nonfiction, and I plan to fill in what I've missed. She's an ambitious writer who has done a lot of different things. And like any artist who experiments with different forms, the outcomes can be uneven. (The exception to this is Colson Whitehead. How can he be so good at everything he tries??) I don't love everything Smith has written, but I love a lot of it, and for the rest, I want to come along for the ride. 

In this case, for me, Smith knocks it out of the park.

Who is the fraud? (Who isn't?)

The Fraud takes place in Victorian London, and focuses on three situations.

A sensational trial is underway: the Tichborne Claimant. After the heir to the Tichborne estate (presumably) died in a shipwreck, an Australian butcher came forward claiming to be Sir Tichborne. Despite all evidence that he was a charlatan and a fraud, a sizeable chunk of the British public loved and believed him. This is the most obvious reading of the book's title.

We also meet the life and times of a minor Victorian writer, a contemporary of Dickens and Thackery, now forgotten: William Harrison Ainsworth. We see most of the action from the point of view of Ainsworth's cousin and sometime lover, Eliza Touchet. Eliza, in Victorian parlance, is a widow, forever referred to as "Mrs. Touchet". She is also an intelligent woman, with a restless hunger for knowledge, dissatisfied with the tiny box that society allows her to live in. Mrs. Touchet has hidden identities that she cannot name even to herself, as they are well outside social norms of the time.

And there is Bogle: a formerly enslaved Jamaican man, who inexplicably champions the Tichborne Claimant, and who lends gravitas and credibility to the Claimant's cause. Through Bogle, we explore the lives of generations of enslaved Africans who came to be first Jamaican, then British.

Each of these people -- the Tichborne Claimaint, Ainsworth, Mrs. Touchet, and Bogle -- are all, in some sense, frauds. The Tichborne Claimaint is perpetrating a kind of giant magic trick on the public. Ainsworth is a fraud but doesn't realize it. Mrs. Touchet lives a fraudulent life, because she has to. Bogle's motives are more obscure. 

Keep reading, and you'll gain a sense that absolutely everyone is a fraud in some sense. The current Mrs. Ainsworth, who married "above her station". Charles Dickens, perhaps a fictional version of the great writer -- or perhaps a more authentic but hidden version. And on and on. Leading us to question what it would mean to live an authentic life.

The great fraud of our own times

The Fraud works on an entirely different level, too: it maps to the current political situation: the fraud who now lives in the White House.

The Tichborne case and the pro-Tichborne public echo the Orange Guy and the MAGA movement in ways that are both obvious and subtle -- and entirely clever and humorous. There are anti-vaxxers (who certainly existed back then), and outlandish conspiracy theories that contradict themselves. There is an extreme distrust of society's institutions, coupled with a blind loyalty to people of great power, incomprehensible to the intelligent and well-informed. And there is, above all, an inability to distinguish between fact and fiction. Everything about the Tichborne Claimant trial and the community -- the cult -- that formed around it can be read as current and topical.

And there's more

Many critics have written about The Fraud as a meta-novel: a novel about novelists, about Smith and her profession, and about us, the reading public. Here's a good example from The Atlantic.

It is certainly that. There are plenty of postmodern, self-referential moments that loop around themselves, where you're reading about yourself, what you are actually doing at the moment: reading a novel about a novel. 

But I think the critics who read this ambitious book primarily as a meta-novel are focusing on the wrong thing. There is just so much going on. 

I will include one caution: The Fraud might be a bit difficult to get into at first, as it's written in a Victorian style. Or is it a faux Victorian style? Is the style a fraud?

Give it a chance, it's worth it.

what i'm watching: a complete unknown: not very profound (or kind) thoughts about this movie

Bobby, Suze, the Village, the Jacket

Several people have asked me to share my thoughts about "A Complete Unknown," James Mangold's fictional biopic about Bob Dylan in the early 1960s.

Allan and I were in no rush to see it, because we love Bob Dylan, and we are well familiar with the public versions of his story.

Allan dislikes fictional biopics, and while we watched the movie last night, I remembered why I also seldom watch them. I'm actually going into my various watchlists and deleting every movie of this genre. There are at least a dozen movies like this waiting; now I've lost interest in them all.

To me, "A Complete Unknown" was like a checklist of 1961-1965 Bob Dylan. I imagined someone holding a clipboard, checking off each person and each item. Here's Alan Lomax. Here's Albert Grossman. Harold Leventhal. Tom Wilson. Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Joan Baez, and Suze Rotolo (here called Sylvie). Check, check, check.  There's the cap. There's the jacket. The motorcyle. Check, check, check. Folk City, the Gaslight. Walter Cronkite, the Vietnam War, the civil rights movement, the Cuban Missile Crisis. Check, check, check.

Predictably, it all leads up to the most famous incident of early Dylandom, the most-told tale, the hotly debated and revised and rewritten Dylan Goes Electric at the 1965 Newport Festival. We wondered if Mangold would repeat the legend of the ax-wielding Pete Seeger. I won't spoil it for you.

It appears that most of the casting for this movie was based on looks, which seems to be how this type of movie is made. Woman with long black hair equals Joan Baez. Heavy man equals Albert Grossman. The actor playing Baez lacked any semblance of the singer and activist's beauty and charisma, and above all, her rich, melodious voice and incredible guitar playing. Maybe that's to be expected, but it still felt like a seventh-generation photocopy.

For those who don't know this story, the film is a history lesson. For those who do, it's a hackneyed re-creation, plus a few scenes that in all likelihood did not happen. I got nothing out of it. Had I been watching alone, I would have turned it off halfway through.

For those wishing to know something about Bob Dylan, I recommend Martin Scorsese's 2005 documentary "No Direction Home". Even Scorsese's "Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story" -- a fictional, somewhat surreal homage to the greatest rock tour of all time -- captured more Dylan than this movie that tried to adhere so closely to the real story.

I'm guessing this was a much better movie if you didn't know much about Dylan and don't value him as I do.

what i'm reading: two by two favourite authors: part one: roddy doyle's the women behind the door

I took a break from reading nonfiction to read novels by two of my favourite authors: The Women Behind the Door, by Roddy Doyle, and The Fraud, by Zadie Smith. I thoroughly enjoyed both of them. Here's the first.

Doyle and I go way back

Roddy Doyle is a living legend, and yet under-recognized, at least in Canada.

His debut novel, The Commitments, from 1987, was made into a popular movie, and eventually became the start of the hilarious and poignant Barrytown Trilogy. Like many non-Irish readers, I discovered Doyle when his fourth book, 1993's Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha, won the Booker Prize. He's been on my must-read list ever since.

Somewhere along the way, the fact of another new Roddy Doyle novel became commonplace. Now when I see lists of the best contemporary Irish writers, I'm sad to see his name no longer included. 

In The Women Behind the Door, Doyle returns to one of his recurring characters, Paula Spencer. Paula is the title character in 1994's The Woman Who Walked Into Doors. She's in an abusive marriage, a fact that she and everyone around her ignores and rationalizes. It's a deeply moving story -- harrowing and triumphant -- and was groundbreaking in its day.

Twelve years and many books later, Doyle published Paula Spencer, which picks up the action exactly where Woman Who Walked leaves off. Paula is now 40, single, and a recovering alcoholic, trying to build a life from scratch. 

Almost 20 years later, Doyle gives us The Women Behind the Door. These books are now known as the Paula Spencer Series, which I find a bit odd, since they were published many years apart, and were not a planned trilogy. But whatever helps more people read more Roddy Doyle is great.

First he lulls you in, then... the emotional mic drop

The Women Behind the Door is vintage Roddy Doyle. It begins with what he is best known for: witty, bantering dialogue that is hilarious, authentic, and dead-on perfect. This banter often occurs between men at a pub. In this book, the banter is among women. It's fun, it's light, it's easy, and it always rings true.

I was immediately drawn in -- it's impossible not to be. But I thought, so this is where he is now, eh? Just writing the easy dialogue? Did he bring back Paula Spencer just to have her banter with a new friend, and some internal reminiscence of the bad old days? That doesn't seem worthy of--- and boom. You fall off an emotional cliff. 

And then I remember, oh yeah, this is Doyle does best. It's not just the banter. It's the banter that begins to reveal. And it reveals deeply, truly, painfully, joyously. One minute you're laughing, then you're struck dead, then you're weeping, from both joy and heartache. You can't put the book down -- not because of action, because of the emotional suspense.

This book is an absolute triumph. I do think to understand it, to mine the full emotional depth, you need to read the three books in order. However, I would recommend reading other books in between, rather than all three consecutively. 

Doyle appeared at the Vancouver Writers Fest, just last year. I was so pleased to see him recognized in this area, and so annoyed not to have been there. So close! And yet, impossible.

Long ago, we did see him read in a bookstore in New York, and I'm pretty sure I also saw him at the famous 92 Street Y writer series around the same time. He's a treasure, and so is Paula Spencer.

things we saw from the road, mostly lies

Billboards seen on the highways between St. Louis, Tulsa, and Kansas City. 

Lies about pregnancy

"Heartbeat heard 18 days after conception"

This is the most frequently-seen lie on all the highway signs. I googled it to see what would come up, and every link was for an anti-abortion websites, disguised as pregnancy information. That's the worst part. How on earth would anyone know the difference? They wouldn't. 

Eighteen days after conception, there is no heartbeat.

Eighteen days after conception, there is no fetus.

Eighteen days after conception, there is not even an embryo!

Eighteen days after conception, there is a blob of cells called a zygote. Some mansplainer might argue, "Well actually... that the blob of cells is called a blastocyst." Zygote, blastocyst, I'm good either way. It ain't a baby and it doesn't have a heartbeat.

Eighteen days after conception, a fertilized egg might be expelled with menstrual flow, and the person will never even know it.

We spent a good portion of our drive saying, "Heartbeat 18 day after conception???", "Heartbeat before one missed period???", and the like.

The 18-days-after lie is usually coupled with an image of someone cuddling a fair-haired, blue-eyed baby. An actual baby, that was carried to term, has been born, and now lives. A human life. As distinct from a fucking blob of cells.

Also: Brew a cup rescue a child. Freshly ground faithfully roasted. christ.coffee

And the usual: Adoption is love. Abortion is murder.

(83) FOR-TRUTH

There's lots of info online about the "83 For Truth" billboards, which are all over the United States, and not only in the South. Here are a few we noted.

When you die you will meet God. Hebrews 9:27

Discover why Jesus created you. 

(Jesus created you??? Does anyone even claim that??)

There IS evidence for GOD. 

(Why do they need evidence? Isn't faith enough?)

Where are you going? Heaven or HELL 

(Just going to Tulsa right now.)

Losing FAITH in GOD?

(Call the number to find out.)

Shackled by LUST? JESUS sets free

(Was there a word limit?)

In the beginning GOD CREATED
(Believe everything you read!)

Safety instructions?

Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates.

Do not drive into smoke.

No tolerance. 

(Seen on a speed limit sign, but perhaps it was referring to the entire country.)

How to stay healthy and earn millions

In a gas station restroom: 

A great adventure begins with healthy habits. So don't forget to wash those paws til they sparkle! Also, the health department requires it.

We passed dozens of billboards for personal-injury lawyers, including: 

"Jail is scary, why not call Larry" and "Trouble with him, you can call Kim." 

JUNGLE LAW showed a female attorney and included #metoo.

Seen in front yards and on the sides of building

Nobody elected musk

Trump is working for Putin

Fuck Trump

Trump Lives

One house with flags from our side along their entire front fence. We wanted to go back and get pictures, but Google Maps took us a different route. Big Data controlling the propaganda! One flag said: DESTROY WHAT DESTROYS YOU. I had to google it.

day 14: kc to st. louis: a drive, a store, and unexpected propaganda -- plus an unexpected margarita (part two)

I wrote the previous post in various airports, and am writing this post from home. I just proofread and corrected that post, so if sharp readers caught the typos, they should now be fixed. 

We are so happy to be home! We couldn't wait to see Cookie and Kai. We had three flights, a total travel time of 18.5 hours, and everything went smoothly. 

We are both off today, then back to work tomorrow. I did not check my work email once in the whole two weeks! Yay me! 

After this final post about the trip, I have a collection of random notes that we've been saving. I'm hoping we can post photos on the weekend, or at least the following weekend.

A cave, a bad tour guide, and unwelcome propaganda

We drove a long, winding way to the Meramec Caverns. We could tell from the roadside ads that the place was old and outdated (not the cave! the company running the tourist attraction). I expected the tour to be a little cheesy, not as interesting or complete as it would be at a national or state park site. But nothing could have prepared me for what waiting for us.

I knew we were in trouble from the start. 

The tour guide asked, "How are you folks doing today?"

I said we were great, and asked him how he was.

He said: "I'm just OK. I have this problem with my leg. I had an accident. It's somewhat better now, but not all the way. When it first happened, I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't move my leg! I said, oh no, what the hay. And then I had to have an operation. The doctor said. . . "

This went on for a long time. We were barely two steps from the ticket booth.

At first we were the only people on the tour. Tour Guide asked, "Where you folks from?" Then he lectured us on Canadian coins, their various dates of issue, which ones he's missing, the date the "one-cent coin" was discontinued in Canada, what a "five-cent coin" costs to manufacture, and probably ten things I blocked out.

We were standing in a huge cave with spectacular stalactites, stalagmites, and columns. TG would occasionally interrupt himself to share a fact about those.

Advertisements for this cave claim that the outlaws Frank and Jesse James used the cave as a hideout. Historians say there is little to no evidence of this, but whatever. But would you believe it? There were life-size cardboard cut-outs of the two men "hiding" in the cave. 

This cave was also featured in an episode of "Lassie," the TV show about the beautiful Collie dog that rescues everyone. And sure enough, there was a life-sized, laminated photo of Lassie, on top of a big stone feature. It was everything we could do to keep from laughing.

Then we learned all about the history of TG's dogs.

Shortly after this, another couple joined the tour. They were on a Route 66 drive, a popular road trip for many Americans, and this cave apparently figures into that. (Throughout our trip, we have seen "Old Route 66" signs. We have no particular interest in tracing a defunct route around shopping malls and abandoned buildings. Each to their own!)

TG seemed to feel more comfortable with them than with us, and directed most of his conversation to them. This gave me an opportunity to hang back, putting some space between myself and the lecture. Allan was busy taking photographs.

The cavern itself was amazing. It's part of a large cave system, a small portion of which is open to tourists. The stalactites, stalagmites, and columns are impressive and a little spooky. One space is full of very unusual features called botryoidals, which look like clusters of grapes growing on vines. 

Caves are an amazing natural phenomenon. They don't need fake outlaw legends or fictional heroic dogs. They don't need coloured lights, which the guide would turn on here and there. Nature is spectacular. Information about natural wonders helps you appreciate them more. Information about your TG, not so much.

In addition to TG's accident and his coin collection, we heard about: his parents (how tall they are, how old his mother lived to be, why his parents got married to each other three times, where his father is now and what he does for work, what his mother died of), school groups (how many kids come in, what he tells them, how he feels about them, what he does when they're not there), and several other fascinating and relevant topics.

Then came his science fiction novel. The plot, the subplots, the characters. Allan whispered to me, "Dude, there are only two writers on this tour and neither of them are you." That may sound snobby but imagine how we felt at that point! 

This just went on and on and on. All about him.

Sometimes I would ask a question about the caves, or one of the other people would. TG would take a break from talking about himself to answer it. Anytime he talked about the cave, he spoke really fast, spitting out facts he had memorized. The actual information about the caves was often impossible to understand.

When we were in Newfoundland in 2007, we had an experience with someone we called Unintentionally Hilarious Tour Guide. Wmtc readers who know Newfoundland guessed that the folks in the tourism office played a joke on us by assigning him as a guide. He was clearly developmentally or intellectually disabled. We were nothing but friendly and polite to him; the joke was clearly on us. (That post had 50 or 60 comments. Now lost.)

It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt

The tour of Meramec Caverns would have topped that experience in Port Union, Newfoundland. Then it was no longer funny.

We found ourselves suddenly, inexplicably trapped in a "theatre", being subjected to American military and Christian propaganda.

In a part of the cave near the end of the tour, you climb some steps and find some seating. There are wooden pew-like seats installed in a room of the cave. After a brief preamble that involved a WWII-gift to the caves and singer Kate Smith, TG started a video. 

It began with a bible verse.

I said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear: "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nobody said anything about scripture on this tour."

After the bible passage came images of US military people in planes, tanks, and ships – and a recording of "God Bless America". Loud. And on repeat! 

After the military images came images of smiling, happy Americans, surfing, running on the beach, and laughing. All the Black people were laughing. Look how good America is to the Black people! We've included them in a video! Yay us!

We. Could. Not. Believe it.

Why was this happening? What does this have to do with caves?

The video ended concluded with another bible verse. 

Remember: we can't leave the room. Without TG switching on lights or using his flashlight, the cave is dark. We don't know which passageway leads back to the ticket booth, or how far away that is. We are literally a captive audience.

When it was over, Allan called out, “Why didn't we have the option of opting out of this, like we did for the slippery stairs?” (There were had been a section of the cave with 58 wet stairs, with an option to sit out if you couldn't or didn't want to walk them.)

TG talked over the end of Allan's sentence and continued the tour. I assume that is how the guides are trained to react to objections.

You might think I'm making too much of this, that it's a harmless few minutes, or perhaps a cultural difference, and why do I have to be so sensitive.

Imagine if a Muslim tour guide made visitors listen to passages from the Quran.

If a Jewish tour guide asked everyone to join them in reciting a Hebrew prayer.

How about socialists forcing you to listen to "The Internationale"? 

Does that seem appropriate? To us it's the same thing.

Only a Christian would assume that everyone else is Christian. I'm not saying all Christians make this assumption. But in North America, only a Christian has the privilege of not having to think about this.

Unless the company knows perfectly well that this is inappropriate and it is intended as propaganda. I don't know which. I know that it pissed us off royally. 

I plan to complain about this. Companies who engage in shit like this should hear from people they have offended. I fear my complaint may amuse them, since they clearly have so little respect for difference and inclusion. I won't let that stop me from speaking up.

And PS: Why must every mention of Kate Smith -- whose rendition of "God Bless America" is so famous -- contain a joke about her size? She is supposed to be revered, the song is a sacrosanct piece of Americana, but we can detour from that to ridicule a fat woman.

And PPS: In case you are not aware, Woody Guthrie wrote "This Land is Your Land" in response to the Kate Smith recording of "God Bless America". The original refrain was "God blessed America for me". Woody changed it to "this land was made for you and me" to remove religion from it entirely, and to include everyone who was listening. 

I'm going to suggest the Meramec Caverns use that song instead.

Alcohol and good food improves everything

We couldn't leave the caverns fast enough. 

By this time, it was after 7:00 pm, and we hadn't eaten anything but cookies and candy all day. I thought that near the airport hotel, we might only find fast-food, and I was hoping to avoid that. I googled a bit, and found several tacquerias in a neighbourhood near the airport. 

When we found a place we were looking for, it was almost 8:00 and they were about to close. Allan wanted us to try a Mexican restaurant next door, which appeared to be open. Good move.

Two gentleman greeted us. We asked if we could get food to go. One man, the owner, said, You do not wish to eat here with us? I said, the place looks lovely, but we've had a very long day, and we're very tired.

They brought us menus. Music was blasting and I couldn't focus. Allan, taking care of me, suggested we move further down the bar to get away from the music. The owner also turned the volume down.

We ordered, and started chatting with the owner. He asked if we wanted a drink while we waited. I heard the words "fresh squeezed". The next thing we knew, he was mixing up margaritas with fresh lime. He showed us fresh pineapple and strawberries, saying that most folks start with a classic margarita, then venture into his fruity specialities.

As a rule, I never drink tequila, but what good are rules on your last day of vacation? By the time the food came, we were ready to eat at the bar. We would have been happy to eat from the takeout containers, but they would have none of that, and quickly brought us warm chips and salsa, and soon after, our food.

This is a very new restaurant. Jorge, our host, told us that it opened last December, right before a blizzard, then flooding rains. No one was coming and he was losing money, fearful for his investment. Then business started to pick up. Yesterday, for Mothers' Day, it was packed.

When we finished, Jorge brought us a dessert, on the house -- a rich sponge cake roll, with fresh strawberry jam, rolled in chocolate. I could only manage a bite or two, but it was amazing. Allan was very appreciative that I was too full for dessert.

I told Jorge I would write reviews, and encouraged him to use social media to promote the restaurant. He said he believes that having quality food made of fresh ingredients, and great customer service, should be enough. But people have to hear about your restaurant in order to experience your great food and service! I hope he'll consider it. Meanwhile I will add the restaurant to TripAdvisor. 

By the time we left Casa Don Pedro, we were feeling much better, but also exhausted. The airport hotel was an easy check-in, we returned the rental car, also a snap, and the hotel (just across the highway) picked us up.

Then came the daunting prospect of re-packing in some semblance of order for plane travel. It wasn't so difficult. We were not looking forward to the long travel day -- St. Louis to Toronto to Vancouver to Comox, then a three-hour drive to Port Hardy -- but we were so excited to see Cookie and Kai!

One more post to come, odds and ends, including highway signs.

day 14: kc to st. louis: a drive, a store, and unexpected propaganda (part one)

the store of stores

I forgot a few things that I wanted to capture about our drive from Tulsa to KC. That's what I get for writing at night, rather than in the morning.

Joplin, mounds

To avoid a lane closure on the highway, we detoured through the small town of Joplin, Missouri, down its sweet little main street. Parts were old and well preserved, parts were clearly "revitalizing" with the beginnings of gentrification, and parts were boarded up and abandoned. I wonder which force will win, as the US economy gets even worse.

For some unknown reason, Joplin sports four different doggie day cares, pet spas, and pet grooming places. Does the entire state of Missouri take their pets to Joplin for care? Are the good people of Joplin more pet-friendly than folks in the average Southern town? We will never know.

We also drove past mounds -- the ancient kind. The landscape in this part of the country is completely flat. You can see as far as the horizon with not a rise and, if it's farmland, hardly a tree. The distinctive shapes of the mounds really stand out. We saw one that was tiered; you could clearly see three levels, like a ziggurat.

Leaving Joplin, we saw a small mound, on top of which there was a sculpture of two giant praying hands. The inscription: Hands In Prayer, World In Peace. I guess we're not praying enough. Pretty disgusting to do that to an ancient site.

Incomplete list

I remembered two more US states I haven't been in: West Virginia and Kentucky. I also missed a country (Wales) and recorded a city (Brussels) for a country (Belgium); thanks to wmtc readers mkk and Wally the 24 for catching those. 

I updated that post; I think I've got all the states now. And I think the list may now be permanent, but who knows. 

A free day leads us to many wonders

In the morning, in the cozy little Airbnb in KC, we looked for something to do on the way to St. Louis. We had a full day and didn't want to just hang around in a hotel room. But what was available? Let's see.

America's National Churchill Museum? Yep, it's a museum about Winston Churchill. Nope.

Harry S. Truman birthplace? Nope.

The Nicholas-Beazley Aviation Museum, "one of the preeminent museums in Marshall, MO"? Nope. And just how many museums are there in Marshall, Missouri? We will never know.

We found mentions of a scenic drive through Jefferson City, the state capital, and I wanted to tour Meramec Caverns, a commercial cave site outside St. Louis. Allan didn't think he wanted to go, but he was willing to drive there for me. He did end up going on the cave tour, and thank goddess he did. If he didn't experience it for himself, he might not have believed me. 

Jefferson City

Jefferson City also has a nice downtown, with upscale cafés and boutique stores. The capitol building resembles a smaller version of the US capitol, surrounded by gardens and various statues, near the large brick governor's mansion. There was a Little Free Library that looked like a miniature governor's mansion. We walked around a little, and read some historic markers. 

There is a marker about Missouri's role in the Civil War, which was complicated. The state didn't secede, but it made some concessions to the Confederacy to placate the slave powers. There is also a big stone Ten Commandments. Separation of church and state much?

We saw a sculpture group commemorating the Lewis and Clark expedition. It includes York, the only Black person on the expedition -- Clark's slave. I'm guessing the monument was controversial when it was installed (too honest) and I wonder if it will survive.

In the Museum of Western Expansion (under St. Louis' Gateway Arch), we learned that York begged Clark to allow him join his wife, who was enslaved on a plantation. Clark repeatedly refused. Here's how the National Park Service describes York.

A fronteirsman, hunter, and likely the first African American to cross the continent, York was an American explorer who made important contributions to the Lewis and Clark Expedition. He was enslaved by Captain William Clark and after the expedition's return was denied his payment and his freedom.

To my mind, that's an honest and concise description, that makes York's contributions visible, honouring him, and brings a bit of non-heroic truth to the legend of Lewis and Clark. 

By contrast: as I was writing this, I looked online to find a link, and found this on the "Visit Missouri" tourism site.

The plaza includes statues of Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, York (Clark’s man-servant), George Druillard (French-Canadian-Shawnee hunter and interpreter) and Seaman (Lewis’s Newfoundland dog), plus a journal, telescope, guns and hats. [emphasis added]

Clark's man-servant??? My head is exploding! This "man-servant" was owned by the famous explorer. Back in Tulsa, on the Greenwood Rising building, there is a quote from James Baldwin.

Not everything that can be faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.

Leave it to James Baldwin to nail it so concisely. 

I'm going to email Missouri Tourism to complain.

One store, two minds blown

Driving south from Jefferson City, I saw a store -- "Dutch Bakery" -- and asked Allan to turn in. Always happy when I suggest a bakery, Allan was glad to do so. Maybe we could get some freshly baked goodies.

We headed for the cookies, then started to look around. Oh. My. God. What is this place??

It is huge. It is enormous. It is humungous. It is the largest store I have ever seen.

Do you see the image in this post? That is of one side of one aisle, about one third of the length of the wall. All candy. I paced it out: 20 paces. Not heel to toe, actual paces which are about one meter (three feet) each. 

Every combination you can think of. Almonds in milk chocolate, almonds in dark chocolate, almonds in milk chocolate and caramel, almonds in dark chocolate and caramel, then the whole thing again with peanuts, then with raisins, then with coffee beans. Then with yogurt coating. With strawberry yogurt, blueberry yogurt, and on and on and on. Then a sugar-free section. And maybe 15-20 bags of each of these varieties -- and the bags are heavy and generous.

Opposite the candy, saltwater taffy. Saltwater taffy in 15 different flavours, alone and in combos. Jelly beans. 20, 30, 40 different kinds of jellybeans. And this is just one aisle.

I said, "Oh man, my mother would love this. If she were here, she'd never stop talking about it!"

To which Allan replied, "I'll never stop talking about it!"

I suspected that the "Dutch" in the title referred to Amish or Mennonites. I saw some young women working, and their dress and head-covering confirmed it. Allan saw a sign that said, "Modest dress is appreciated."

Allan retrieved my phone from the car and started taking pictures. (The camera would have been too much.) I think he took more pictures of the Dutch Bakery than of Cahokia. Aisles of grains, aisles of rice, aisles of dried fruit. It just went on and on.

No advertising. No brands. Every bag has a label: product, ingredients, unit price, weight, price. And the prices were ridiculously, insanely low.

The deli had 20 hams on display. A city block of cheese. There were picnic tables, and several seniors were having lunch, ordering from a menu of 15-20 different sandwiches.

All things considered, we were very restrained: a small bag of ginger molasses cookies, saltwater taffy (which, once started, I cannot stop, so must limit access!), and chocolate-covered espresso beans. At the checkout, I told the cashier (who was in traditional Amish dress) how much we loved the store. She was very pleased, so I continued, telling her we have never seen a store like this. 

"What? Never? You're not from here, then?"

"We're from Canada."

"Oh, Canada, that’s why. In the US, stores like this are everywhere. Anywhere there are -- "she paused a little, I tried to make her comfortable -- "anywhere there are Mennonites." 

"There are many Mennonites in Canada, especially in the province of Manitoba. Maybe they have stores like this there." She seemed not to know what I was talking about. That could be girls' education in the Mennonite community -- although I shouldn't make assumptions based on this extremely small sample size!

I enthused some more, and we thanked each other. 

I don't know, one day we might stop talking about this store. Anything is possible.

day 13: kansas city: baseball and barbecue

Last night, after Allan came back from Gardner's, we weren't in the mood for much of anything, but we did need to eat dinner. I looked up restaurants in the suburban area we were staying in, Sand Springs. I found a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop/diner kind of place, and we got there before they closed. 

It was like something out of another era -- very basic. The server asked me, "What can I get for ya, baby?" and by the time I left had called me baby, sweetheart, and hon -- the trifecta. I had fried chicken and mashed potatoes. I was happy. 

On the way there, we passed what appeared to be a huge castle. Yes, a castle. I thought it must be a resort of some kind. On the way back, we found it again, pulled off to the side, and Allan took pictures. It is actually two huge castles, connected to each other. Outside, there's a dragon and a Pegasus. Spider-Man looks out from a turret. But there was no business sign, and it appeared to be a private residence. We tried to drive around it, but sure enough: a gate. 

When we got back, I looked it up. A family remodeled their home into a castle. Everyone on the thread I found loved it and thought it was beautiful. Not one person was ragging on them or declaring it ugly and wasteful. Hmm.

Eating like an American

We were up really early this morning, went out for breakfast, then hit the road for Kansas City. 

We went to a breakfast chain that might be featured in some story about how badly Americans eat, how outsized the portions are, how much fat and salt is in everything. It's called The Big Biscuit -- and let me tell you, the food was delicious. 

When we walked in, the server gave me a flower -- a long-stemmed carnation -- and I suddenly remembered it was Mothers' Day. 

I decided to eat something typically Southern that I've never had: chicken and biscuits. It's a piece of fried chicken fillet on a big, buttery biscuit, with a touch of chicken gravy. It comes with cheese, too, but I asked for no cheese. 

Even your choice of side -- potatoes or grits -- can come plain or "loaded". Loaded means more cheese, plus sour cream and bacon. (I did not go for the loaded.) 

It's completely ridiculous. I'm sure I had enough salt for the entire week in that one meal. And you know what? I don't really care. Two weeks out of my life eating too much meat and fried food will not make a difference in my overall health. It won't be long til I'm back to eating salad, yogurt, and dried fruit.

I ate half, and was happy to have the other half on the drive back to Kansas City.

Red Sox vs Royals

I've always wanted to go to Kauffman Stadium. It's of the same generation as Dodger Stadium, which I love. Plus I had this "see a game in KC and eat at Stroud's" plan. I was excited to fulfill the other half of that little dream.

We got there plenty early, and it's a good thing, because security wouldn't let us in with my tote bag and our camera bag. You can only bring in clear plastic bags, with clear plastic bags inside them. Which explained all the clear plastic totes I was seeing, and why most people were just holding their phones in their hands.

We had to go back to the car, baking in the very hot parking lot, and regroup. Allan was annoyed because the rules seemed to be applied inconsistently. I think parents with diaper bags get waved in. Allan wondered if we could borrow someone's baby and say it was our grandchild. I was able to bring in my small pouch with my phone, and we took the camera out of the bag. We did not borrow anyone's baby, so I am not writing this from jail.

Kauffman Stadium is indeed a beautiful park -- very open and airy, small, unassuming, with that kitschy "crown" scoreboard and the iconic fountains. Their scoreboard is great (the one in St. Louis was awful) and the fans seem happy and knowledgeable. Allan got us great seats for both games, right behind first base. A vendor came around with vodka lemonade, my favourite. The Red Sox, a new baseball park, great seats, a cold drink, and Allan. Happiness. 

I assume that our sitting through the national anthem and God Bless America, as we have always done, drew huge disapproval, but Midwesterners are too polite to say anything. There were tons of Red Sox fans there! More than a smattering, a really decent showing. My man Rafael Devers hit a 2-run homer to put the Sox up 3-1. Despite the best efforts of Sox closer Aroldis Chapman, the Sox held on for the win. We had a great time.

It was about 27 C / 80 F, bright blue, cloudless, and we had no shade, but plenty of sunscreen. We also now bring seat cushions. We got these cushions with handles -- ordered them from Canadian Tire on our way to a minor-league game last year -- and they are fantastic. A ballgame without back pain, what a concept. Yeah, I'm old, and I'm owning it. 

The Lefties

I was wearing a t-shirt from The Lefties, the minor-league team we saw play in Port Angeles, in Washington State. I was wearing it just because it's loose-fitting and comfortable, and baseball. 

A man came trotting up to us, calling, "Excuse me, excuse me, ma'am?" I stopped, and he said, "Can I ask you, what are The Lefties?" I told him, it's a minor league baseball team in Washington State. He said, "It's a real team?" I said, yes, it sure is. He said, "That is awesome, wow, how cool!" (I thanked him for not attacking me because of the name, but he didn't seem to understand what I meant.)

Then he looked at the shirt more and said, "Is that a beaver?" I said, yes, I think so, and he said that made a lot of sense, from Washington State. 

He also asked, what level baseball. I had to think for a moment, but came up with, "It's an independent team, right?" -- checking with Allan -- and then said, "Yes, independent, part of the Pacific Coast League." (Turns out it's West Coast League.) The guy said, "Oh wow, that's even better, serious baseball fans, then!" He wished us a great game and a happy Mothers' Day and seemed truly pleased. 

Barbecue's last stand

After the game, we made our way back to the same Airbnb, which is suddenly a lot more spacious, since we only brought in what we need for one night, and left everything else in the car. We were both drenched with sweat, and a shower and clean clothes felt heavenly. Then we went out for one last night of barbecue. Our first choice, Joe's Kansas City BBQ, is closed Sundays, so we went with Slaps. 

When we got there, a long line of people was snaking through the place and out the door. (You can drink beer while you wait. We did not.) You order at a counter, where one guy has a big cleaver and prepares your choice of meat, and another one ladles your sides. Then you bring your tray to a picnic table. You pick up styrofoam plates and plastic utensils! The least green place I have ever eaten it -- and it's especially disturbing, since no one recycles here. Cans and bottles only. In Tulsa, not even that! Everything just chucked!

Anyway, aside from the shocking waste, the place is great. Super low-key and plain, the very definition of unpretentious, everyone eating at picnic tables, and just chowing down on great food. The ribs were different than others we've had, and completely delicious. The beans were drenched in molasses, absolute heaven. We ordered about twice as much as we should have. It easily could have fed four people, and it was only $43.

Now we're two sleeps away from puppies! 

day 12: tulsa: greenwood rising, plus more street art

This morning we opted not to wake up early to stand in line for baked goods, choosing a slower morning over local colour. We didn't even fulfill our alternate intention of getting downtown before the Mayfest crowds. But we did check off everything on our list for the day. 

I bought the fish

Back in the Tulsa Arts District, we walked around the festival for a bit and got some food. I showed Allan the art I fell in love with the day before. Fortunately I came to my senses and did not buy something that cost more than my monthly mortgage payment purely for esthetic purposes. 

We saw some smaller (and less expensive) pieces, and were chatting a bit with the artist. He asked where we were visiting from, and upon hearing "Canada," he brought up the political situation in the US, practically out of nowhere. I was really surprised. People are not talking about it with strangers. I tread carefully at first, feeling him out, and quickly learned he was a good guy. We had a good talk, but it was very unexpected. 

And then... I bought the fish. The bottlecap fish I posted yesterday. I have plans for a grouping of a colourful wooden fish we bought in Oaxaca about a million years ago, a replica Gaudi (Park Guell) lizard, a colourful wooden streetscape from St. John's (Newfoundland), and this fish. 

I can well understand why Tulsa has this annual festival in May. It was 78 F / 25 C early in the day, heading for the 85 F / 29 C. Shade was at a premium. 

We found the murals

We found all the Arts District murals, which includes the one pictured here. In case you don't know: the date is "Bloomsday," the day that James Joyce's famous novel Ulysses takes place; the YES! is from the book's famous ending; the glasses are Joyce's; and the glass is that iconic Irish beverage: a pint of Guinness.

I look forward to posting pics of all the murals on Flickr. It's quite a collection. 

Greenwood lives

We left the festival for the Greenwood District, again less than a 10 minute walk. Greenwood is the location of the former "Black Wall Street," the thriving Black community that was the site of one of the most shameful moments in US history, the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. The neighbourhood has been rebuilt, but was destroyed all over again, cut up and cut off by a highway. What wasn't destroyed by bullets and fire was later destroyed by so-called urban renewal.

We found and shot more murals, then went to Greenwood Rising, a museum about the Black experience in Tulsa, focusing on the massacre. It was truly excellent -- very interactive, very strong and honest, emotionally gripping (how could it not be), but with a focus on resiliency and hope. 

The story is a nightmare. If it was fiction it would be too wildly unbelievable; people would say the author laid it on too thick. 

Black people came to Oklahoma to escape Jim Crow. In Oklahoma, Native Americans (most of them there through forced relocation), white people, and Black people were living in relative peace and cooperation. Then oil was discovered, and white people came to claim it in large numbers. One of their first order of business was to pass a whack of Jim Crow laws.

Blacks were only allowed to live in one part of town. They couldn't go to white schools, visit white doctors or dentists, go to a white barbershop. So, as in so many American cities, Black people built an alternative universe, a Black one. Greenwood was a vibrant, thriving place that came to be known as the Negro Wall Street. And the success of that community ate away at the dominant white establishment.

A group of Black men came to the courthouse to try to prevent a lynching. Any time a young Black male was accused of "assaulting" a white woman (which could mean he didn't lower his head and look away as she passed, or didn't do that fast enough, or almost anything else), townspeople would storm the jail, drag the man out, and lynch him. This was happening all over the south, in great numbers. In Greenwood, men were determined to prevent that.

The Black men gathered, some of them armed. The idea of this so outraged white people, that they attacked the Black crowd, and then -- vastly outnumbering the Black residents -- visited a deadly pogrom on Greenwood. They shot anyone they saw, no matter their gender or age. They looted the shops and houses. And they burned down the entire community. Burned to the ground.

And then... The wild, murderous lawlessness was blamed on the victims, and publicized as an "uprising". Survivors were forced into internment camps and needed passes and permission to leave.  Tulsa never acknowledged what happened, and no reparations were made. After much agitation, this finally changed in 2020.

I really appreciated the strong, honest language used in the exhibits. For example, the Ku Klux Klan is very rightly called a "domestic terrorist group". I think most Americans have a different mental image of terrorism, but Black Americans have always lived under the threat of terrorism, whether that was the auction block, slave catchers, lynching, or racist policing.

Books and more books

The museum was a very emotional experience. After, we went next door to Fulton Street Books and Coffee, to decompress. They have an excellent collection of books on Greenwood and antiracism, along with some queer titles. 

On the way back to the car, we ducked into Magic City Books, to confirm how many Greenwood-related titles they had on display. I had guessed 12, and Allan thought I was exaggerating or misremembering. Guess what? There were 22 titles! I will update that post.

Because I bought the Bottlecap Fish, I did not buy the graphic novel about Woody Guthrie's Dustbowl Ballads. I believe I am owed a medal for my restraint.

Allan dropped me at the Airbnb, then headed off to find Gardner's Used Books, Oklahoma's biggest bookstore. I spent a few hours on the lovely, shaded deck, reading, writing, and relaxing. 

Our trip is almost over. Still to come: the Red Sox at Kansas City, the John Brown Historic Site (which we learned about on the drive to Tulsa), and one more barbecue dinner. Then we drive to St. Louis, stay one night at an airport motel, maybe eat more Mexican food. May 13 is a very long travel day, then... puppies!! We can't wait to see them. 

day 11: tulsa: archives, street festival, and street art

One of Tulsa's most famous murals,
of one of its most famous sons.

Yesterday was Allan's second day in the Dylan archives. He loved the experience, and was sad that it was over. He actually said he's trying to focus on how fortunate he is to have been here, something he never thought he would do, and not how short the time was, and all the things he didn't see. That's a Big Thing for Allan. Well done.

We headed to the downtown early. After Allan went off to the archives, I did something I always like to do when I'm not in Port Hardy: get a mani-pedi! It was lovely. I've been considering taking a break from sightseeing to have a spa day, but for various reasons opted not to. But a bit of time making my hands and feet look and feel better was very nice.

Art that I loved and more amazing pizza from a truck

When I was finished, the Mayfest booths and food trucks were open for business, and people were starting to mill around. I did a full circuit to see every art or craft booth. There was lots of the usual suspects -- the standard pottery, jewelry, and woodworking, lots of shlock, and a few real knock-outs. The first booth I saw totally knocked me out: Hill Brin Design. I fell in love with this piece, and I knew Allan would love it, too.

This is well out of our price range. We're talking four times as much as we can reasonably spend, even on something very special. Yet I was seriously considering rationalizing the expense, thinking about how we could ship it to our family in Oregon, and retrieve it on our next road trip down there. I knew we shouldn't, yet I was already planning how I would make it work.

The other art I really enjoyed were these folk-art pieces, made of bottle caps and other found junk. I love playful work like this, and the fish motif is perfect for our coastal life. We might buy one of these. (Link to artist to follow.)

I also really enjoyed these metal sculptures. Plus the artist charmed me with his story of taking a workshop, falling in love with the teacher, now they're married and are making art and running a business together. (Link to artist to follow.)

After seeing every art and craft booth, and sampling some food trucks, I was done for the afternoon, with several hours to spare. I wanted to drive back to the Airbnb and sit on the shady deck and read, but with all the road closures for the festival, if I left, I'd never get back in. It was a hot day (not for Tulsa, but for me), very sunny, and there was very little shade. I sat in the car with all the windows open and read. Not ideal, but whatever.

Allan appeared right on time, because the archives closed and he had to leave. He was super excited about his experience. We headed straight back to Dante's Woodfire for dinner, the pizza was that good. The picnic table was not in use and was in the shade. 

Dante's is in a funky neighbourhood right above the highway. The previous day, we thought we must have bad directions -- maybe I punched in the wrong address? -- because the neighbourhood looks strictly low-income residential or industrial. This little pizza joint is a real treasure.

Murals, and a family scene (seen)

We went briefly back to the Airbnb to regroup and plan an art safari, to see some of Tulsa's famous murals. I love street art, and this whole city is dotted with murals. (A mural is visible from Dante's pizza truck.) We did some searching online, then dotted a paper tourism map with what we found, and set out to search. 

There is a high concentration of murals in the Arts District, but there was no point trying to do that with the street festival's first night going on. We parked slightly outside of the downtown, and found the murals in the Cathedral district, and the Blue Dome district. (Tulsa's "districts" are tiny areas, no more than a few square blocks.) It was a beautiful clear night, and it was fun walking around looking for the art. 

Allan also spotted something even better. High up on a brick wall, above a famous mural, there was a hole -- the size of a missing brick -- and a little bird was perched in it, feeding her tiny chicks!

There were actually two adult birds, obviously a mating pair, flying in, perching in the hole, then flying out again, perching on some wires, looking around, and flying off. We could make out the teeny tiny heads (or maybe mouths) of the little ones inside the hole. The location was brilliant -- too high for humans, likely unseen by predators. Some weeds spilling out of the hole was the only clue that anything might be in the tiny space. We watched for a long time and took lots of pictures.

We found some great murals, including some of the most famous ones, like the Astronaut and Leon Russell. We hope to get the murals in the Arts District today, before the festival heats up. Also today: Greenwood Rising, and a used bookstore. 

day 10: tulsa: the rest of the centers, and hanging around while allan dives in

our newest fridge magnet

Both the Woody Guthrie and the Bob Dylan Centers house the official archives of both artists. Time in the archive is by application and appointment only. Allan applied in advance, and spent a lot of time figuring out what he would focus on in the two days we allotted for this. 

As I mentioned earlier, if it were possible, Allan would spend hours, days -- months -- combing through the Dylan archives. He is especially interested in the development of songs. The archives hold Dylan's famous notebooks and papers (sheets, scraps, many on hotel stationery) which reveal his creative process of working out song lyrics. 

Dylan famously changed and continues to change lyrics over time. For many songs, the version that lands on the album is a moment in time, the one version of the many that could have been included. In concert, Dylan will sing well-known songs in various ways. Live performances, both official and bootlegs, will always differ.

While I do find this interesting, I lack the patience required to comb through and compare versions. I look at a page from a notebook with typing and handwriting, and think, this is interesting -- and move on. Allan is one of the diehards who takes the time to analyze and mentally chart the changes.

We headed into town early, and decided to meet back at the car. I returned to the Woody Center; the desk staff welcomed me back. I had missed a wall of audio that is paired with photographs, small sections available through touch-screens and headphones. It was actually a documentary about Woody broken up into bite-size pieces, a very smart technique. 

I visited the small gift shop, and was very disappointed that the t-shirt I had my heart set on is sold out in the size I need. The helpful staff suggested I keep an eye on it online, as they will re-stock it soon. I did get this nice tee, along with a fridge magnet for our collection. Most of the tees had messages of resisting fascism or standing up for equality. There was a great "all humans are equal" tee that interested me, but it was superimposed on the outline of the US map. 

Next stop, the Dylan Center, to see the current (non-permanent) exhibit, about Jesse Ed Davis. Davis was a Native American musician from Oklahoma, who was a great blues and rock guitarist. He is best remembered for playing with Taj Mahal, but he played with many country and rock greats. His career included the Rolling Stones' famous Rock and Roll Circus and the Concert for Bangladesh. If you're familiar with the guitar solo in Jackson Browne's song "Doctor My Eyes" -- that's Jesse Ed Davis. Davis died in 1988 from his heroin addiction. It was a really good exhibit, curated by the poet Joy Harjo. 

After that, I walked around the neighbourhood a bit, stopping into Magic City Books, a great independent bookstore owned the Tulsa Literary Collective. I felt like buying everything! Good thing we're flying. Front and center, there is a large local-interest section (speaking of Joy Harjo, there were signed copies of many of her books), and a whole section on the Tulsa Massacre. I was surprised at how many books have been written about it; there had to be at least 10 titles.

In the Arts District and on the Guthrie Green (the park in front of the Dylan/Guthrie Centers), trucks and booths were being set up for Tulsa Mayfest. I feel like I should be excited we're in town for this, and I once would have been. Now a street festival just feels like noise, crowds, and mediocre music. 

I hung around and read while I waited for Allan. He emerged shortly after 4:30, not having moved once -- not to eat or get a water, not even to pee -- the entire day. He had spent the whole day hand-copying pages with a pencil, the only method allowed in most archives, including this one. It was fun hearing about his experience communing with Dylan's papers. 

We stopped at Caz's for a thirst-quencher, then drove in search of Dante's Woodfire, a funky pizza joint working out of a truck. The guys in the truck were super nice and friendly -- and the pizzas were incredible. Really some of the best we've ever had. We ate at a picnic table, and took our leftovers home in this box decorated by one of the cooks, their "resident artist". It's a slice of pizza riding a gorilla.

The Dante's chef told us about a local bakery called Country Bird. It's open four hours a week; its mission is "storytelling through baked goods". A line forms more than an hour before opening. The Dante's guy suggested we order one of everything.

Today, May 9, is Cookie Day! The day my little golden oreo joined our family. We miss the dogs so much! 

day 9: tulsa: a full day with woody and dylan

Both the Woody Guthrie Center and the Bob Dylan Center are closed Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays, which figured in to the complicated planning of this vacation. Now, with the trip more than half over, we have finally arrived at our main focus. We have been thoroughly enjoying ourselves so far, but these were the days we were most anticipating.

The Woody Guthrie Center

We started in the Woody Guthrie Center, feeling the two museums were best experienced chronologically. I don't know how Allan waited, being so close to the Bob Dylan Center, but not going. But we had decided we would do the two museums together -- we would normally separate and each move at our own pace -- so he had to be patient.

The Woody Guthrie Center begins with a short documentary narrated by Steve Earle, situating Woody in history, but focusing mainly on his enduring influence. Various artists spoke about how his life and work influenced him, some obvious people, others not as much -- Billy Bragg, Ani DiFranco, Tom Morello, Springsteen, someone who I think was Boots Riley. It was very well done, and for me, it was very emotional, listening to people articulate what I also feel. 

The exhibits are beautifully presented, more thematic than chronological, and very interactive. 

There's a fantastic display of Woody's drawings and paintings, reproduced on metal tiles. Like Joni Mitchell (and to a lesser extent, Dylan), Woody was as much a visual artist as a musical artist. We both noted how many different styles Woody used -- playful cartoons, swathes of colour, line drawings reminiscent of Picasso, using lettering as art. Of course he had no formal training in art of any kind; it just poured out of him.

The Center's website lists this as the permanent collection:

* 15-minute introductory film to the life of Woody Guthrie and his influences looped throughout the day in the center’s theater 

* Woody’s Footsteps interactive timeline wall that follows his travels from Okemah, Oklahoma, to Pampa, Texas, then on to Los Angeles and New York

* The Dust Bowl area where visitors can learn more about the era and its effect on Woody through a Dust Bowl virtual reality experience, view an excerpt from Ken Burns’ documentary, and listen to Woody’s Dust Bowl Ballads 

* Woody’s America interactive map that includes information about Woody’s life, music history, as well as Oklahoma, U.S., and world history 

* Music Bar for listening to Woody’s recorded songs 

* Lyric Journal of Woody’s lyrics according to selected topics 

* Lyric Writing Station for composing an original verse to a song and submitting to the database 

* Exhibits and videos of artists who continue Woody’s tradition of writing what they see 

* The original handwritten lyrics of “This Land is Your Land” and videos of others’ renditions of the song 

*Woody’s fiddle, guitar, banjo, and mandolin

The interactive map was fantastic. It's a smart-board map of the United States, dotted with details from Woody's drawings -- a guitar, a man, a train, and so on. You tap on a moving icon to see and hear information about Woody in that part of the country. It's a very clever and engaging piece, emphasizing his travels and the different phases of his life -- Oklahoma, Texas, California, New York.

The current (non-permanent) exhibit was about hip-hop. I'm glad it's there, exposing visitors (especially older folks) to hip-hop as a form of folk music. The blues museum in St. Louis did this, too. But it wasn't much of an exhibit. There was one interesting section on artists taking control of their own music, which has been an issue for Black-created music from the earliest days of the recording industry. Other than that, it was mostly memorabilia.

I overheard staff tell visitors the whole museum takes about an hour to experience, but I think one hour would be a very cursory visit. The staff are awesome -- so friendly and knowledgeable -- and very young and hip. Also, the Center is hiring; there's a full-time archivist position posted. In some alternate reality, Allan would have the credentials to apply, and we'd end up moving to Oklahoma for his dream job.

We spent a couple of hours there, really soaking it in, then went for lunch. The Centers are in Tulsa's Arts District, which is actually the former site of Greenwood, the so-called Black Wall Street, where the infamous pogrom and massacre (not "race riot"!) took place. We don't usually go out for both lunch and dinner, but I wasn't able to plan anything else, and an extra meal out is not going to break the bank. We ate at Chowhouse. Like everywhere we've been so far, the food and the service was great. Even more than in Kansas City, folks speak with a pronounced twang, and everyone says "ma'am". In a non-ironic way. 

The Bob Dylan Center

After lunch, it was time for Bob! This museum also begins with a very good film, presented as an immersive experience, with images on all sides of the room, a walk-through of Dylan's life and career. (That is, his career so far. Dylan is still writing his own story.) 

The permanent exhibit at the Dylan Center is organized two ways -- a chronological outer ring, with thematic displays in the middle. Visitors get an iPod and headset for an augmented reality experience. Throughout the exhibit, there are markers: you hold your iPod to the marker to hear audio related to that section. Really nicely done.

The sheer scope and breadth of Dylan's work continually amaze me. I am in awe. I'm willing to bet that most people who enjoy some of Dylan's music actually have no idea how much he's done -- how many different kinds of music he's made, how many different people he has been. Frankly, if it weren't for Allan, I wouldn't know either. Like most fans, I would have stopped listening to Dylan at a certain point in his career, and been totally unaware of anything after that point.

As with any important artist whose work spans many decades, there are going to be clunkers along the way. An artist should always be evolving and trying new things, and not everything is going to work. That is, or should be, a hallmark of any great musician. It doesn't matter to me that I don't love all of Dylan's music. I love enough of it, and for the rest, I'm glad it's there.

Dylan's creative restlessness, his hunger to explore and expand, is almost unparalleled. Joni, too, has that restless creativity, but her movement from one musical place to the next is more studious and controlled, where Dylan's is a flood. 

In the museum, there was so much that I had never seen or heard before. The thematic displays in the middle were especially engaging, focusing on specific songs or sounds. In this image, you can see the thematic displays identified by the blue vertical title markers. 

Towards the end of the Dylan display, I was flagging. There is only so much information you can take in, plus being on my feet for so long was not pleasant. Many of the exhibit groupings include little seats (worked into the design), and I took advantage of many of them! I benefit from little micro-breaks. Even 30 seconds or one minute of rest will help, so I did that frequently. 

We purposely budgeted multiple days for the two centers, knowing when we finally made it here, we would want lots of time. It's wonderful to see Allan enjoy himself so much. I remember feeling (and writing) that during our trip to Egypt. I'm having a great time, but it's even better seeing that he's having such a great time, too.

Our old friend thin-crust pizza, where have you been

Eventually we pulled ourselves away. I was in dire need of a caffeine break. I thought we'd go back to the Airbnb for tea, then come back to town for dinner, but we decided to cut down on driving. Googling, I found a promising-looking cafe in the Cherry Street district, then stupidly spent too much money, caffeine, and sugar on some frothy iced drink, and felt awful. Bah. But we had a good rest, while Allan searched for dinner. (Somehow I keep hearing, "...having to be scrounging your next meeeeallll..."!)

Allan is in charge of finding and choosing dinner every night for the rest of the trip. In KC, we went back to the same barbecue restaurant so I could have the lamb ribs. Allan really didn't want to, but did that for me, so I said for the rest of the trip we would eat anywhere he wanted, every night. Total win-win: I'll enjoy any place he picks out, and I won't have to make decisions.

One thing Allan loves that we can't get at home (and really haven't had much since leaving New York) is thin-crust, wood-fired pizza. It seems this is known as New York-style pizza here. (Everywhere?) We went to East Village Bohemian. Allan had a quattro formaggio, and I had fig-and-goat cheese. Both were very good, and I would have said both were excellent... until the pizza we had the next night.

This is as good a place as any to note that we have been constantly amazed at parking on this trip. Yes, parking. Everywhere we go, in all three cities, parking is free or almost free, and plentiful. It's very strange. Allan keeps thinking the spots are illegal, because how could such convenient parking exist? (Being amazed at parking: is this the final phase in officially being old?)