day 7: kansas city: in which another public library blows me away

Newsflash: Kansas City is a hidden gem. This is actually a really cool city, and I would love to spend more time here. This is totally unexpected!

We had a slow morning (I let Allan sleep until after 10) and we really didn't get out until early afternoon. We drove downtown, intending to see the big central library, Union Station, and the Kauffman Center for the Arts -- which we did, but not in the way we were expecting.

The library

The "community bookshelf" at KCPL is actually
the facade of a parking garage.

The Kansas City Public Library's central branch. Oh. My. God. I could not believe it. I freaked out over Seattle's Central Library, but I expected that. Kansas City was a total surprise. With the exception of Seattle -- a much bigger city -- this is the greatest library I have ever seen. 

First of all, the famous "book spine" facade is not the library: it's a parking garage. It's beautiful and inventive, and we took lots of pictures. There's a good story about it here. 

But the library itself is housed in a huge bank building, with soaring ceilings, and so much space. We wandered around the beautiful ground floor, thinking we were seeing the library. Then I introduced myself as a visiting librarian to a lovely librarian at the desk, and asked if she had a map or a floor plan. And that's when all the fun began.

Kansas City Public Library's Central Branch

She gave me: a map of the library (a full page, double-sided), a hardcover book Kansas City's Public Library: 150 Years, a big magazine-style Kansas City visitor's guide, and a KCPL-branded pamphlet for a self-guided trolley history tour of downtown KC, and let me choose stickers to bring back for kids. I loved that she said, Feel free to say you don't want any of these. So librarian. 

Then she gave me a capsule history of the KCPL Central Branch -- which recently celebrated 20 years in this incredible building. The old Central Library was in terrible condition, and the bank building was empty, slated for demolition. A negotiation began... and the KCPL got the bank building, with a lot of stipulations about how the exterior and the space could not be changed. She told me about the library's main features, including, "As a librarian, you probably have an interest in the children's area?". They have a "adults with kids only" policy, and suggested I introduce myself as a visiting librarian when I'm up there.

One-hour parking is free with library validation, but she said one hour is not nearly enough, and validated us for the whole day. She said we can go off and see whatever we want in the downtown, our parking is covered until 10 pm. 

I found Allan drooling over some huge Bob Dylan book. And there we were thinking he was in the adult nonfiction section! Nope, just the popular, first-floor collection. From there, we went on a tour. We saw:

* A main floor with a soaring 35-foot-high ceiling, a very decent-sized adult fiction and nonfiction section, a media centre with public-access computers and tablets, a beautiful café, an art gallery, the "chairman's office," (a gorgeous, old-fashioned space left intact from when it was a bank), and all kinds of fun stuff, like a "propagation station," where customers can grow indoor plants;

* The vault -- the bank's vault -- which has been converted into a movie theatre, using a grant from AMC, whose founder was from Kansas City. I'm talking a beautiful, spacious, plush 30-seat movie theatre, where free movies are shown, along with the DVDs, the film-related collection, and a Zine-making station for customers;

* One floor with a huge, beautiful auditorium for rentals or public meetings, currently with an enormous, multi-wall display of how a Black neighbourhood organized to fight being destroyed by a highway -- a powerful grassroots organizing story, hidden history.

* That floor houses a huge, beautiful, special collection of Kansas City and Missouri history. It was so spacious, they could house a huge collection and never need to weed. There was information about every aspect of Kansas City, Missouri, Midwest, and Western-expansion history you can think of, from the most traditional to the most radical, plus genealogy, and a whole separate collection available by request (not browsing) for research. 

Here, Allan found the Negro Leagues Baseball collection that should have been in the museum gift shop.

* A floor with an adult fiction and nonfiction collection that stretches for two entire city blocks. It just keeps going and going. The baseball section alone was larger than the nonfiction collection in one of my libraries. (I was so sad that they didn't have either of Allan's books. It seemed like they were the only baseball books not there. Seriously, that is heartbreaking.) 

* That floor also has a reading room with large, spacious tables with lamps and outlets, and study rooms for public use -- and more 35-foot, soaring ceilings, and tons of natural light. It is an absolutely beautiful space.

* Another art gallery, with (among other things) paintings by Degas and John Singer Sargent.

* A children's floor with enormous spaces for storytimes and other programs (which will often draw 75 or more people), and a separate teen area about the size of the Port Hardy Library, with computers, makerspaces, a sink and fridge. The biography section for kids and teens was the size of Port Hardy's entire picture-book collection.

I had a great talk with the children's library manager, who gave me a building-wide scavenger hunt, which they turned into a colouring book, a history of the librayr system, and more information about the trolley tour, which she and another librarian created. 

We gabbed and gabbed about libraries. She said visiting librarians, and everyone at library conferences, is always jealous of KCPL and her enormous budget and staff. She has three full-time professional librarians and three other library workers -- and that's just for children and teens. (Her office used to be a closet; the walls were covered with fun stuff. She apologized for her office, which of course made me laugh-sob, because I don't have an office.)

She told me that originally, the library board didn't want children in the library! They were going to turn the vault -- a basement with no windows -- into the children's area. Librarians and parents advocated and they won an entire floor.

There was another librarian there, too, and they both loved that I serve remote communities in Canada. (It seems I have finally shed my imposter syndrome.)

* An aside: I'm pretty sure we were being discreetly trailed by a security guard the entire time we were in the building, a man wearing khakis and a white polo shirt, with a walkie-talkie. I saw him speaking with a young woman dressed the same way, just walking around. 

The transit

We somehow managed to drag ourselves out of the library, both of us blown away. I took out the map of the self-guided history tour, which is meant to be experienced by trolley, but couldn't find any information about fares and how to pay. So I googled it, and was blown away all over again: it's free. Free transit in the downtown core. 

And there it was: a clean, spacious, quiet, wheelchair-accessible trolley. Arriving every 10-12 minutes. Fare-free. Oh. My. God.

The Kauffman Center, Union Station, and some other downtown sites

We got off the trolley at the Kauffman Center, which is akin to New York's Lincoln Center. It's an enormous performing arts complex, and reading about it online, it sounds like a truly world-class centre. The building, however, is a monstrosity. It was designed by famed Canadian architect and urban planner Moshe Safdie. I'm sure it's one of those love-it-or-hate-it buildings. 

Back on the trolley, we went to Union Station, another restored space that was slated for demolition -- apparently several times. It's a beautiful, old train station with a big vaulted ceiling and Victorian-era chandeliers, now home to upscale dining, some exhibit space, and retail, along with Amtrak and suburban transit lines. From there, you can see the enormous and hideous National WWI Museum and Memorial, which looks like a gigantic smokestack, dominating a hill, visible from practically everywhere. 

One of our hosts and their dogs

We took the trolley back to our car, had some trouble getting out of the parking garage, but eventually made it, with help from a friendly employee.

Back at the house, we ran into one half of the Airbnb host couple, Justin and Aaron, and their two dogs. After we parked, we jumped out of the car to say hi, and say, "Dogs, dogs, we want to say hi to the dogs!" Dolly and Liza came bounding out, Justin apologizing for their jumping. The dogs were so sweet, and we (mostly Allan) played with them while we (mostly I) spoke with Justin, about their lovely space and the great surprise of Kansas City. 

Justin said, "Kansas City is a hidden gem. People are always surprised, they think it's a cowtown and are amazed at how vibrant it is." He said KC will host six games of the next World Cup. (I didn't remember the Super Bowl, but did remember Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.) 

He told us more about the barbecue scene, which Allan has researched, and their house. I had suspected they did all the reno of the basement Airbnb space themselves, and I was right. (They had to dig more of a foundation to make the ceilings taller -- that's why the floors are uneven.)

I asked if there was barbecue in Tulsa, and he said dismissively, "Probably, I guess. But not as good," sounding more like a New Yorker than I do these days. Then backpedaled to be less mean to Tulsa, also like I would have done about some other, non-New York place. Sweet.

I heard the lamb ribs call my name

On the downtown trolley, we decided to go back to Jack Strap for dinner. Allan wanted to try a different place, but no one else has lamb ribs on the menu, and I had to have them again. Justin told us the carrot cake is fabulous -- they apparently lived on it, takeout, during covid -- but there is just no way to eat dessert at that place. The food is so good, and there is so much of it, plus we were drinking.

Today we drive to Tulsa and have a guided walking tour!

states, provinces, and countries i have visited

Canadian and other non-US readers might not realize that Kansas City is in the state of Missouri. There is also a small, less famous Kansas City in Kansas, just over the other side of the Missouri River. Two cities with the same name, in two different states.

Previous to this trip, I had never been in Missouri, and I have never been in Kansas or Oklahoma, so I'm checking off three states.

I've always wanted to visit all 50 US states and all 10 Canadian provinces -- but in vague way, never something that guided my choices. I've simply planned trips when and as we could afford them. I'm not into the "bucket list". There's just a looooong list of places I want to go, and I just do what I can. 

I'm now mentally letting go of the every-state goal. For example, we've never been to Texas. There has long been a great music scene in Austin, and we now have family there, a cousin of Allan's. And there are two Major League Baseball teams in Texas. But given time, money, dog-care, and climate-change, it is unlikely we will ever plan a trip to Texas -- although not impossible.

At the end of this trip, this is the list of US states I have not been in. Driving through counts, sitting in an airport does not.

Arkansas

Hawaii

Idaho

Montana

North Dakota

Texas

When I see how short that list is, it makes me want to plan more US travel! But I don't want a checklist to determine our precious travel time.

In Canada, I have not been to PEI, or any of the territories. Moving from Ontario to BC by car really helped this list! My experience in Nova Scotia was brief and unsatisfying -- I attended a union conference in Halifax, and had almost no time outside of a hotel -- but it was three days, so it counts. We spent three weeks in Newfoundland in 2007, and I visited the Bay of Fundy, in New Brunswick, as a child on a trip with my parents.

The list of countries (besides US and Canada) that I have visited is either very long or very short, depending on how well-traveled you are. I have colleagues who have never been outside of Canada or even the province. And I have friends, family, and colleagues who have traveled all over the world, way more extensively than I have. 

It's the same in my own mind. I cherish all the travel I've done, and wherever we went, we traveled widely, for at least a few weeks. And at the same time, this is a fraction of all the places I'd like to go. Both at the same time. Such is life. Countries I have been in:

Bermuda

Brussels

Egypt

England (several times)

France (several times)

Ireland

Italy (twice)

Jordan

Mexico (all over, not resort travel)

Peru

Spain

Switzerland

I'd like to see Cambodia, Greece, and Türkiye on this list, but given my age, finances, and priorities (such as not spending our retirement years in poverty), I'm fairly certain that won't happen. Although not completely ruling it out.

day 6: kansas city: the negro leagues baseball museum is great but has problems

Yesterday we took our time in the morning, then headed back out to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, housed in the same building as the American Jazz Museum. 

What was lost and why

Both jazz and Black baseball have some roots in Kansas City, along with many other US cities. Both museums, plus a display in the atrium between the two, emphasize that this neighbourhood -- called "18th & Vine" -- was the centre of a thriving Black community that, in a sense, was destroyed by integration, or at least de-segregation. That is certainly the story of the Negro Leagues, the Black press, and many other Black American institutions. It was the sad, ironic price of the successes of the civil rights movement.

To me, it sometimes seems like the nostalgia for those vibrant days doesn't adequately emphasize why these parallel Black institutions existed: because Black people were not allowed to participate in mainstream American life, and the penalty for attempting to do so -- for defying Jim Crow -- were severe, often fatal, and routinely visited on the entire Black community. No story provides stronger evidence of that than that of our next stop, Tulsa.

I can understand the nostalgia, especially considering how historically Black communities were neglected after de-segregation, with crappy schools and an almost total lack of services. And as a writer, I know that it's never easy to balance a story with "this, but that, too". Here at 18th & Vine, I feel there is too much "this" (it was beautiful then) and not enough "that" (it was unjust, and dangerous, and scary, and hideous).

The Negro Leagues Baseball Museum does a better job of that, since the sole reason for the Leagues' existence was racism. There is a good walk-through what the Negro Leagues were, why and how they developed, who the stars were, who organized and funded the teams, what conditions were like, and so on. But still, it begins with a short overview film (narrated by James Earl Jones), which concludes with something like "then Jackie Robinson made it and everything was grand". Even two more sentences of how long it took to actually integrate, how Black players were shut out of coach and manager positions, or the prejudice they faced in the earlier years, would have helped. You could write that and still end on a hopeful note of steady progress.

Negro Leagues Baseball Museum

The museum itself? Meh. In several places, glass display cases were blocking printed information, many objects on display were not identified at all, information was in the wrong chronological order, terms were not explained. It wasn't a total mess like the Egyptian museum in Cairo, but there were several instances of these missteps. People do love this museum, and I think most people wouldn't notice these things, but a professional organization shouldn't make these errors.

Socialism, feminism, and unionism -- or not

One excellent piece was an entire display, including an excellent short film, highlighting the work of Lester Rodney. Rodney was a sportswriter for the socialist newspaper The Daily Worker. Rodney made the fight to integrate baseball his fight, both in his writing and by organizing. Day after day, year after year, he called out baseball's racism, using many different tools, including pickets and petitions. At one point, he delivered more than 1.5 million signatures of fans to Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the racist commissioner of baseball who (along with racist team owners) was responsible for the ban on Black players continuing as long as it did. Rodney was a hero of the civil rights movement, and he was a socialist. Allan and I were both so happy to see him highlighted. 

There was a section on Black women in baseball, which was great. But did it have to be titled "The Beauty of the Game"?? I was horrified. 

While I'm complaining, would it kill historians to occasionally note the importance of trade unionism in these fights? In the early NLBM displays, there is a general timeline running parallel to the baseball information, to give the viewer a sense of what was happening in the larger country and civil rights movement, concurrent with the Negro Leagues. I was very pleased to see A. Philip Randolph and the Sleeping Car Porters there. But why not identify the first succesful Black-led labour union, or idntify Randolph as union leaders, or even use the word union at all? 

Connie Morgan, a Black, female ballplayer I had never heard of, apparently worked for the AFL-CIO -- which I only learned in a sentence saying she retired from that organization. Was Morgan a labour activist? We don't know, since apparently we don't talk about unions. 

The film in the 18th & Vine exhibit also highlighted the success of Black teachers and waiters, without ever mentioning that thrived through being organized. It highlighted the roles of social clubs and churches in organizing pickets and boycotts, but not the role of Black trade unions.

Gift shops without books!

The NLBM carries only shirts, hoodies, and caps, with a sad, tiny section of books -- a few titles, some copies damaged. The American Jazz Museum did only slightly better, with a nice display of children's books. But considering all the books on jazz that are out there, it still sucked. 

Allan said that on his first-ever visit to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, the gift shop offered a huge section of books. He had no money and literally spent his last dollars on a SABR publication -- even that was there. On his next visit to Cooperstown, when we went together in 1989, there were almost no books. This is very sad. Unforgiveable.

Neither of us wanted anything from the NLBM gift shop. At the AJM gift shop, I bought a great pair of earrings, and a collection of Ralph Ellison's writing on jazz, and Allan found a set of three bookmarks featuring the art of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Allan loves Basquiat and collects art bookmarks from everywhere we travel, so that was perfect.

The carnivore's vacation

After the museum, we spent a long time driving around looking for a grocery store (even with Google Maps) to replenish our supplies, then went back to the apartment so I could rest. We were still deciding which barbecue restaurant to try, but it turned out many had closed for the day or would be closed by the time we got there. 

We ended up at Jack Stack, a local chain. The menu, service, and food were all amazing. I had a combination plate with lamb ribs (I had no idea that such a thing existed in barbecue!) and baby backs; Allan had a combo of burnt ends, sausage, and spare ribs. The beans were rich and molassesy, and slaw was light and tangy. Naturally, half my dinner is in the fridge right now, waiting for my breakfast. But even Allan has leftovers waiting for him, from both Stroud's and barbecue. We also each had a "KC Lemonade," made with lemonade, blackberries, and vodka, a treat for us these days.

When we didn't order dessert, Allan said something about my being tempted by crème brûlée -- and with our check, the server brought us a crème brûlée packaged to go, on the house. Super nice!

I have not yet stubbed a toe

The Airbnb is working better now that I've figured out some of the accessibility issues. We decided to keep our one-night reservation here later in the trip, rather than cancel and book a hotel. We'll probably re-pack so we can bring fewer things down the steep steps.

Today is our day in Kansas City without the jazz and baseball museums. We're planning on seeing some buildings downtown, including the famous library, eating more barbecue, and possibly hearing live music tonight. 

I don't care about art museums unless there's a collection or a specific work or artist I want to see -- in which case I care hugely -- and no city on this trip qualifies. We don't enjoy zoos or aquariums, because animals, and we don't care about science centres. That automatically rules out a lot of sightseeing. But we do enjoy architecture, and walking around cities, and I wanted to make sure we saw a litle of KC.

Also on my list: a drive into Kansas City, Kansas, making this trip three states I had never visited -- Missouri, Oklahoma, and Kansas -- rather than two.

in which a 32-year-old desire is fulfilled: we eat at stroud's

In 1993 I read a story in the New York Times: a father and his young daughter ate at Stroud's, a Kansas City institution, known for pan-fried chicken, large portions, and a friendly, no-frills atmosphere. (The story is below.)

Stroud's sounded exactly like the kind of place I love -- the kind of place I imagined we'd stumble on during any of our road trips, but which have been mostly replaced by fast-food.  

I never forgot that story, especially a detail about a giant bowl of mashed potatoes (possibly my favourite food) and something about the daughter's eyes opening wide at the mountain of food in front of them. Anytime we would watch a game being played in Kansas City, I would mention Stroud's and wonder if it was still open.

Somewhere along the way, I also learned about ever more reasons to visit KC and Tulsa, which is very nearby. And I would think of Stroud's, and those mashed potatoes.

I'm not saying I was obsessed with Stroud's, but I never forgot it and always wanted to go. And yesterday, we did.

* * * *

There are two Stroud's locations, and we learned that neither is the original restaurant -- so I was a tad concerned that somehow it might no longer be quality or a local favourite. On the way there, I told Allan I was walking back my expectations, which he said was the natural state before realizing something one has long desired.

Then we arrived. The current Stroud's looks like a large house, like you're visiting relatives for dinner. The huge parking lot was packed, and people were waiting for tables. My expectations rose.

After leaving our name, we sat outside at one of the many picnic tables, and played word games on my phone to pass the time. We had eaten very little all day in anticipation of this meal, and were very hungry. After about a half-hour, we heard on the loudspeaker: Laura, party of two.

Inside were multiple rooms, countless tables, all with red-checked tablecloths, all sporting heaping platters of food. 

The menu is very simple. Most of it is pan-fried chicken, with a choice of all white meat, all dark meat, or mixed, or the chef's choice. There is also chicken-fried steak, chicken-fried chicken, and pork chops. Everything comes with a choice of soup or salad, a choice of potatoes, plus green beans and cinnamon rolls. 

I ordered all dark, Allan ordered all light. I didn't want chicken-noodle soup or salad, because I didn't want to waste my tiny appetite. The server offered a few other things, and I chose applesauce. Allan had the soup, and it was delicious -- rich and hearty, very chickeny, with short, thick noodles. The applesauce was also delicious -- obviously homemade without fillers or thickeners, with cubes of apples along with the pureed. We each had some, but I forced myself to stop eating.

All around us, people were digging into big platters and putting food in takeout containers. Many people ended the meal by picking up a basket of cinnamon rolls and sliding them into a takeout container. It was obvious that this is a very common thing to do.

Then came the main attractions. 

The chicken was light and crispy on the outside, moist and tender inside. What else can you say? It was perfect. It was the fried chicken of my dreams. 

The mashed potatoes were the old-fashioned kind: no skin, smooth, light, no frills, just a big bowl of awesome. 

There was also a rich chicken gravy. I don't normally eat gravy -- I don't really like sauces or dressings -- but I did taste some. It could have been a separate course, some kind of obscenely rich soup.

The only thing that was not tasty or even interesting was the green beans. They are cooked with meat, so they should be delicious, but they were soggy -- which I understand is the old-fashioned Southern way. But hey, it's not like we were there for the vegetables!

* * * *

Right before we ordered, I suddenly realized that I had no lactaids with me. I always carry them with me, and had bought a new pack only days earlier in St. Louis, having forgotten to pack them. At home, I keep lactaids in the car, so if we spontaneously have ice cream or whatever, I am prepared. I'm so used to having them in the car and in my bag that I never gave it another thought. Now I was anticipating mashed potatoes -- which might be made with cream or sour cream -- and might get instantly sick. 

Allan was so caring. He suggested we leave, go buy more lactaids, and get on the waiting list again. He suggested coming back another night. He suggested asking other diners if anyone had lactaids. I was thinking, women will ask other women for tampons and any woman will happily oblige -- but lactaids? I can't ask. I said I would just have to take a chance, but I was concerned. 

The answer: no reaction at all. This means the potatoes might be made with butter or whole milk, but there can't be cream or sour cream in them. 

* * * *

The food was just as I had imagined: simple, perfect, plentiful. Nothing fussy, nothing cheap, nothing updated.

I love all kinds of food, and have had the pleasure and privilege of eating many high-end meals at many incredible restaurants. This story isn't "food used to be great and it's been ruined". And it's certainly not nostalgia, because I never ate food like this as a child. I just love this kind of simple food and respect the skills and knowledge of people who know how to make it so perfectly. How they do so, especially in such large quantities, is a beautiful mystery.

The service was friendly and sweet, and there were tons of people working -- taking orders, bringing platters, clearing tables -- no cutbacks or labour shortages there, so customers are not waiting for long.

Stroud's also has a full bar, and I wanted to try a drink that sounded delicious and dessert-y: a Choked Chicken, made with rum, triple sec, brandy, pineapple juice and some other things... but I was just too full.

The cinnamon rolls arrived last (you have a choice of when to get them). They look like square dinner rolls, no icing. We each tasted a bite -- they were warm, sticky, meltingly sweet but not cloying -- incredibly delicious -- then slid them into the takeout box. The meal comes with two cinnamon rolls each.

Even before the cinnamon rolls came to the table, the server asked if we'd need boxes, and brought the takeout containers and bags. You get large containers for chicken, and small round containers and lids for everything else. Even with so many customers taking home leftovers, Stroud's still serves enormous portions. There is something wonderful about that. 

Then came the bill, and we both laughed out-loud: it was under $50. 

I wasn't planning on announcing where we were from or why we were there, but on the way out, a woman, clearly one of the owners, asked us if our meal was satisfactory, if there was anything else we needed. We told her it was excellent, and we loved it... and somehow I ended up saying, You can't imagine how long I've wanted to come here. 

She said, "Well now you have to tell me! How long?" 

Allan told her 32 years. She lit up. "I don't think I've ever heard that before!" 

I explained briefly: New York Times story, big baseball fans, always thinking, we'll see in a game in KC and eat there -- now here visiting from Canada. 

She said that was a lot of pressure, and after 32 years, did it live up to expectations? I told her it was exactly what I hoped and expected, perhaps even better. I also told her that when we got the bill, we laughed. She looked puzzled, and I said, where we live, it easily could have been twice as much. She seemed pleased with that.

She wished us well and asked us not to wait another 32 years before coming back. I hope I gave her a good story.

* * * *

A few weeks ago, Allan, our head researcher, helped me find the original story in the New York Times archives. We weren't sure of the year, but early 90s was a good guess. It's quite a lovely piece of writing. Thank you, Clyde Edgerton and Catherine!

Pan Fried Heaven
By Clyde Edgerton
May 16, 1993

Catherine is very hungry. 

I am very hungry. We're driving south out of Kansas City. Looking for Stroud's. Something about good fried chicken.

Fifteen minutes from downtown, I start seeing promising signs, actual signs on neighborhood establishments, that begin somehow mysteriously to signal that we may be getting close to a real place, the real thing -- a serious roadhouse fried-foods establishment. The signs are: The Spot Bar, Holiday Hotel (the i dotted with a star), Bob's 24-Hour Breakfast, Gideon Baptist Church, Fellowship Baptist Church, We Sharpen Everything and Herman's Automotive. Good signs.

Stroud's, "The Home of Pan Fried Chicken," is a small, gray, one-story wooden building nestled about one car length off the street at 1015 East 85th. It's almost under a busy overpass, and is backed up against an abandoned railroad track. The small parking lot and all other parking areas nearby -- including both sides of the street for 50 yards each way -- are already full. And it's only 6:30. I was thinking we'd beat the rush.

A man wearing a jacket with "Stroud's" written across the back directs traffic from the parking lot. "Eating in or taking out?" he asks as I drive up and roll down my car window.

"Eating in."

"Park down the street there."

At the front door, we're met by a man carrying out a brown cardboard box full of Styrofoam containers and napkins. Following is a woman with a white Michelob Light cardboard box full of the same.

Stroud's does not manufacture its own food boxes. Good sign.

Inside, the waiting and dining areas are in one fairly large room with a low ceiling. The place feels old and well used. Viewed from above, the room would be shaped like a very short fat T. We have entered at the top of the T.

To our left, in the small waiting area, about 50 people stand on a wooden floor, elbow to elbow, sipping drinks and beer, talking and laughing loudly. The dining area holds around 100 men, women and children, packed in and eating at tables and in a few low-backed booths along two walls. All the tables are covered with red-checkered oilcloth. Good sign.

The reason I keep saying "good sign" is because Stroud's is looking more and more like a good place to do what I am deciding to do tonight -- give in and pig out. I don't care about my "partial diet." I don't care about cholesterol, fat, grease, calories, grease or bread. One night with you, oh pan-fried chicken, oh chicken-fried steak. Catherine -- she's 10, my daughter -- and I have decided she'll order fried chicken and I'll order chicken-fried steak, which I've never had, but a good friend of mine, Buster Quin, eats it often when he and I eat lunch together. It's steak rolled in a seasoned flour mix and fried -- of course. I've watched Buster look very contented while he eats it.

A man takes our name and smiles. "About 50 minutes," he says. Catherine rolls her eyes. To myself I predict an hour-15, at least. We elbow over to the bar -- at the far end of the waiting area -- and order two club sodas, 75 cents each. Catherine sits on a stool while I stand behind her. The bartender smiles and seems as relaxed as the man who took my name.

Catherine points to a mounted rabbit head on the wall behind the bar. It has antlers between its ears, glasses on its nose and a black scarf around its neck. Beside it -- over an antique cash register -- is a mounted deer head. From his antlers hang lighted red heart-shaped Christmas tree lights and a rubber chicken. Not tacky tacky. Real tacky.

On a side wall, beside the standard neon beer signs, is a big, framed picture, hung slightly crooked, of the man who took our names with his arm around Rush Limbaugh. Good sign. Liberals don't do much frying.

***

Over the noise of people talking and laughing, the piano version of "Pink Panther" sounds live. Catherine and I take our free refills and walk over toward the dining area. Sure enough, against a far wall sits a piano player at an old upright. He leans his ear to a customer who offers a request and starts in on "As Time Goes By" -- upbeat.

Now I get a good view of the eating going on at the tables and booths. The service is family style. A little boy close by is eating mashed potatoes with his spoon -- from a plate filled with mashed potatoes, french fries, a pickle, some kind of rolls and something that looks like a fried chicken liver or a hush puppy.

On all the tables are ketchup, hot sauce, sugar, salt and pepper. And an ash tray -- in case you hadn't figured that out already.

The ceiling and floor at Stroud's have a nice sway. The low ceiling has exposed beams painted dark brown against a weathered white. The multiple heat vents in the ceiling are also painted dark brown -- to go with the beams, which are 2 by 4's, by the way. Yes. Just right. Some of these so-called roadhouses with fake Coke signs and old gas pumps and trombones all over the place do not have ceiling beams that are brown painted 2 by 4's.

The windows have fluffed yellow curtains -- which on the west wall are backed by Venetian blinds. The curtains (without the Venetian blind backing) could make certain country people think of their grandmother's kitchen -- and I suppose those with the Venetian blinds could make others think of their grandmother's kitchen, or living room even.

You get the picture. The place was built in 1933 and the sounds of hammers and saws since then have been rare. I am by now really hungry, and so is Catherine.

We're finally seated in the middle of the room -- after a sure-enough 50-minute wait. Our waitress smiles easily and seems relaxed like, well, like everybody else working in the place. She, like all the other waiters and waitresses, is wearing a tasteful T-shirt that across the back says, "We choke our own chickens." Could be a good sign, I suppose.

We order.

The man who took our names at the door walks by carrying a car seat full of big blue-eyed baby. He speaks to a couple as he passes them. He knows quite a few of the customers. He smiles at us.

A bowl of mashed potatoes is placed in front of us. It could feed six lumberjacks and a small mule. Catherine and I look at each other. Make that a large mule.

A bowl of string beans follows, or snap beans, or green beans -- depending on where you're from. What seems clear from the wonderful ham smell coming up from that bowl, and from the obvious soft texture of the beans, is that the cook is from the South, or at least from some rural area where people cook their string beans. For a long time. With something in them that tastes good -- like ham bits.

Next: large bowl of thick, hot, creamy gravy with ladle.

Now Catherine gets her fried chicken. Four big pieces -- white and dark meat -- on a long plate. She looks at me.

I get my chicken-fried steak. It is the biggest one piece of food that I have ever seen served to a human in my life. We both stare at it. It's as big as a place mat. It is falling off one side of the long plate. Covering half of it is what must have been a full ladle of that thick, creamy gravy.

Then our waitress brings the bread. Hold your hat. The bread is this: soft, hot, sticky cinnamon rolls. We had been given the choice of having them with the meal or after. With the meal, Catherine has dictated.

Her eyes are very big.

Mine are too.

It is now 7:40. We never think about how nice it would be to eat slowly and savor our meal. We dive in, trading chicken for chicken-fried steak. Inside its crisp covering, the steak is very tender and moist. The thick gravy makes it all work together just right.

The nice thing about the potatoes and gravy is that both have precisely the right amount of black pepper. Not enough for you to taste, exactly, but enough to remind you that there is black pepper somewhere in the world.

The chicken is tender and smoking hot and at one point a taste of the crisp skin brings back a lost memory from years ago when I was a child at my grandmother's house -- the out-of-this-world, sinful taste of a piece of fried pork skin eaten within hours of the hog-killing. Cracklings, they're called. Yes, this tender crispy chicken that I am eating has something that is an exquisite rarity -- delicious grease. And plenty of it.

Are you with me? Or have you gone to the refrigerator for a fresh green salad, white wine, and turned to the book reviews. If you're with me, you've perhaps eaten cracklings.

As we finish up at about 5 past 8, Catherine says, "Daddy, I know what you're going to say. You're going to say, 'I ate too much.' "

"I said that a while ago."

"Well, maybe you ought to stop eating."

"I don't think I can. It's good, isn't it?"

"It's real, real good," Catherine says. "Do you know who would like this?"

"Who?"

"Grandma."

"And Mama."

"Man, yeah. Anybody would."

We head back to our hotel, then up the elevator to the revolving restaurant and lounge 40 stories up -- one of those that makes a complete revolution each hour. Catherine wants a look at the city. The hostess seats us in the lounge. Here, no people are waiting to get in. And the music is piped in. But the city is beautiful. We are full and content. Catherine wants to know if we can go back to Stroud's tomorrow.

"Let's think about it," I say.

day 5: kansas city: the american jazz museum is a real treat

Yesterday we were up early, packed up the car, and drove to Kansas City. The STL Airbnb was lovely; the host and I left each other outstanding reviews.

Driving and billboards

The drive from St. Louis, Missouri to Kansas City, Missouri is one straight, flat road. When these cities' baseball teams met in the World Series in 1985, it was dubbed the I-70 Series. 

In addition to all the highway billboards for personal-injury lawyers that we saw in STL, I-70 is lined with bible messages, some of them quite hilarious, and also quite a few anti-abortion billboards, not so amusing. And of course all lies. I'm collecting the billboard and sign messages for another post. But meanwhile, "heartbeat heard 18 days after conception"?? No. Just no. Blob of cells. No heart, no beat.

Also on I-70, my no-junk-food rule fell right off the wagon. Whee, vacation!

American Jazz Museum

From St. Louis, we drove straight to the American Jazz Museum and the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, as they close at 5:00. They are housed together in a beautiful restored building at Kansas City's historic "18th & Vine" district. This was once a main locus of jazz, similar to Beale Street (Memphis) and 52nd Street (New York). It clearly fell on very hard times, and the museums are part of the efforts to revive it. 

The building housing The Call, a major black newspaper in the days of the Negro press, is across the street. The Call is still being published.

The American Jazz Museum is a real gem. How on earth do you tell the story of something so big and complex as jazz in an accessible format? The AJM has answered this question by focusing on a few people who were foundational to the development of the music, and exploring the historical and musical context of each.

The journey begins with a 20-minute film called "Jazz Is" featuring Kansas City jazz greats narrating pieces over historical footage. This was amazingly well done, far above most of these kinds of videos. I'm trying to find it online and will link to it when I do. (You can find it through a QR code in the museum. It didn't work for me yesterday, but I'll try again today.)

After the movie, you move through four main sections: Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, and Ella Fitzgerald. The exhibits are very visually appealing, full of photographs and short, simple explanations. At each, there is a kind of tabbed flip book (but made of something heavy and solid), full of musical examples, with explanations of each. You can choose tabs and listen to corresponding audio. These help you hear the people each artist was influenced by, and their own work, and who they in turn influenced -- the whole web of collaboration.

Unfortunately, it was very difficult, and often impossible, to hear the audio. There were no headphones, and the volume is quite low, because the exhibits are close enough together that loud volumes would create an audio mess. I don't know why there aren't headphones; it's a real drawback and an obstacle.

After these four pillars, a separate section of the exhibit explores how jazz is created -- the components of the music itself -- rhythm, melody, improvisation, the instruments that are used, and so on. This area had the same flip books and written information -- but it also has headphones, creating a completely different, and much improved, experience. 

I plan on asking someone why there are no headphones in the main exhibit. I imagine they frequently hear complaints about this and I'm curious what led to this odd decision.

There is also a small section on Kansas City as a jazz centre, a display of album-cover art (I could have used a lot more of this), and a section on jazz in film and on television. An obsessive collector named John H. Baker donated his vast collection -- more than 700 hours of jazz film -- to the museum. The collection includes "soundies", which were something like music videos that people could watch on a jukebox, letting audiences see performers who they had only heard but never seen. I had never heard of this before, and it's kind of amazing. We watched some soundies of famous tap dancing acts.

There is also one changing exhibit, currently about Louis Prima, which we'll see today, along with the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, gift shops, and visitor centre.

The Airbnb... and Stroud's

From 18th & Vine, we drove to the Airbnb, an interesting and unusual place. It's a small basement space in the hosts' home (with a separate entrance) -- a bedroom, foyer, bathroom and tiny kitchenette. It doesn't appear to be big enough to house a guest space, but the owners have cleverly designed it to somehow fit everything. Things are hidden, tucked away, under/above/within everything else, like a pop-up book. 

There is a house manual, both linked on the site and printed in a binder, explaining where everything is and how the place works. You are strongly encouraged to read it before arriving. I thought that was completely over the top -- until we got here. 

For example, looking around, I said, there's no table? How can you have a fully stocked kitchenette and no table? Wait, didn't I read something about a table in the manual? And sure enough, the manual navigates you to a part of the wall, something you press, push, pull... and there is the fold out table. But are there chairs? Another hidden compartment contains folding chairs. It's a very clever and efficient use of space. 

In addition to all this, there is a ranch theme. The hosts must frequent garage sales and thrift shops to collect anything vaguely ranch-related, and the place is filled with decorative ranch stuff. 

As if to compensate for the small space, the hosts keep it fully stocked. Two bathroom cabinets hold every conceivable bathroom need, for anything you might have forgotten or didn't know you needed. The fridge is stocked with sodas and cold water; the kitchen includes a basket of crackers, chips, pop tarts, instant oatmeal, and microwave popcorn. Cheers to this host for supplying a big can of coffee, filters, and a small coffee maker rather than the wasteful Keurigs that have become standard.

The downside of all this space efficiency is a real lack of accessibility. The apartment is down a short but steep flight of stairs, and between each room or space, the floor has a raised lip, not quite a step, but also not level. I already stubbed my toe badly in the last place -- a lip in the bathroom entrance -- and I'm determined not to do that here, which means being super mindful all the time -- not my strength! This morning, for example, I knew I couldn't walk to the bathroom in the dark, but I couldn't even access my phone to use the flashlight. There are sliding pocket doors separating the sections of the apartment, so we can leave lights on for safety without disturbing sleep. The doors must have been included with that in mind.

So it's a really nice space... but also small and cramped. After Tulsa, we return to KC for one night. We have this place booked, but I'm thinking we might stay somewhere else.

We got a bit settled, then headed straight to Stroud's for dinner. This deserves its own post, coming soon.

day 4: st. louis: barbecue in soulard and downtown baseball

STL City Flag

Yesterday was a really fun day. We hung around in the morning, mostly making plans, then headed into the downtown to Soulard, a historic neighbourhood that is part of St. Louis' French heritage.

The fleur-de-lis is everywhere in the city, but you don't see actual French heritage the way you do in New Orleans or in Louisiana in general. We see the beautiful city flag everywhere -- many people fly it outside their homes and wear it on t-shirts. The wavy lines represent the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. I was wondering if flying this outside one's home carries political significance, the way a Pride flag or (on the opposite end) a Confederate flag does. I couldn't find anything online, but I really don't know, so... no?

Soulard

Soulard -- what we saw of it -- is full of beautiful brick houses in the French-New Orleans tradition -- flat fronts right up against the sidewalk, gardens in the back -- but without the terraces. We had lunch at Bogart's, a barbecue joint related to the more-famous Pappy's. Allan had ribs and I had brisket, which was almost exactly like Montreal smoked meat. Our sides -- baked beans and slaw -- were a bust, but of course those are down to personal taste. 

Bogart's is a sweet little neighbourhood place, with seating for maybe 30 peope, and picnic tables outside. Just inside the door, someone takes your order on an iPad; you give your name, and take a seat, and a server brings your order -- very quickly. The walls are lined with framed collections of police-force badges (creepy!), a photograph of the "Rat Pack" playing pool, and a weird incarnation of the American flag with 23 stars. (Google tells me this became the US flag on July 4, 1820, when both Alabama and Maine joined the union.) There was a continuous line of hungry people spilling onto the street, but it moves very quickly. 

Lunch was tasty and brief (I ate almost nothing, but was happy to have it later -- as per usual), then we went to the market. We love markets! One of the two large covered areas was open; I'm guessing the second one is open only on weekends. There was the usual produce, homemade jams, herbs and herbal remedies, and ingredients for smoking meat. I bought a cup of eliote, which I love and never see, from a super-friendly salesperson. It later turned out to be too spicy -- even though it was made to order and I asked for no hot sauce! 

At Bridge Bread Bakery a nonprofit with supportive employment (skills training, housing), we bought a small "gooey cake," the other local speciality, besides toasted ravioli, that we wanted to try. It's like a deep-dish pie, crust on all sides, and a thick filling, with flavour similar to butterscotch -- butter and vanilla, and not overly sweet. We also got caught up in a homemade chocolate stall and bought too many delicious things, like chocolate-covered mint oreos and salted caramel chocolates. I have a feeling we will arrive in Kansas City high on sugar and caffeine. 

On the main strip of Soulard, we found Protagonist Café: "a literary coffee shop". It is a big, open space full of comfortable seating, beautiful architectural details, and walls lined with used books. They have their logo on book-jacket stickers, as if it's a library. 

Lots of customers were quietly reading or on their devices, a small board-game group was busy with a complicated-looking game. I fell in love with the logo and bought some merch. While paying, I told the staff how much I liked the place, they said, "We love her, too. We try to keep her pretty." They asked if we were local, and a few questions about our trip. When we said "Canada," a customer behind us asked if we were in town for the hockey game: "We're playing Canada tonight." It's hockey playoffs, St. Louis Blues vs the Winnipeg Jets, the only Canadian hockey team I would never have thought of. 

Blues Museum, collapse, ballgame

From there we drove into the downtown core to find the National Blues Museum. We didn't know this existed, but Allan found it on a map, and we're kind of obligated to go, blues being a big part of our shared musical life and history. 

It's a small museum -- you can see the whole thing in an hour -- very well done, with lots of interactive exhibits that may or may not work. It's in a great location for tourists, near both the ballpark and the arch. 

Allan noted that the exhibit is very general -- more broad than deep, definitely trying for a full scope rather than in-depth information. On the other hand, it is comprehensive in scope and gives great, necessary historical context: the story of the blues is the story of African-American history and American music history. 

I liked the museum more than Allan did, but we were both glad we went. The museum also sponsors music-education programs in public schools, music classes, and weekly live performances.

Back at the car, I was suddenly exhausted and in need of a rest. We considered going home for a few hours, but it made no sense to drive back and forth on a game day. (This was an especially wise decision given it turns out there were three games being played, all in the downtown area!) We would have spent the entire time in traffic, not to mention losing our brilliant parking spot. 

We had planned on going back to the arch, because I wanted to explore the gift shop, and also wanted to see a nearby historic church. Then I learned that while the church's location is from the earliest days of European settlement, the building itself dates back to the 1800s, the third structure built on that spot. Not all that historic. Although I would have liked some time in that gift shop, it wasn't that important, considering I felt like I could barely move! So Allan read something on my phone while I was slightly comatose and may have actually taken a short nap.

After that, I rallied, and we walked to the game. The internet confirmed that our parking plan was indeed the local "trick" for game days: find a parking spot on the street, pay for parking after 5:00, and leave the car there. Street parking is for a maximum of 2 hours, ending at 7:00, then the spot becomes free. A pretty great trick, considering we saw lots for game-day parking charging $50.

Busch Stadium III is a downtown ballpark, with the now-regulation adjacent public space, here called Ballpark Village, super corporate and slick. The park itself is nice-ish -- from the generation of parks built downtown with warmer designs, pioneered first by Cleveland and then Baltimore in 1990s. 

One nice feature is a group of sculptures of the Cardinals' own Hall of Fame, their retired-number players, created from actual poses of who they were -- for example, Ozzie Smith shown making a great fielding play. The sculptures include Cool Papa Bell, one of the most famous Negro League players, undoubtedly one of the greatest players of all time, and a St. Louis native. We really appreciated that. 

We haven't been to a major-league game together in ages. We went to a minor-league game last year in Port Angeles, and Allan went to a Padres game when he attended the 2019 SABR convention. But the last game we attended together was a Red Sox game in Toronto, in 2017. Although I have a complicated relationship to baseball right now, the moment I saw the green field and the red seats, I felt a flood of joy. 

The Cardinals were playing the Mets, the team I love to hate, so it was fun to root for the home team. Other than the pitch clock and the batting clock, which are positives, we didn't have to see -- or ignored -- the horrible new rules that have driven us away from the game. It was a beautiful night, clear and breezy, perfect weather. The game started out close, but the Mets surged, and the Cards ended up losing 9-3.

The game was chock full of silly schtick (of course), and the team is aggressively promoting local flavour. Everything is "STL" and "The Lou", and the fleur is everywhere. It's so over the top that it comes off as forced and corporate. But this team has a long, rich history, and it's good to see that celebrated and promoted.

Every once in a while, highlights of the hockey game appeared on the scoreboard, the crowd cheering loudly as the Blues avoided elimination, forcing a Game 7. There is also something called the Battlehawks -- we had to Google it -- from the UFL, something like minor league arena football, the third game being played downtown on the same night. We walked back to the car in a crowd, and a friendly sports fan (visiting from Dallas) filled us in.

At the car, we ate leftover brisket and way too much chocolate, having eaten nothing at the game, drove home, and I somehow made it into bed before falling asleep. Today we drive to Kansas City.

day 3: st. louis: the cahokia mounds and great traditional italian food

Yesterday we hung around the Airbnb apartment in the morning, stopped at a supermarket to pick up some food for lunch, then headed just over the state line to Illinois, about 15 minutes away, to the Cahokia mounds. 

I have a lifelong interest in (and sometimes obsession with) the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. Allan and I also love visiting ancient ruins and neolithic sites; that has been the biggest focus of our travels, and I would do a lot more of that if I could. 

Despite that, I was completely unaware of the existence of Cahokia, until reading the book Four Lost Cities: A Secret History of the Urban Age by Annalee Newitz a few years ago. Newitz highlights four ancient urban populations: Pompeii (we've been there), Ankgor Wat (which I'd love to see but probably never will), Catalhoyuk (which I dream of seeing, along with Istanbul and other places in that part of the world), and Cahokia. I loved reading about Cahokia, and was amazed that I had never heard of it before.

[A very long time ago, Allan and I attended a huge music festival in New Orleans, then drove around Louisiana and Mississippi in search of music, and landmarks and remnants of blues history. On the Natchez Trace Parkway, we stumbled on a huge preserved mound, and learned about these ancient earthworks for the first time. We also rescued a dog.]

When researching for this current trip, I was vaguely thinking, I wonder where those mounds are -- and was thrilled to discover they are right outside St. Louis! Thank you, Annalee Newitz! I immediately saw that the site's interpretive centre and museum would be closed for major renovations through most of 2025. That's disappointing, but there's tons of information online, and that helps a lot.

Cahokia

Pre-contact, Cahokia was the largest population centre in what is now North America. By the time European settlers found the site, it had been abandoned. At the height of its civilization, around 1100 CE (AD), Cahokia was home to between 10,000 and 20,000 people, larger than many European cities at the time. The Cahokians built a vast network of earthenworks, using only human labour and without metal tools, moving millions of bushels of earth in woven baskets. The Cahokia Mounds Historic State Historic Site is the largest grouping of ancient earthworks in the Americas. (Cahokia is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site -- another travel obsession of mine.)

Cahokia originally contained 120 mounds. Many of those were flattened and destroyed when highways were built -- which is both mind-boggling and exactly what you'd expect. Ancient mounds were also flattened because they were thought to be natural topography, and because of the total disregard and lack of respect for the cultures that preceded white settlement. The Illinois state historic site preserves 77 of the existing 82 mounds. But according to the "Re-Envisioning Greater Cahokia," by the Prairie Research Institute at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign:

Within 7 miles of Monks Mound are another dozen contemporaneous "mound centers" or towns, and within 15 miles there are another five mound sites. Tens of thousands of people--farmers mostly--once lived out here. That makes Greater Cahokia the center of a metropolitan area that covers three Illinois and two Missouri counties - a total of about 3000 sq. miles. Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site contains just 3000 acres, and the palisaded portion of the site around Monks Mound that many visitors consider to be "Cahokia" is just 200 acres.

That link above contains a lot of great information on the mounds and what happened to them, in very clear and accessible format. 

Cahokians built with wood, not stone, so their buildings do not survive. That makes visiting Cahokia and any mound site a less dramatic experience than visiting the Aztec pyramids or the Olmec colossal heads or Machu Picchu, for example. The mounds require more imagination, which is where having a good interpretative centre would come in. 

However, when you climb to the top of Cahokia's largest mound, and look all around, you can see that the land here is completely flat. You can see the Mississippi River, a levee, the Arch, the St. Louis skyline, and miles and miles of flat -- dotted by mounds of all different sizes. 

At Cahokia, there is also a reconstruction of so-called Woodhenge, a ceremonial circle of wooden poles, aligned for sunrise at the winter and summer solstices, like the neolithic stone circles found throughout modern-day England, Ireland, and other places in northwest Europe. (We've seen a lot of these.) The wood pole circles are known through the remaining post-holes. At least some of them were built with red cedar, which is sacred to many Indigenous peoples.

I originally thought we would hike all around Cahokia to see many of the mounds, but you can actually see them better from further away, and you can only climb onto one mound. The largest surviving mound is called Monks Mound, named because -- long after Cahokia had been abandoned -- French Trappist monks built a house on top of it. On Monks Mound, modern steps have been built where ancient ramps used to be. Our friends at the University of Illinois write:

Its main icon, Monks Mound, is the largest earthen mound in North America (and the third-largest pyramid in the entire Western Hemisphere). Yet it is almost hidden in plain sight just east of the St. Louis urban area. Thousands of unaware drivers pass it daily on Interstate 55-70.

After climbing up Monks Mound and seeing the reconstructed Woodhenge, and reading all the markers, we had lunch at a picnic table, then drove further into Illinois, through some small towns, into East St. Louis, and back to the apartment. 

East St. Louis is a very poor, depressed area. It was the focus of sustained uprisings and protests after Michael Brown was killed by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri. Where we were driving, it seemed like every third house was abandoned, burned, or collapsed. There was a smattering of what must be public housing that looked good and solid, but it was a tiny portion of the overall poverty and decimation. As my friend Joe often quotes from this blog, "GBA! GNOTFOE!"*

Donuts, bookstores, red-sauce

Back in St. Louis, we visited two of Allan's travel obsessions. 

First we stopped in at World's Fair Donuts, reputed to be the city's best, and to have old-fashioned cake donuts. We had a nice chat with the owner, who said Cahokia was "near and dear to his heart," and certainly looked like he had Indigenous ancestry along with his African roots. 

I had one of the cinnamon cake donuts, and it was amazing. I'm not much for donuts -- usually too sweet and light -- but this was delicious. It seemed like the donuts I remember eating as a child in farmstands during apple season -- dense, cakey, not overly sweet.

We also found one bookstore on Allan's ever-present list. I had no interest and was tired, so I stayed in the car and read. Since we're flying (not driving) home, Allan promised to restrain himself, and he did return to the car without a bag. I was impressed! 

Then we went back to the apartment to rest and plan where to have dinner. We thought we were going to do ribs (local lingo: barbecue), but it was difficult to figure out for dinner. We also wanted to try at least one of the three famous local foods: toasted ravioli, St. Louis-style pizza, and gooey cake. 

St. Louis style pizza is made with a cracker-like crust and "provel" -- a processed cheese blend of provolone, cheddar, and swiss cheese, with a Velveeta-like consistency. To this former New Yorker, this sounds truly disgusting. But I would like to try the other two. 

We decided to wait on the ribs, and have dinner in The Hill, the old Italian district not far from where we're staying. Allan chose Mama's on the Hill. This is what foodies would describe as an old "red-sauce" restaurant, the traditional southern Italian cooking many of us associate with Italian food, before more nuanced, regional Italian cooking came to the food scene. In the past I might not have been interested, having eaten a lot of it in my lifetime, but I haven't had really good Italian food in many years.

To our surprise, the restaurant was packed! People were waiting for tables, but they were large groups, and we got seated immediately. We split toasted ravioli as an appetizer, half meat and half cheese. They are small, crunchy, fried raviolis. Crunchy and very light. The meat variety were delicious. The cheese were not. Now I've tasted provel, and I don't need to that again.

I order lasagna. It was delicious, definitely not made with provel, and at least three-quarters of it is now in our fridge.

It was a lovely, clear, cool night, and we had a nice stroll back to the car. The timing of this trip was around baseball games, but it was also important to get here before summer. It's already quite warm here, and humid, and makes us grateful (as we always are) to live where it's cool and never gets too hot.

* "God Bless America! Greatest Nation on the Face of the Earth!" a slogan we all grew up hearing.

day 2: st. louis: the surprisingly beautiful gateway arch, a fabulous history museum, and great mexican food

We're kind of doing this trip in reverse order of importance. The things we most want to see -- the impetus for the trip -- are coming last, a function of what day things are open, when baseball teams are in town, and a significant price difference of flights. 

Besides Cahokia, which we are visiting today (day three) and the game, anything we see or do in St. Louis is an extra. So our enjoyment on our first day in the city was unexpected and really fun.

* * * *

In the morning we headed out to a supermarket to pick up a few things to keep in the apartment for breakfast. The store was the gigantic suburban variety, the kind I drool over. Allan said he actually shared my supermarket-envy. In these kinds of places, I always want to over-buy. I assume I'm not alone, that the store is created that way. We were very restrained! 

Southwest Diner

Then we drove around looking for a place to eat from the list Allan made of old-fashioned diners. Each one was out of business or somehow not where it was supposed to be. This turned out to be great, because we ended up at Southwest Diner, where the atmosphere, decor, food, and service were all amazing.

Southwest Diner is a cross between an old-fashioned diner and a Mexican cantina, with an authentic and unpretentious vibe, super-friendly staff, and a really interesting menu. The food was delicious, and of course nothing I can get at home -- not only in Port Hardy, but ever. I have never lived anywhere with good southwest or Mexican food, so I love to eat that when I travel. I see huevos rancheros on a menu, and I can't order anything else. We really enjoyed this place.

Gateway Arch National Park: the Arch

We made a quick stop at the apartment to put away groceries, then drove downtown to see the arch: Gateway Arch National Park. This is the city's most famous attraction, the image that is most associated with St. Louis, so of course we're going to see it. But my expectations were very low. I don't know what I was expecting, but I can say "not much".

I was completely surprised to immediately find it impressive and beautiful. I had that instantaneous feeling I get from certain great art or architecture, an emotional response that that I cannot describe. It just hits, like a fullness, a little intake of breath like an inaudible gasp. That probably sounds either weird or too vague, I think because it's an intuitive, emotional thing; it comes from a place where words don't apply.

Walking from the parking lot where we left the car, down to the river, we could see the pieces of the arch between downtown buildings. We passed the Old Courthouse, which has been closed for renovations and is having a grand re-opening the day we leave the city. There are statues of two people: Dred and Harriett Scott, the two Black Americans who fought for their rights all the way to the Supreme Court, in the famous case known as the Dred Scott decision. This is one of US history's most defining and shameful moments. The case was argued in this courthouse.

There are historical markers all around the courthouse and the adjacent park, as this is the oldest part of the city.

Then you see the arch, this huge, shiny parabola framing empty sky. The sky is part of the picture. The arch was built to commemorate the Corps of Discovery -- the launching of Lewis and Clark's journey west, both the symbolic and literal beginning of westward expansion. Through the arch, you see nothing but sky, the endless emptyness -- which is how the dominant culture of that time thought of the west. An empty world, waiting for them to "discover", claim, and conquer it. Western expansion is a heartbreaking story, and it's also integral to understanding the US and all American history. (Canada's expansion story has many similarities, but also many differences.)

The arch itself is graceful and absolutely beautiful. The arch -- not the shape it describes in the sky, but the actual material object -- is pyramidal (a three-dimensional triangle) and slightly torqued. It was designed by Eero Saarinen and was an engineering marvel of its era. 

Inside the arch, there is a tram: you can ride to the top for panaromic views. We aren't interested in doing that, but it's kind of crazy that it even exists. The structure itself does not seem designed to transport humans! Allan could never tolerate the claustrophobia, and although I enjoy exploring tiny, closed-in spaces, the idea of this ride did not appeal to me.

After you ascend the hill that the arch is built on, you see the Mississippi River below it, and a famous railroad bridge that was once a symbol of St. Louis. There's a processing plant and a casino on the other side, so unfortunately the words "Casino Queen" and "Cargill" are part of the view. The Mississippi itself is not impressive, but like all famous rivers, it's all about the context. This is the river of Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn, of the slave trade, of the end of a way of life for the original inhabitants of the west, and the beginning of all the mythmaking.

This arch thing, it is really something.

Gateway Arch National Park: Museum of Westward Expansion

Under the arch is the Museum of Westward Expansion. It is huge, with an enormous amount to read, see, and explore, much of it interactive. It interprets every aspect of western expansion -- the Indigenous peoples and what happened to them (including present cultures and conditions), the struggles between the three imperial powers for control of the continent, the experiences of the white settlers, the Lewis and Clark expedition, the natural environment, some of the history of the city of St. Louis, the class divisions of the time, the myth of the American West in literature and movies, the architectural competition for the commemorative monument, and the building of the Gateway Arch. And probably 20 other things I can't think of right now.

The museum does a beautiful job of telling American history honestly, with perspectives of Indigenous people, Black people (both free and enslaved), and women, and providing context for everything. Of course much of it is horrifying and heartbreaking, and the very definition of injustice. Some pieces of the story are about amazing feats of courage and strength -- because the individual settlers who set out into the vast unknown, to try to create a better life for themselves and their families, are distinct from the imperial powers that led them to be there. I thought the narratives did an excellent job of simple honesty, presenting multiple, factual perspectives. 

More than once, I wondered how a national historic site like this will survive the fascist takeover of the country that is now in progress. Federal funding will be withdrawn. Will the actual exhibits be shuttered? Will they be destroyed? If it's destroyed, will it ever be rebuilt? The US finally is facing a more truthful reading of its history, and we are witnessing the powerful, intense backlash.

We experienced the museum as much as we could, sampling information throughout, not just walking through it, but also not reading every word, which would take an entire day and would be a huge information overload. What we did see and read was very impressive, truly excellent.

Naturally there is a huge gift shop, but it was shutting down just as we arrived. When we are downtown for the game on Friday night, we want to return to the gift shop, and also get some photos of the railroad bridge visible from the arch, and see a historic church in the same park. 

We were planning on going to dinner, when we were caught in a sudden, massive thundershower. In the few blocks between the arch and the parking garage, we got completely soaked. We managed to protect our camera and my phone by ducking under some trees near the Old Courthouse, but ended up soaked straight through to our underwear. We had to go back to the apartment to change clothes and re-group.

Cherokee Street for Mexican Food

We discussed the various options for authentic Mexican food for dinner, and settled on Tacqueria Bronco, in the Cherokee Street neighbourhood. In all the neighbourhoods that we've driven through, where we're staying and in several adjacent areas, the streets are lined with small brick houses, very old but well kept up, and huge, mature trees in full leaf. It's beautiful. Some of the houses are bigger, but those seem to be duplexes (or semi-detached, or two-family houses, depending where you're from), and there are even some triplexes. All small brick houses, all large leafy trees.

The Cherokee Street area is full of antique stores, Mexican restaurants, and rainbow-pride. Tacqueria Bronco is a basic, working-class kind of restaurant, with simple, inexpensive, homemade food, the kind of place we like to eat in wherever we are. It's in an area full of Mexican restaurants and grocery stores (one store called Mexico Vive Aqui), a Mexican bakery (sadly or perhaps fortunately closing as we arrived), Mexican music spilling out of kitchens, and people grilling and selling homemade tamales on the sidewalk. There were some signs for community activism around ICE raids, reminding residents that both undocumented and documented people are being rounded up and deported.

Dinner was great, and I'm loving the time change in this direction. It seems like I'm staying up so late!

greetings from st. louis (day 1, part two)

The only slightly disconcerting issue of this trip was the border. I don't need to elaborate why. It is a very strange time to be traveling to this very strange country.

As some of you may recall, I've had some issues with US border guards: in 2009, I was targetted and harassed for my activism with US Iraq War resisters. That went on for a full year. Since then, we have crossed back and forth at least once or twice a year, sometimes more frequently, and have never had even the slightest issue.

We were fairly confident all would be well. An older, white, hetero couple on a sightseeing trip with a definite end date: that pretty much ticks every box for not being hassled. The stories of Canadians being searched or detained at the border are all from land crossings, which is typically where harassment takes place. And those stories are undoubtedly a very tiny percentage of crossings being made, even with the number of Canadians visiting the US plummeting.

And yet. The stories are horrendous, and there are no guarantees. So we had just a wee bit of concern, and were not looking forward to that bit. 

The upshot: absolutely nothing. Three flights, three rounds of security, and one border crossing: simple and completely uneventful.

The travel itself was about as easy as it gets. After our foray in Richmond, we spent the rest of the long layover reading and listening to music. That flight, from Vancouver to Denver, was delayed a bit, so we had less waiting at the next leg. 

On the Denver to St. Louis flight, we treated ourselves to a drink and a snack box, and enjoyed ourselves. Baggage claim was a breeze. Picking up the rental car was annoying and slow, but eventually we picked up a big, brand-new SUV, and navigated our way to the Airbnb. 

We're staying in an upstairs apartment in what looks like a beautiful, old, quiet neighbourhood of lovely brick houses and huge, leafy trees. The apartment is gorgeous, right out of an Ikea catalogue, beyond spotlessly clean. We are not exactly traveling light (we never do!), so getting up the steep flight of stairs with all our stuff was no fun, but we only have to do that once. 

The host has a lot of great information on St. Louis neighbourhoods. While I did the bare minimum of set-up, Allan went into tour-guide mode and has already found places to eat. (Typically, I do all the advance planning, and Allan does the day-to-day once we arrive. It works beautifully.) I just about managed to get enough done to be comfortable in the morning, washed up, and changed into fresh sleep gear before sinking into bed. I fully expect to be sore or possibly crippled from carrying too much stuff.

A general note about air travel

We all know air travel has gotten much worse. The airline industry seems intent on making travel as expensive and unpleasant as possible, cutting staff and service to the bone, and demanding fees for an ever-expanding list of necessities that have become extras. This is all well documented. And Canadians well know that Air Canada has always been ahead of the curve on this.

We have grown so accustomed to these extra fees that we may not always remember how ridiculously unfair they are. Why should we pay to check luggage? Luggage is a necessity of travel. Why should we pay extra for a necessity?? Congratulations to you folks who avoid fees by not checking luggage, but I find that incredibly inconvenient -- and mostly impossible, especially if I'm alone. We always pay for luggage check. And we're used to it. And we shouldn't have to be.

And now we have to pay for seat selection. For seat selection! That is completely insane! You might say that is optional, but if you've ever had a long flight in an awful seat, you might rethink. On this trip, I spent about $450 on seats. Is that nuts or what? And interestingly, you can't use points for seat selection.

I didn't pay for seat selection on the 45-minute flights between Vancouver and Comox. Who cares where we sit and whether we sit together for those. But for the rest -- Vancouver to Denver, Denver to St Louis, St Louis to Toronto, and Toronto to Vancouver -- I wanted to be reasonably comfortable in a decent section of the plane. 

More accurately, I wanted Allan to be more comfortable so I wouldn't have to listen to him complain so much! Allan doesn't love to fly: the discomfort of being shoehorned into a small space, and the proximity to so many people rates a very high irritability factor. We've all got our things, and this is one of his. On this trip, I paid extra for "premium economy" seats. I actually looked into getting one business-class seat for Allan for the Toronto-to-Vancouver leg, but it was prohibitively expensive. (I would have done it anyway, but I knew he wouldn't want me to spend the money.) The upgraded economy seats made a significant difference. Both flights yesterday were easy and pleasant. But seriously, $450??

I am willing to put up with inconvenience, discomfort, and bad customer service because travel. I expect it, I accept it, and for me, travel is always worth it. My craving to see and experience new places outweighs everything else. But looking more objectively, beyond my own equation, this is completely ridiculous. What other industry could get away with consistenly charging more while delivering less? 

greetings from st. louis (day 1, part one)

I worked on Saturday, then we had two ridiculously busy days. But whatever, we were getting ready to leave, so I was happy. A cleaner bailed at the last minute, so in addition to the various phone calls and errands and dog instructions and orienting new dogsitters and laundry and ironing (yes, ironing, believe it or not), lawn-mowing, wood-splitting and whatever else, we were cleaning the house, too. Allan is never in the best mood when he's so busy, so I was dealing with that, too.

But eventually, we got out of the house and had a chance to relax while driving down to the Comox Valley. We stayed at the Coast Courtenay -- a freebie paid for with Coast Rewards. That was the icing on the cake after getting the entire airfare and half the rental car through Aeroplan points.

In the room, we watched election returns until we hit exhaustion. Tanille Johnston, our NDP candidate who I really admire and strongly support, was leading in the early going. After Rachel Blaney declined to run again, I had pretty much resigned myself to having a Conservative MP. Then Aaron Gunn turned out to be a racist idiot (seriously, he is both), and with Tanille ahead in the early hours of counting, I got my hopes up. By the time we went to sleep, Gunn had taken the lead, but Tanille was still closing the gap. 

I was so exhausted that I nearly went to sleep in the disgusting clothes I had been in all day, but rallied a bit. I slept maybe four hours, woke up at 1:00 a.m., saw the final results for our riding and the country.

We knew the NDP would fare poorly, for reasons both of their own doing and well beyond their control, but I didn't expect such a total collapse, with Jagmeet losing his seat. On the other hand, I was doing a happy dance over Poilievre losing his seat. Who would imagine that the American dictator would help us dodge that (seemingly inevitable) bullet. I am happier about PP losing his seat than I am sad about Jagmeet losing his.

And then there is Aaron Gunn. He is an embarrassment, wholly unfit to sit in Parliament. I won't be at all surprised if he does something unconscionable and is forced to resign. Although he has already done something unconscionable, and his party and his voters don't care. Allan and I are absolutely disgusted at his election.

I let Allan sleep til 3:30, then we left the car at the Comox Valley Airport, and took a short and easy flight to Vancouver. Then: all that preparation, and hotel room and super-early wake-up, and now it was only 6:30 a.m. and we had an almost seven-hour layover in Vancouver. A few weeks ago, I had a brilliant idea of what to do with that time -- and I want to capture it here.

In which we cross something off our list and I congratulate myself incessantly 

We have this expensive luggage, purchased from our insurance settlement after the Great Sewage Flood of 2008. Briggs & Riley luggage is guaranteed for life, repaired or replaced, no questions asked. At some point in the last year or so, my suitcase developed a tear in the fabric. B&R would fix it or replace the bag at no charge, and ship it back to me -- but I had to get the bag to the closest authorized dealer... which of course is in Vancouver. Or more accurately, in Richmond, very near the airport!

We brought the empty suitcase with us as a carry-on. Researching online, I discovered there is a bag check in the Vancouver Airport. We left our camera, CPAP, and backpack there ($11 per item, but they only charged us for two, for no reason), and took the Skytrain into Vancouver. I even had transit cards from a previous trip. (More self-congratulations for remembering them and knowing where they were.) 

From the Skytrain, we figured out a long bus ride to the repair place -- or thought we did. We were on the bus for a very long time, and hey, this looks familiar... I think we've already been here... And we realized we had completed the entire bus route and were on a second loop! Oops! 

I chatted with the driver: it turns out we were on the wrong bus. Lesson learned: do not trust Google Maps to understand public transit. I should have checked the bus schedule maps myself. Google gave two different options, and neither were correct.

The bus driver was extremely helpful, and helped me figure out how to correct our mistake. It was totally fixable with one long walk. We had plenty of time, it wasn't raining, and we set off. The only inconvenience was the empty suitcase and a totebag full of snacks. With a long travel day ahead of us, I had packed a lot of healthy snacks from home, and we hadn't checked that bag. We walked for about 15-20 minutes, found the repair place, and left the suitcase. Amazing!

In which a sweet travel story makes me even happier

Then came the second part of my clever plan: dim sum! Richmond has a huge Chinese Canadian population, and I know it is loaded with dim sum places -- the "dumpling trail". In New York, dim sum was a huge treat, but in Mississauga, it was practically a staple. We love it and haven't had it at all since moving to the Island. I called an Uber and in a few minutes we were at one of the places that came up in my research. 

It was in a somewhat strange location, hidden away in what looked like the back of an industrial building. Plus it wasn't open yet. By this time we were very hungry and it felt like a long day and night were about to catch up with us in a big way. Should we wait for the place to open? How far were we from a Skytrain back to the airport? Should we Uber to another restaurant closer to the airport? 

We walked around the building, trying to figure out what to do in this seemingly deserted parking lot. And when we came back around to the entrance, there was a small crowd of people waiting for it to open! They were all Chinese, always a good sign. I asked a woman if there was a Skytrain nearby, and... we were right near a stop! Actually between two stops! What a laugh!

I said that was amazing, as we were on a layover from the airport. She gave me a huge smile and said, Are you tourists?? She seemed all ready to help. So sweet. I told her we live on Vancouver Island and are just on our way somewhere. A few seconds later, the restaurant opened. Several steamed pork buns and shrimp dumplings later, we were full and very happy. Absolutely perfect.

The Skytrain was literally down the street, and in five minutes we were back at the airport, claimed our items from the baggage, and headed to security, exactly 90 minutes before our flight. The only question is when I will stop congratulating myself.