The Search for True Meaning in Allentown

We had one of those mornings. At the crack of 4:30, Cat exploded in a variety of meows, mows, and MERRROWRRRS until we woke up and gave him running water from the bathtub he felt he so richly deserved. As we didn’t have to go to work that day, we did as we do most mornings, drink our coffee while contemplating how we can ship Cat off to a more forgiving family. In Argentina, preferably.

Cat
Cat, destroyer of dreams

As this point in the conversation can take a turn for the dark, we changed the subject to something lighter. We had just bought a new TV stand, and it was sitting in the living room all bright and beautiful. Our TV had been resting on the cedar chest, and in order to use it for the purpose in which it was intended, we had to lift the TV off to open the lid. Not so bad with the current LED, but before these days of lighter televisions, we had an old CRT which weighed roughly 14 tons.

“How long have we had the TV on the cedar chest?” I asked.

I immediately regretted it. The answer to that question was going to be far too depressing.

But that’s how the winter is in the north. It goes on so long that when you think back to a time it wasn’t winter, even that isn’t enough to cheer you up. This winter has been especially dark and cold, and on top of it, the two of us have had weird and annoying health issues. That and Cat’s regular mid-morning assaults on our slumber have made for a rough couple of months.

cat
Cat, sworn enemy of human sleep

“We didn’t have it there in Chattanooga,” Laura said. “I think it was when we moved.”

I heard the word Chattanooga and saw a golden opportunity to change the subject. We were married there, and spent our wedding night at a bed and breakfast in town. It had been a long-denied plan of ours to go back to that place, but time and finances conspired against us. It looked like it was going to come together for our 15th Anniversary, but we ended up in Japan instead. No regrets, of course.

“Maybe we could go for our…” I said, and stopped. We looked at each other and had the same thought. The end to that sentence was going to be twentieth anniversary. Four years away.

“I don’t want to wait,” Laura said.

I smiled, “I don’t either.”


I can’t say as I ever thought that much about mortality. It was one of those subjects that was going to be put off for another day, most likely the exact moment where I realize I can’t get out of bed and function like a normal human being.

But the winter makes you question how long you have. The idea that you’ve lived for twelve and a half years with a TV propped up on your cedar chest will do that for you, too. And then, right around Christmas, my eye started messing up on me. Like every good American, I consulted the internet, the repository for all the world’s knowledge, and in its wisdom it has determined that I have either Dry Eye Syndrome or a rare flesh-eating bacteria that will devour my entire head within three days.

I was still around after three days, so that’s good. But the problem hasn’t gone away. Even though I’m almost certain that this is not how I’m going to leave this Earth, the question of when and where and why that’s going to happen looms larger.


One day a long time ago, Laura and I had a conversation about people we knew who were older, and how it seemed that one person we knew was older than the other, even though Person A was much younger than Person B. The answer to this was easy: attitude.

As we sat in the living room in the morning, watching Cat wander in from the dining room and wondering what size box is appropriate to ship a mammal to Buenos Aires, Laura said: “I want to wake up every morning, and celebrate the fact that I’m alive”

It took me right back to what we talked about years ago. The fact of the matter is, we all hit this moment in our lives where we are faced—to a large degree or a lesser one—with our own mortality. When that time comes, we really have two choices: we can either mope around and tell everybody we’re going to die soon, or we can wake up in the morning and enjoy the fact that we did, in fact, wake up that morning.

Because of a Cat.

To Be Continued

Since we last met, the summer ended and the fall arrived. I continued to write and take a few pictures, but nothing momentous or amazing was going on, so I was feeling like I would need to post something just to post something. And that’s never good.

By the time we got to October, it was time for vacation, and for Daytona Beach, which I figured would give me something to write about. Storms had come through as they had the year before, but instead of flip-flops and glasses and televisions washing up on shore as they had during Matthew, all we got this year was seaweed. And not just seaweed, but SEAWEED.

seaweed

We visited the St. Augustine Lighthouse, which was something we wanted to do for a long time and never got around to:

St. Augustine Lighthouse

All of this was interesting, and I admired the photographs as I got home, but overall I didn’t feel like anything happened. We went to the beach, we ate seafood, we listened to the ocean at night, and yet, when it was all done, I didn’t feel like much of anything happened and I didn’t feel like our vacation felt like a vacation. Not true, of course, as I look back on it. But a malaise is a malaise, I didn’t post anything, and I wasn’t really taking much, if any, pictures.

So the question is, when you feel like this, what do you do about it?

You don’t talk about things. You do things. The lack of photography was really getting to me and I wanted to go out and take pictures, but by this time it was November, and November in Allentown is not the most photogenic. Most times, I’ve avoided the dark, dreary scenes that punctuate the coming winter in eastern Pennsylvania, and certainly with the way I was feeling, such images would seem to be truly counter-productive. I sat on the idea for about a week, and then I said to myself that I had to do something.

So I drove around. The sun was bright and the weather was cold. I had a shot in mind, something I had seen a few days before. Nothing momentous, just the winter sun on a fence:

FenceBut it was a start. I drove in to the city with another shot in mind. There was an old variety store downtown with a “Teem” soda sign, a rarity even in the day when it was put up. Unfortunately, it didn’t exist anymore, and I ended up driving around. Along the way, I spotted a woman in the window of a diner, so I shrugged my shoulders, and took a shot out the passenger’s side:

Diner WindowI didn’t know if what I was doing was art, but it was certainly making me feel like I was doing something. During the next few weeks, when I found a free moment, I just started driving around Allentown, taking shots at whatever I saw.

Alley

Tower and Dodge Van

 

It rained one night and Laura had a hair appointment, so I carted myself out to get some shots. I went by Zandy’s trying to recreate a shot I had made earlier, only this time I brought my tripod. And when I say tripod, I mean, a 16-year-old aluminum and plastic bit of off-brand nonsense that can barely hold the weight of my camera. It was raining a lot, so I stayed inside the car and tried to wrestle with this beast to make it stand straight enough to take a decent shot out of the window.

This is not an easy thing to do.

The rain was cascading in through the driver’s side window. I was flopping all over the seats, trying to get a somewhat decent angle. The locks on the tripod legs slipped and put the camera at an angle, causing me to reset and lock them again. The locks slipped again, and the whole process started anew. In the end, I took about four shots, only one of which was close to what I wanted to get.

Zandy's

A while ago I mentioned that I had a job as a photographer/videographer at a Catskills resort when I was in my late teens. One day, I got chastised for taking shots of things that weren’t paying customers, and it’s one of those things I think about almost every time I press the shutter. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.

In light of that, I drove around a little bit more after this, wondering why I take pictures at all. What I was doing was nonsense.

 

But the more I thought about that, the more I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t worry about that. Sure, not every image, not every story is going to be a winner, but that shouldn’t stop anyone from doing anything. Nothing’s perfect that first time out, so why stop?

Water Tower

Red Steps

Permanent Odor Removal

Maybe it’s nonsense, but it’s all important. Even if it’s a failure, you can build on it to become a success. The work, just like life, is always to be continued, because if it stops, then it truly is meaningless. All through the winter, I’ll be trying to take some more shots just like these, and some of them will be OK, some of them may be good, but there will always be something new.

Get It While It’s in Season

My father woke up one morning and said, “I need some french-fried lobster.”

Not only is the first line of a novel I will not write, but it is also a fact. I might have been a teenager when that fateful morning occurred, but if I was, I would have been in just under the wire. Having spoken the words I need some french-fried lobster, he got into the Toyota and started it up. Mom and I followed him to the car, figuring it was best not to let him go on this quest alone.

He knew of only one place in the world where such things as french-fried lobster existed. The previous summer, we had made our way to the Jersey shore and found a place called Howard’s in Beach Haven, for whom this was a specialty. We arrived on Long Beach Island, found a hotel, made our way to Howard’s, had dinner, stayed the night, and drove back.

Howard's

In my adult life, I have been plagued by the phrase Oh, I can’t do that. I think to a certain extent we all suffer from it, even those that jump out of planes for fun. It seems too simple: I want to do this, no one will be harmed if I do this, all it will cost me is time and effort, and in the end, I’ll have a story that will last the rest of our lives. And yet, we resist. That seems like a lot of effort for lobster.

But my father does this. And we have this story.

So when, for his 73rd birthday, he requested a return trip to Howard’s (with a stop-off at Rutt’s Hut for lunch), who were we to deny him?

Mom and Dad at Rutt's Hut

It had been years since my Dad had been to the Jersey shore. We talked it over on the way there and it was possible that our fateful midnight ride to Howard’s had been the last time they had gone. My great aunt had a place on Brigantine when my Dad was a child, and that, we determined, had prompted our first visit. I remember seeing Atlantic City, circa 1978, saw the Boardwalk, saw a few other places mentioned on the Monopoly board, and that’s pretty much all I remember.

There’s a reason why it doesn’t cost that much to put up a hotel on Baltic Avenue.

I think the second time we came was when Great Adventure (now Six Flags Great Adventure) opened. They had a drive-through zoo, and the camels spit on the car. That’s pretty much all I remember.

We stayed in Toms River that year, and made trips to Long Beach Island (where Dad found Howard’s) and Manasquan. I remember Manasquan because we had ice cream there, and I got to eat ice cream on the beach, and when you’re under 10, there is nothing else in life.


Driving into New Jersey with my Dad up front and my Mom and Laura in the back, I became conscious of what the shore might be like on the weekend before Labor Day, the de facto end of summer. Resistance crept in. This could be crazy. Everyone could be on the beach for one last blast. The traffic might be at a standstill.

And yet, these notions, whether they would prove to be true or not, pale in comparison to this fact: we drove all the way from Upstate New York to do this, and we conquered it. Thirty years ago or not, we fought through all this once before, we can do it again. You got nothing.

It was nothing. There was some traffic, but it soon thinned out the closer we got. The sun was out and the world was generally at peace. We drove down the island, stopping at a few places of interest, including John Maschal’s Country Kettle Fudge. We stopped there all those years ago, I could remember, and it wasn’t that much different. Dad bought fudge, which is what he does, and we walked down to the bay, where there’s a boat landing, and watched boats pull in.

John Maschal's Country Kettle Fudge

Dock

Boats

All four of us

I decided to drive down to the end of the island while we waited for Howard’s to open. There’s an overlook to the beach which was new, and plantings on the dunes, which were new. It didn’t take long to realize this was all rebuilt, had to be rebuilt, after Sandy.

New Planting

The Dunes

All that was left was our minor victory, to once again conquer the french-fried lobster in all its elusive (maybe not) glory. There was waiting line, but a mere trifle, for this battle could and would be won, to bed! For we rise at 9:30…

Line for Howard's

Oh, never mind. This looked like it would take a while. While we waited, I figured I might as well take some pictures around the neighborhood.

Bay Bikes

And then, to food and to make merry and to sound like a waiter in Medieval Times…Huzzah!

French Fried Lobster

That’s the stuff.

I’ve been kind of joking about it, but it’s true. We all harbor these foolish resistances and tell ourselves that we can’t do things, even at the smallest level. Yes, jumping out of a plane when you’re afraid of heights seems like a crazy thing, especially if you don’t have a parachute, but it takes your fear and it crushes it. Those fears, whatever they may be, will stay with you no matter what you do. Despite what we think, they will never go away. But if you neutralize them, conquer them as often as you can, you won’t be paralyzed by them.

Yes, it’s a small thing. But that night all those years ago when we went to Howard’s on a whim, we told You can’t do this to shove it.

Thanks, Dad. Happy birthday.

My Dad

 

Found: One Can of Whipped Cream

Things get left behind on trash day. It happens. And that’s what might have happened here, but upon closer inspection, I don’t think so. All that was left on this area between the sidewalk and the road was a) the can of whipped cream, and b) the pink cap for the can of whipped cream. Which begs the question: what’s someone doing with a can of whipped cream on Front Street in Media? Right between the Fire House and the Library?

Also, did anybody know that Cabot made whipped cream? And if so, where do you get it?

Answers to these questions are welcome. The most creative answer gets a slightly-used can of Cabot Whipped Cream.

Whipped Cream and Other Delights

Keep the Home Fires Burning

On the morning of my wedding, I woke up in the guest bed at a friend’s house. It was early and I noticed I was the only one there, so I got dressed and stepped out and saw that they were outside, burning some scraps left over from the construction of their new house. He was piling the wood on to the fire and she was armed with a hose to keep the grass from burning and generally to keep the fire under control. I said, “Can I help?”

Twelve seconds later, and four hours before the wedding, I was armed with a hose to keep the grass from burning and generally to keep the fire under control. My friends, the couple I was staying with, had some other things to do in town, and took off. For the next two hours, I manned this post. This is how I spent the morning of my wedding.

Fifteen years later, and this makes for a nice story. Some of you might feel that this wedding-morning scenario is a perfect encapsulation of the marriage that was to come, and I know, because you’ve told me after I’ve related this story to you. Not true. Laura has never planned out a project like this and abandoned me, and if this keeps happening to you, I’m sorry. But what I take from that morning is this: keeping a fire is hard. It needs constant attention, it can go out, and it can get out of control, so someone is always needed to tend to it.

The Ancestral Home of the Sanders'

This past Saturday, Laura and I drove up to the ancestral birthplace to be with my parents. They live on farmland that my grandfather bought in the sixties that he intended to be a golf course someday. When they were clearing the land, my Grandmother put all the wood out on the hill and set fire to it. It got out of control, so they called the fire department. Then they cleared some more land. My Grandmother put the wood out on the hill and set fire to it. They called the fire department again. This happened three times in all, and only stopped when the fire department threatened my Grandmother with arrest and seizure. Fortunately, the rest of my family, perhaps because of this very story, has a healthy and cautious attitude toward fire.

When we arrived in Binghamton, we found my Mom putting some wood on the fire pit in the back yard. It’s become a tradition to toast marshmallows on the Fourth of July weekend. So we did. Some of the wood was still wet, so the fire needed attention. I pushed the wood around with a rake to keep it going.

Fire is one of the four classical elements, along with air, water and earth. In the city, we get so little of each, and not always the right kind. Fire is almost always destructive outside the country, but here, it can be controlled, harnessed, and be used for positive purposes.

We sat out and looked at the stars, and hills beyond, and thought about how much we want to share this view, this place, with others. Almost always, my Mom says on these occasions of quiet reflection, “This is so special. Why don’t more people see it?”

The Ancestral Home

I think about all of those people who grew up there, who have moved away as I have, who do see it. I see how great it is, and all I want to do is share it with others.

The next morning, the fire had yet to go out. There were still portions of wet old boxes that had finally caught and were sending up smoky flames. My Mom took a look at the fire and thought we might as well take advantage of it. She had plenty of boxes in the basement that we needed to get rid of, so why not burn them off?

Me and the Fire

Two hours later and I was standing there with a rake and a hose, making sure the fire didn’t get out of control.

The weather on Saturday was supposed to be wet, so the traditional grilling looked like a bad idea. We went over our dining-out options in Binghamton, and my Mom came up with the idea of going to this place called Jrama’s Soul Food Grille & Barbecue Pit on Upper Front Street. It went in a few years ago, and we’ve passed it a few times since it opened in 2015.

Jramas

To be honest, soul food on Upper Front Street in Binghamton is a study in contrast. Although I’ve been blessed enough to step into the soul food realm, both in Chattanooga and up north in Easton, soul food is foreign here. So much so that Jrama’s provides a sampler of sides to customers to give them an idea of what they can expect. There were two slices of cornbread, and little cups of corn, mac and cheese, slaw, beans, greens…

Greens.

I’m a greens fanatic. I never expected to find them in my home town, ever. This was something you could only find in the South, or in the major cities. And these greens, these…

Jamar Johnson, the owner of Jrama’s, was behind the counter. It was impossible for me to refrain from commenting on the greens. “I’ve had greens everywhere, and these are so good…”

He was at the grill. He said, “I’ve got a love-hate relationship with greens. Sometimes they come out right, and sometimes…”

Greens are difficult. They need care and attention, just like a fire. If done right, they can be better than anything. All of this food, everything we ate there, came out of family, out of tradition, out of everything so special that you have to share it.

Ribs, cornbread, greens
Ribs, cornbread, greens. The three food groups.

When something is great, it’s a natural impulse to want to share it. This is what I feel this Independence Day: a place, whether it is a city or a whole country, that can produce so many good things, such good food of various kinds, such natural beauty, such fire, is worthy to be called special and great. God bless America on this day. I feel so honored to share all of these things with you.

A Taste of the Finger Lakes

Laura and I went our first wine tasting eight years ago, when we went down to Crossing Winery in Newtown, Pennsylvania. We really didn’t know what to expect, honestly, having managed to go through nearly 40 years of life without such experiences. They put us in a room with large barrels lining the walls, poured the essential stuff in our glasses, and spoke wistfully of oak and berries and citrus and other things that you’re supposed to taste, but didn’t. But no matter. It was good wine, and even though we didn’t know why it was good, it still was.

That summer, my parents offered to take us up to the Finger Lakes to do a proper wine tour, complete with chauffeur. That would be my Dad, who doesn’t indulge and is perfectly content to drive around and look at the scenery. We had had a good experience at Crossing, so why not?

And we’ve been going at least once a year ever since.

Shaw Vineyard
Shaw Vineyard

So, as seasoned travelers along this well-worn path, the least we can do is impart some wisdom. There are a few supplies that every Finger Lakes Wine Tourist should have, and they are:

  1. A designated driver. Dad, in our case.
  2. A basket of snacks. Generally we go with crackers, cheese, and slices of salami. Food is not necessarily guaranteed along the trail, although that has changed in recent years. I’ll cover that in another article.
  3. A game plan. Because not all wineries are created equal.
  4. Water. Lots and lots of water.

The game plan is perhaps the most essential, for many reasons. First and foremost, you really don’t want to stop at every winery that comes along, or maybe you do, in which case you probably need some sort of help. You’re best served visiting about six or seven wineries at the most, and it’s good policy to take your time between tastings. Maybe you want to confine yourself to one lake at a time.

This year, we decided to stick (mostly) to Seneca Lake. We were going to start out with Bloomer Creek, which we had never tried before. Bloomer Creek wasn’t open when we got there, but we ended up doubling back later, and it was so impressive that I feel like I should cover them on their own in a future post. But for the moment, we couldn’t step inside, so we ended up at Hazlitt 1852.

Hazlitt 1852

There was a bachelorette party in the tasting room at the back, but otherwise, we had the place to ourselves. Although Hazlitt is known for its ubiquitous Red Cat, a sweet wine readily available anywhere in the Northeast, they have a full spectrum of varietals, including the Pinot Gris we took home.

Hazlitt Pinot Gris

The winery is informal without going overboard about it, and as far as I can tell, is the best winery to go to if you’ve never been to a wine tasting. There is no judgment here.

Another bachelorette party showed up in the middle of our tasting. Then, when we were on our way out, a bus pulled up in the back and a crew of girls with tell-tale matching-bling t-shirts folded out. We figured we needed to make ourselves scarce before a gang war broke out among the bride-to-be factions.

It should be noted that if you are planning a bachelorette party, the best recommendation I can make is Three Brothers in the northeast corner of Seneca. It’s more destination than winery, a wine theme park if you will. There are three wineries on the estate, with one of them, Passion Feet, devoted to everything girly. Note: reservations are required here for buses or limos.

If you would like to avoid the t-shirt and tiara crowd, I have some suggestions as well. First, it’s her day, get over it. Second there are plenty of places for the Non-Bachelorette Party People to go:

MIles Wine Cellars
MIles Wine Cellars

Miles Wine Cellars, for instance. Most of the wineries in the Finger Lakes, and especially Seneca, have very good views of the lake, but are not lakefront. Miles is the exception. Located in an early 1800s farmhouse, this winery has perhaps the greatest atmosphere of any winery in the area. The wine is very good, and we usually refer to their “Call Me a Cab” as our House Red. It is said that the old place is haunted by the original owners, which is the inspiration for their Chardonnay/Cayuga blend, “Ghost”.

Space is limited in the tasting rooms, so tour buses are not often found here.

MIles Boathouse

We are old hands at Miles, so we didn’t do the tasting this time, we just stocked up on our old favorites, put them in the car, and walked down to the lake.

Hermann J. Weimer
Hermann J. Weimer

Hermann J. Weimer is rapidly and justifiably becoming one of the best-known wineries in the area. The Riesling grape grows very well in New York state, so you really can’t go wrong with any Riesling from the area, but if you want the best, it is here waiting for you. We stocked up with Dry and Semi-Dry 2016. Had we brought any first-timers, we might have done a tasting, because not only does Weimer have exceptional wines of all varietals, but they have a gorgeous array of tasting rooms. We first came here in 2013, and we have worked it in to every wine tour we have done ever since. It is a can’t miss.

Hermann J. Weimer Dry Riesling 2016

Standing Stone, on the east side of Seneca, is one of the longest-running wineries in the area. Everything we had there was good, and we were especially pleased with the Gewürtztraminer and the Saperavi. As it so happens, we discovered a week later that Tom and Marti Macinski, the long-time owners of Standing Stone, were stepping aside, and that operations will be taken over by Hermann J. Weimer. We wish the Macinskis nothing but good fortune in their retirement, and believe me, we have no argument when it comes to their replacement. This could get interesting. We can’t wait to see what the future holds.

Standing Stone Saperavi

Lamoreaux Landing
Lamoreaux Landing

Lamoreaux Landing is located in one of the best spots on Seneca Lake and they take full advantage with a tasting room blessed with panoramic views. The Chardonnay was particularly good, and we were very happy with their latest release, 42 North. We will most certainly be back.

Lamoreaux Landing Chardonnay

Keuka Spring
Keuka Spring

We skipped across to the east side of Keuka, which is a pretty easy trip over from Seneca, and visited Keuka Spring. Keuka has some of the oldest wineries in the state, yet it seems quieter than the others. We first went to Keuka Spring one lazy Friday morning a few years ago when we were the only ones in the place, had a tasting, and sat out on the hill overlooking the lake. Even though it was a dreary day then, as it was this day, it is such a peaceful spot that we barely noticed the clouds. This time, the place was packed, and well it should have been, because the wine is very good here.

Keuka Spring Chardonnay

There are so many wineries in the Finger Lakes that you can’t possibly visit them all during one tour. We visited seven this time around, but there were a lot more that we can heartily recommend:

Konstantin Frank, Hammondsport, NY (Keuka)

Heron Hill, Hammondsport, NY (Keuka)

Red Tail Ridge, Penn Yan, NY (Seneca)

Americana Vineyards, Interlaken, NY (Cayuga)

Ravines, Geneva, NY (Seneca)

Shaw Vineyard, Himrod, NY (Seneca)

Anyela’s, Skaneateles, NY (Skaneateles)

Not to mention, in the non-wine category:

Finger Lakes Distilling, Burdett, NY (Seneca)

 

 

 

No Good Story Starts in the Suburbs

Laura and I both grew up in the country. I was in upstate New York and she was in central Pennsylvania. We both went to Tennessee for college and ended up in Chattanooga. We got married, and moved to Pennsylvania.

Short version.

In all of that time, we never lived “in the city.” Outside the city, on a mountain overlooking the city, at arm’s length of the city, we specialized in these places. When we first got to Chattanooga, the reputation of the city was less than stellar. Back in the day they used to test the air quality by putting a mason jar outside, and if a quarter-inch of soot had gathered in it by evening, it was considered a good day. By the time we left, Chattanooga was thriving, a tourist destination, and one of the best places to live in the country.

We arrived in Allentown in 2008. The city is of a similar size, both were built on rivers, both had pretty much ignored the potential of their riverfront areas. It all changed for Chattanooga when it built the Tennessee Aquarium on the river. We hoped the same would happen for Allentown.

Allentown Riverfront, March 2009

Allentown Riverfront, March 2009

In the meantime, going to downtown Allentown was not exactly the nicest of experiences. There wasn’t much to see, old buildings were decaying, landmarks like Hess’s department store had faded from memory, and about all that was left was the statue in the center of 7th and Hamilton in the middle of the square.

Around the corner from us, the J.P. O’Malley Pub, a local landmark that had fallen on bad times, closed. Pretty soon after, there was speculation that it would open again. It didn’t.

I was working for a television station at the time, and I went downtown to get some stock footage of the city. I set up my camera to get a shot of the statue and almost as soon as I started the tape (we used tape in 2008), a guy got out of his car just to the right of me. He saw the camera, put on his best gangsta pose, and howled into the camera “Whassup, New Yoooooork?”

He cracked himself up. I smiled politely. I couldn’t help thinking, New York? How about ‘Whassup, Allentown?’

Are we just a suburb, albeit a distant one, of New York? It wasn’t the first time I had heard that estimation of Allentown. A couple of native New Yorkers had once, in a conversation with me, referred to Allentown as “the country.” No, you’d be wrong about that, I wanted to say, but instead, smiled politely. Trenton, Georgia, is the country. Center Lisle, New York is the country. Not Allentown. Never Allentown.

Coca-Cola Park, April 2009

Coca-Cola Park, April 2009

Hope was alive in Allentown when the Iron Pigs AAA baseball hit town. Coca-Cola Park opened up on a hill overlooking the city, shouting distance away, but even though the new location was inside the city limits, the team was called the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs. Access to the park was much easier from the east side of town, or Bethlehem, or even Easton for that matter. No real easy connection to downtown Allentown.

And so it continued over time. The hopes we had of a Chattanooga-like resurgence looked like just that: hopes.

Around the corner, the J.P. O’Malley Pub remained boarded up.

It wasn’t until the PPL Arena, the new venue for AHL hockey, was announced. The proposed spot would be along Hamilton Street, in between 7th and 8th, and there would be restaurants and shops and plenty of speculation that just one big thing couldn’t possibly change things for an entire downtown, could it? We remembered the Tennessee Aquarium’s arrival in Chattanooga, and we thought oh, yes it could.


We brought friends of ours to Roar Social House, a restaurant across from the PPL Arena. It was our third visit to Roar, but for them, it was their first, and their first trip to downtown Allentown in quite a while. Across the street, a crowd was piling in to see the Phantoms game. Our friends’ eyes were wide. This couldn’t be the same place, could it? There were shops and restaurants and you could walk the streets without a care in the world. We know, we said, we know. We could hardly believe it ourselves.

Union and Finch

After much planning and work, the old J.P. O’Malley’s Pub was reborn as Union and Finch. It’s not right along the main strip where all the revival has taken place in Allentown, but it is a revival unto itself. If you haven’t been there, you should, and shame on you, because the food and atmosphere is excellent.

Union and Finch

The final piece to this puzzle took place this last weekend. We were looking for things to do on a Saturday, and have you read this blog before? Because when we look for things to do on a Saturday, we don’t stick around the local area too often. This time, we did, and it happened to be the day for the Blues, Brews, and Barbecue Festival in downtown Allentown.

Shame on us, but this was the 10th Annual Blues, Brews and Barbecue Festival, and we had never gone. Let’s do it, we said. Sounds fun. Think anybody will be there?

Yeah, a few.

Blues, Brews, and BBQ

Free to get in, three bucks to park, blues in the air, and the scent of grilled meat wherever you go? Sign me up. And again, that moment, as Laura and I walked hand in hand up the alley, through the Artswalk, and on to the surface of a closed off Hamilton Street, the recurring thought, this is Allentown? Why, yes. Yes, it is.

Of course, I took pictures all along the way. Barbecued meat tempted me at every turn. We walked in the shade along the south side of the street, back behind the vendors, when I saw a great stack of wood about to go into a smoker. I snapped off a couple shots.

Wood

Then I heard a voice, “Hey, come and see this.”

A guy wearing a bandana adorned with flames motioned me over to the smoker. He was just opening up to have a look. “Get a load of that,” he said, as he pulled up the door with a smile.

Grumpy's Ribs

Well, I’ll have some of that, then. I also took a picture of this guy, just to give credit where credit was due.

This GuySince I had walked around the back, I didn’t know that this was Grumpy’s BBQ. They have a place out north of town, and the ribs are terrific. Dry rub, falling off the bone, just like God intended when he designed the pig. We had a half-rack, and if there was one regret we have, it is this: once we ate our fill, there were all these other wonderful vendors out there. I wanted to sample them all, but in order to do that, the term “meat sweats” would have to be used at some point, and no one needs that.

So next year, then.

Artswalk

And as we listened, and digested, and watched all the people walk by, we thought, this is Allentown.

There’s a billboard on the way out of town, and I pass by it every day on my way to work. It says, “No Good Story Starts in the Suburbs. #downtownallentown” We couldn’t agree more.

As of this writing, Roar Social House is temporarily closed as the owner has retired, but Josh Palmer, the owner of Sette Luna and the excellent Maxim’s 22, has reportedly taken over.

Union and Finch is located at 1528 Union Street in Allentown.

Grumpy’s is located at 3000 Mauch Chunk Road in Allentown.

 

Riding Through the Streets of Tokyo. In a Go-Kart. In Costume.

by Laura Sanders

When we were discussing our itinerary for  Tokyo with my sister Hannah, she gave us a number of different options. The zoo and the Sky Tree and the Great Buddha all came up. Kappabashi Street, which I was very excited about. One thing not optional, according to my brother-in-law Dan, was Maricar.

Maricar is attempt to recreate the experience from the Mario Kart games. Only you’re actually driving a go-kart through the streets of Tokyo. They also give you a costume so you look like one of the characters. This combines two things I hate the most: driving and traffic. Three if you count being run over by a truck while wearing a silly outfit.

My sister Rachel was on the fence like me. Scott really wanted to do it, and my brother-in-law Derek wasn’t going to be denied. Hannah said it wasn’t really her thing either, that she was nervous the first time she did it, but she said once you start riding around, you don’t even think about what you’re doing. I didn’t entirely believe her.  But I knew the guys were looking forward to it so I reluctantly agreed.

There was one stipulation: we had to get our International Driver’s License. I figured, hey, it’s just cool that I’m getting an International Driver’s License, so we went by AAA and got the permit.

INternational Driving Permits

The night before we were supposed to go do this crazy thing, I was feeling nervous. No, lets be honest, terrified, so I went to discuss it with Hannah. She said I would be fine, that the two hours went by like nothing. It would be dark by the time we got to the end but the lights in the city would be amazing.

Wait. What? Two hours?

First, did I mention I have night blindness? Whenever there’s driving to be done at night, I let Scott do it. Second, two hours? Third, did I mention night blindness?

Two hours, I said. Two hours? I looked at Scott. He was just as surprised as I was. Hannah struggled for words. I’m sure she said something reassuring, but I couldn’t hear it over my pulse pounding. Two Hours. Driving. Go-Kart. Night. Big trucks running over members of my family one-by-one. And sure, Dan’s a surgeon, but could he manage to stitch us together after all that?

That morning before we left, Hannah came to me and said it was all right, I didn’t have to go. The guys could go and the girls could do something else. She suggested we go to Shibuya Crossing to watch the boys as they sped by to their deaths. Well, that’s what I heard her say, anyway.

I looked at Rachel. She said, “It’s all right, Lo. We can do something else.” She didn’t mean it, though, I could tell in her voice she really wanted this experience.

We went to the Tsukiji Fish Market that morning and we had a great time, but it was still hanging over me. Rachel really wanted to do this, and if I didn’t do it, she wouldn’t. Since she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, she was determined to make it over to Japan before she started her treatment.

I began to think, Rachel is about to go through something incredibly scary. When we get back she has to go through months of treatment.  In the depths of chemo, while she’s sitting in that chair getting drugs pumped into her body to kill off this disease, she can look back to this day and say “I drove a go-kart through the streets of Tokyo.”  Whatever anxiety I might have had didn’t even compare.  I took a deep breath, pocketed my fears, and followed my family into the abyss.

The group in front of us snagged the Mario, Luigi, and Yoshi costumes, so we made use of the leftovers. I just wanted to get it over with, so I reached into the rack and pulled out whatever was the least sweaty. Scott went with Tigger. Rachel sensibly decided against a costume. Dan went with Princess Peach because of some deep-seated childhood trauma we know nothing about. Derek was wearing something that looked closest to a Mario outfit, and Hannah went with Eeyore. Thankfully, I remembered to grab goggles for everyone right before we walked out. We were clearly going to need them.

Everybody

Our guide was telling us how to run the go-karts before we left but it was hard to hear him with the headline American Tourists killed in horrific Go-Karting Accident screaming in my head.  Eventually, with a pep talk from Dan, I got the beastly machine moving forward in the right direction. And then we were off. Scott had his GoPro, filming the whole thing. I questioned the filming: did my Mother really need to see the ghastly way I was about to leave this world?

Along the way, pedestrians smiled and waved at us. Scott had noticed before we left that he didn’t see one Japanese person doing this. Of course not I said, the Japanese are extremely intelligent people. Although this activity was clearly something strictly for crazy tourists they seemed to love you for doing it.

The Essence of Dan

Hannah said that eventually I would lose the fear of “getting run over by a bus” thing and start enjoy myself. I loved her for trying and she was partially right.

About five minutes in I glance at the sticker below the steering wheel, it read: Vehicle has to be driven only with sufficient protective clothing. Use a Safety Helmet!

Warning

I’m pretty sure a Tigger costume and hat did not constitute as safety gear, but what do I really know?

Then, there were moments when we would come to a halt and have a few minutes to look around. The city lights, the cherry blossoms, the people, the scent of food and fuel mixed together, and a little voice would say, “You are driving through the streets of Tokyo in a go-kart.” Yeah. I am. And it was cool. No. It was awesome. I was doing something most people will never get the opportunity to try.  Most people will never have the opportunity to travel to Tokyo, let alone do this. Then I would notice the giant bus two inches from my left and realize the error of my ways.

I got to drive through Shibuya Crossing in a go-kart. Drive through a tunnel at speeds I dare not mention in case my mother reads this story.

Sorry, Mom. I love you.

When it was all over, Scott asked me if I would do it again. I thought about it for a few moments, and replied, “Yes. Yes I would. But I’d be just as terrified as I had been this time.”

However, isn’t that the benefit of facing your fears? Sometimes you just have to do it, so when you’re going through something really hard down the road, you can look back and say, “I did that. I can do anything.” Thank you Hannah and Dan for providing us with the opportunity to take a trip of a lifetime. Thank you Scott and Derek for having nothing but excitement about our travels. Thank you Rachel for inspiring me to face my fears.

Laura in Costume

By the way, can somebody write in and tell me what I’m dressed as? None of us know.

Better Than the Real Thing: Eating in Japan

One year for New Year’s, we went to a Japanese place in Bethlehem, called Kome. We had been there a few times before, and thought the hibachi would be just the thing for the family. Rachel and Derek came, Laura’s aunt and uncle and her cousin, and we couldn’t have made a better choice. We sat around the grill, watched the chef prepare the food, send random streams of sake in our directions, do the onion volcano, all the things that we come to know and love from this type of experience. We all had a great time and had good food.

If you were to have asked me then, on that night, if that was what eating in Japan was like, I would have said, “No, probably not.” And I would have been right. And wrong.

Again, not that I’m suddenly an expert on Japanese food. It’s just that now I have an idea of what Japanese food can be. For instance, one of our first outings was to the Ramen Museum, north of Yokohama, which Hannah chose specifically because a) it’s interesting to look at, b) because they have several different ramen vendors there, and c) because a couple of vendors have gluten-free ramen, which allowed her and Laura to indulge.

The Ramen Museum has an elaborate set-up to look like a stylized version of a 1950’s Japanese street, complete with movie advertisements and signage. Each one of the storefronts is a ramen restaurant.

Ramen Museum

Ramen. Most of us know it as that thing that kept us from starving in college. My mother was one of the first to get addicted to instant ramen when they made their way west, so we would always have a few packets on hand, although I could take or leave them, honestly. If you were to ask me then if that’s what eating ramen in Japan was like, I’d say probably not. And I’d have been right. And right again.

And wrong, possibly, since those same ramen packets exist in Japan as well. I suppose it’s the difference between Steak-Umm and an actual Philly cheesesteak. You don’t always have time for the real thing.

Real Deal Ramen

Oh, but you should make time.

Ramen shops are no-nonsense affairs. You punch in what you want into a machine, you sit down, they bring it to you. Slurp, slurp, slurp and you’re out of there. In between, though, there is broth that no packet can recreate, pork, eggs, green onion. Noodles of varying size, depending on the place. At this shop, the thicker noodle was more to their liking, and to mine.

Gluten Free RamenAnd to Laura.

Dan and Derek's Ramen AdventureAnd to these guys.

To be honest, it was confusing, and eye-opening. I knew ramen, the real ramen, was much better, and different, but this so outclassed those packets designed to stave off collegiate starvation, it defied logic.

But some similarities remained, despite how different the taste quality: ramen is still treated as the ultimate utilitarian food. Get in, fill up, get out, all good. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of interaction, some talk around the table, just like we had at Kome back home while fire rises out of onions on a grill? Of course not, because that’s how ramen is. But instead of a cramped and crowded dorm room, it’s a cramped and crowded shop.

That’s when it became obvious: the Japanese food we know is just a rumor of the real thing. An echo. Not necessarily untrue, but incomplete. The picture is not fully developed.

Try, taste

First of all, the ingredients. Hannah took us to Tsukiji Market, possibly the foremost fish markets in the entire world. Everything is fresh, everything is amazing, and so much is unique. We got some dried scallops from a vendor here. These scallops could probably be replicated in, say, Florida, but they would come out all different.

Dried scallops

We ate lunch at Sushizanmai, which has a very good reputation. I’m not a sushi guy. I can eat it, and I won’t outright refuse to eat it, but given other options, I will generally eat something else. Laura would eat sushi for every meal until she grew gills. My expectations weren’t terrifically high, but I expected better than the average California roll.

Sushizanmai

We ordered—well, Hannah ordered—and they came back with a platter of their finest. Here’s my first look at actual Japanese sushi:

Real Deal SushiThat would be different. I’ll have some of that, thank you.

The shocker for me was this: the quality of the fish was much better, take that for granted, but the quality of the rice was what set it apart. Rice, at its worst, is mushy and tasteless. This was firm, flavorful, and the perfect complement to the fish. Again, it wasn’t startling to find that it was better, but that it was so much better.

And here, we could talk, we could laugh, we could enjoy ourselves, much as we might as if we were eating sushi back home. There was a family seated next to us, and just like we had seen on the riverbank a few days earlier, the mother of the family was trying to take a picture. I wandered over and offered to take it for them, so they could all be in the shot. And once that was done, she offered to take a picture of us.

The reaction you see, especially out of me, is the result of her saying, just before she snapped this, “Say cheese!”

Say Cheese

However, when it comes to the difference in American ingredients used in Japanese cooking and Japanese ingredients, there is no greater gap than in the quality of beef. We’ve all heard that Japanese beef is better, but we really don’t want to believe it, considering we produce and eat more beef than we know what to do with. Wagyu beef, blah blah blah, cows getting massages and their hooves done, whatevs.

No, no, you don’t understand. Their run-of-the-mill beef is probably better than our best.

One night, after the evening’s festivities (which will be detailed in a future post) we finally ended up in a Yakuniku place. It was down this marvelous little street that barely seemed large enough for a scooter, much less a car. The entire menu was in Kanji, no English translation for the American tourists. Hannah got her phone out and did Google Translate on it. We determined that we would order meat to put on our grill. Much meat. Lovely happy beefy meat.

YakunikuAnd before you ask, yes, that it is a carrot in the shape of a cow.

On the grillOn the grill it went, and after that, we filled up our happy faces with it. This was my first taste of real, honest-to-goodness Japanese beef in all its splendor, and as it floated downward to my bottomless steak repository, I wondered what American cows were doing wrong. They clearly don’t want to be this delicious. Sure, it’s hard work, but the Japanese cow is up for the task.

The first order was not enough, so we pointed at the menu and said onegaishimasu, and magically, more beef arrived. This was different beef, because we had pointed at some other part of the menu. Tastier, perhaps? It was tough to tell, having slipped into a beef trance.

After it was over, we slipped into the night. Sadder? By no means. Wiser? By leaps and bounds. We had fully known beef and all its ways.

Or maybe not.

The last night, Hannah and Dan wanted to take us to the Imperial Hotel. There, we would have the Japanese steakhouse experience, only this time, for realsies. No onion volcanoes here, my friend. (I realize I’m channeling my inner Bourdain here, but stick with me).

They seat us in the familiar setting: table on three sides, and in the center, a scalding-hot slab of steel. Behind us, other people are seated around a similar slab of steel. Their food is being prepared already. The chef is serious. He’s not going to send a shrimp as an airborne missile toward some patron’s face, not this guy. All business.

Our Chef

Our chef shows up, a younger man. His name is Watabe. My guess is they chose him for the American tourists because they are used to a little personality with their meal on such occasions. He’s got a gleam in his eye like he’s been practicing some knife flips, but he’s not going to do them here. He has to be all business.

Out the window, there’s the light of an office building. One light in one square, with the silhouette of one man behind a desk. It’s after 7:30.

Your Meat for This Evening

This is what the beef looked like before it went on the grill. And this…

Steak, The Reckoning…is what it looked like after. A marvelous thing, prepared expertly. The time it takes to do what Watabe does is truly amazing.

Our Genial Hosts

We ate and enjoyed ourselves, while the man in the office building continued to work within the confines of his lit square. It was 9:00, 9:30, and he was still there. I tried to take a picture of this, but I only had my phone, and the reflection in the window would not allow it. Finally, when we got up to leave, we noticed the one light in the building was now out. The man in the office had worked until 10.

Tipping is not a tradition in Japan, and in fact, Hannah told us it’s frowned upon. The reason is this: if you tip someone, you are looking down on someone else’s work. But it works both ways. That night at the Imperial Hotel, everyone, and I mean everyone, treated us as if we were royalty, and they weren’t fishing for tips. They worked hard. They had pride in their work, and you could see that.

Just like the man working in the building. Just like the farmer that produced the beef, just like the man who caught the fish we had at Tsukiji Market. They all share that same intense pride. And when there is so much work that goes in to not only the preparation of the food, but the preparation of the preparation of the food, it cannot help but be great.

Sashimi

We all had a good laugh when those Ruby Roman grapes went for $11,000 at auction in Japan last year. They’re just grapes, after all, we think. I can get a bunch at the grocery store for 4 bucks. But that’s just it, it’s more than that. Someone put obsessive effort into producing those grapes, to ensure that they were the highest quality, best-tasting, knock-your-brains-out good grapes. It’s not just food, it’s a work of art. In that context, spending five figures on fruit makes sense.

We thank everyone who fed us while we were there in Tokyo. Thank you doesn’t even cover it. Nor does arigato gozaimasu, but it will have to do.

ありがとう ございます

The Life of a Tourist

At the path along the river, despite the gloomy day, everything opened up. It was our first full day in Japan. It may have had something to do with the sake tasting we had just left, but already the world was different.

Picnic

It would be a few days before we would do the truly touristy things like going up in the Tokyo Skytree or seeing the pandas at the Ueno Zoo. In this spot along the river, as it had been at the Sawanoi Saké Brewery we had just visited, there were no other tourists. Just us. Everyone else grew up here, lived here, belonged here. That sudden realization was the moment when tourism ended. We were all part of the same picture.

And then again, maybe it was the saké.

Sake!


Bear in mind that I don’t want to be one of those people who, having been touched by international travel, thinks of himself as Rick Steves or Anthony Bourdain. I know nothing. It became more evident as our time in Japan wore on that I know less that nothing. In part, at least as far as Japan was concerned, this was by design. I wanted to be genuinely surprised by what I was seeing.

The first days of our stay were going to be at Yokota AFB, and the last three days were set for an Airbnb in Arakawa-ku. Hannah and Dan were driving us around in a rental van while we were on base, because Hannah’s Diahatsu is built for a maximum capacity of one and one-half humans.

The first few days weren’t ideal as far as the weather was concerned. We caught a glimpse of Mount Fuji on our way back from the airport, but the clouds and haze hid it from our sight for the next couple of days. It rained on our way to see the Great Buddha in Kamakura, it rained while we were there, and it rained on the way back, but not enough to keep us from going.

At the Buddha

On the first clear morning, Hannah was driving when she spotted Fuji out of the corner of her eye. Without telling us what she was seeing, she twisted the rental van off to a side street, tossing us to and fro in the back of the vehicle. “What…?”

“Fuji,” she explained.

Fuji

And so, Fuji it was. This would be the clearest it would be during our time there. But as nice as these moments were, the defining moment had already taken place.


Sawanoi Brewery

I may have taken close to 400 pictures that first day at the Sawanoi Sake Brewery. It was impossible not to. We sat through the presentation and the tour, which was entirely in Japanese, quiet and bright-eyed, nodding our heads as if we understood. Some things needed no words.

There was a helpful flyer in decent English to let us know a good bit of what was going on. We went to the room where the rice was processed and to the cave where they gathered the water. Everyone was Japanese, apart from the six goofy Americans. It was hard not to feel so different, so out of place.

After the tour was over, we retired to the solace of our own company. I took 200 more pictures to mask the fact that I felt so self-conscious that I wasn’t Japanese. There was a shrine across the river from the brewery, and a walking bridge to get to it, so we made our way over there. I took 400 more pictures.

Take us to the bridge


On our way

Hannah, chef that she is, had a tour of Kappabashi Street planned for us on our first official day in Tokyo. Kappabashi is a street entirely dedicated to the restaurant trade. We took the train in. Tokyo has a terrific public transportation system, and we saw pretty much every last bit of it. It had been years since I had been on a train, and I had forgotten how hard it is to keep your balance. I held on to the ring for dear life. More experienced Tokyo natives stood around, lightly holding their rings with one hand while perusing their smartphones with the other, barely swaying in the tumult. It took four days for me to master this art.

On the train

At the end of the line was Tokyo Station, a grand relic of another era. More reproduction than relic, as the original version had been destroyed in the war. It was raining. Raining again.

Tokyo StationHannah was relying on Google Maps to get us around. Normally, Google Maps are very reliable, but in Tokyo, walking directions can change at a moment’s notice. We stumbled out into the rain after Hannah, who went one way, and then another, and then yet another, and then stopped. She would look at her phone, then look up, and then back at her phone again, and then she went back the first way, and we followed her. We must have looked like we were terrible at collecting Pokemon.

All this in the rain. We ended up breaking for lunch until Google Maps gathered itself.

Following Hannah

After lunch, we followed Hannah down a small street, as directed by Google Maps. At the end, we found ourselves right in the middle of Kappabashi. The rain continued.

Kappabashi in the rainFortunately, the sidewalks were (mostly) covered, so we could somewhat dry out. The stores varied, from the superior-serious big-ticket items to uniforms to the items that were probably geared more for the tourists. There were more western faces here. Some Americans. Australians. French.

Not Creepy
Not creepy…not creepy…not creepy…

Even though we were popping into shops in relative dryness, we were discovering just how water-logged we had been. Our backpacks weighed about twice what they normally would have.

Chef

We landed in a coffee shop along the way. Most often, wherever we went, we saw signs in Japanese, followed by an English translation. In the coffee shop, everything was in English. After four days in Japan, the lack of Kanji was jarring.


Cherry blossomsThe cherry blossoms were in full bloom in Ome as we climbed the steps to the shrine across from the Sawanoi Brewery. The rain was holding off that day, but there was a layer of fog at the edge of the tall hills on either side of the river. All six of us could stay in our comfort zone as long as we kept moving. I took another 300 pictures.

Shrine Selfie

After that, we walked along the river. On this trail, the river was at our left and the back of peoples’ houses were to the right. At one point, we came across a small restaurant. There was outdoor seating, and although it wasn’t the best day for dining al fresco, it was time to eat. Hannah and Dan asked us if we wanted to stay here.

We kind of avoided the question. Up until then, we had never been to a restaurant in Japan, and the prospect of pointing at a menu didn’t seem particularly appealing. But there were a few people underneath the canopy near us, and one Japanese man called out to us in English, and told us to come inside.

I wish we had. But we drifted away from the restaurant and continued down the trail.


We were depending on Google Maps to find our Airbnb. Generally, this worked, in the fact that we ended up generally in the location. We followed Hannah to one apartment building, which turned out to not be it. Then Google Maps told us to cross the street, which we did. It wasn’t there, either. So we crossed again, and this time we found it. It rained the entire time, and we found no Pokemon.

We got inside, our bags arrived shortly thereafter, and we got changed out of our wet clothes. The forecast for that night said that the rain would stop. As we left the apartment in search of food, we discovered this was a lie. The rain mostly stopped. The wind picked up.

Hannah was in the mood for yakiniku. In yakiniku restaurants, they bring meat to your table and you grill it yourself on a grill built into the table. We followed Hannah into the darkness and wind. Google Maps sent us past a McDonald’s and into a parking garage. Whereas it was drier and less windy in there, there was a complete lack of grilled meat, and therefore, less than satisfactory. Once we emerged, we passed the McDonald’s again, found the place we were looking for, and discovered they were booked solid.

Following Hannah

We shuffled off into the night. All of us spotted that McDonald’s once again. It was calling to us. You’ll do no better.

This was a lie, and we all knew it. We pressed on, through the drizzle and wind, and around the corner and up a flight of stairs, there was a restaurant. They had a place to take off our wet shoes and put them in a locker. The restaurant itself loomed in the back, and just from the look of it, it looked expensive.

They seated us in a dark, private room. As it turns out, they were all private rooms. We sat on the floor on cushions in front of a low table. Saké arrived. I opened the menu with impending dread, but the prices were quite reasonable.

Rachel and Derek

Sashimi

They brought us sashimi, yakitori, and many other things that were so, so good. In the other private rooms, people chatted in Japanese and laughed. I grabbed a piece of salmon, looked at this room full of my family and thought, I could get used to this.

Cheers!

That was the second moment. The moment where I felt like I could get along anywhere, as long as I kept pressing on.


The first moment came as we walked along the river, feeling like a bit of a coward for not speaking up and saying, “Hey, you know what? Maybe we should eat at that restaurant along the trail. After all, when are we going to get back?”

I took 600 more pictures. Cherry blossoms, mostly, and a few people having picnic lunches in the dry spots of the river.

River

There was a trail down to water’s edge, and I followed it. Laura followed me. A family was having a picnic down there, and I could see that the mother of the clan was having difficulty taking a selfie with the whole family in it. She saw me, she saw the camera, put two and two together, and called me over. I seem to be the one stranger in the crowd that people choose for this particular service, so I know the drill. I smiled and took her phone, and got a good shot of them all.

But we’re not done. She wanted a picture of me with the family. Then me and Laura with the family. Then I took one with Laura and them.

Hanami

And just like that, we belonged. We were part of this wonderful country and it was a part of us. Everyone was part of the same picture.

Then again, maybe it was the saké.

Us with the Family