I may not be as adventurous as a National Geographic Explorer or as photogenic as Samantha Brown, but I have been a lot of places, some well known, some not. More importantly, each place has its own quirks and fascinations and I want to share them with the world. This blog is a travelogue of the places, people and events that I have witnessed. I hope you enjoy and maybe learn something too.
Kenny Chesney and I share a common bond. Not every day I
have the same experience as that of a country music superstar. What could we
possible have in common? We both know the joys of happy hour. However, I should
state that it’s not just any happy hour. We know deeply the sublime and transcendent
experience that is happy hour at the Soggy Dollar Bar in White Bay, Jost van
Dyke. An experience so memorable Chesney wrote a song about it for his latest
album, Life on a Rock. I hope he doesn’t mind if I borrow the song title for this
month’s blog.
First some background. Jost van Dyke, a British Virgin
Island, is only four square miles of rock and scrub in the Caribbean Sea. It
sits next to two much larger islands, Tortola, its British sister and St. John,
its American cousin. The remnants of an ancient volcano, Jost resembles an
emerald boulder dropped in the ocean. Nothing financially productive can grow
on it and it’s too small for any industry, which makes it ideal for leisure.
Jost is a great place to vacation precisely because you can’t do much there.
The Soggy Dollar Bar is an icon in its own right. Part of the
Sand Castle Resort, it was built in 1970 by George and Mary Myrick. It quickly
became the favorite watering hole of local fisherman and millionaire yachties
alike. In the mid-1970s George created the Painkiller, an intoxicating mix of
rum, pineapple and orange juice and crushed nutmeg on top. Over the decades
word of this concoction spread from sailor to shore to mainland to continent
and now people from all over the world come to White Bay for a Soggy Dollar Painkiller.
After several visits to this Caribbean hideaway Kenny and I
have noticed there is a certain melancholy at this place that considers itself
as the happiest on earth. Kenny put his feelings very succinctly in a song. I,
however, will blather about it in this blog.
I should explain a few things in more detail. The Soggy
Dollar’s happy hour is from noon until 3 PM, unlike in the states where happy
hour normally ends the work day, usually from 4 to 6 or 7 PM. The reason for
this early event is because a majority of visitors to White Bay are tourist from
the US side and before they return, these boats have to pass through customs
and those offices close between 4:30 and 5 PM daily. So around 3 PM is when
these boats leave the bay for the trip back. It’s also when the sun starts to
dip down in the sky. I found out when happy ends the hard way. Starting at
noon I purchased two painkillers for $8, $4 each. Shortly after 3 PM I went to
purchase two more (my husband and I had already had three). The bill? $16,
double that of happy hour.
But oh the joys experienced in those three short hours! An
entire life is packed into them because the people you meet will become
lifelong friends you will never see again. You trade stories about your kids
and pets, share smartphone photos and get awkward hugs from men you don’t know
while your husband gets cheek kisses by co-eds. You laugh, you cry, you sing
songs and dance and yes, you get drunk.You
beg your boat captain to stay for just one more drink or you beg your new
friends’ boat captain to stay. When you’re on a boat, the vision of Jost
getting smaller behind you is depressing. When you’re on the shore, it can feel
down right lonely watching the boats leave one by one. If fact, a lot of things on Jost shut down
after the tourist boats leave, which makes staying on the island even more
lonely. The two places to stay in White Bay, The Sand
Castle and Ivan’s Stress-free Campgrounds, don’t have TV’s or phones or wi-fi.
When the sun goes down, you are in the dark. The Soggy Dollar’s kitchen closes
at 8 PM. We didn’t know that when we stayed on the island. However, in true
island manner, when we arrived hungry at 8 PM the bartender and chef offered us
a series of appetizers; all that they had left that
evening. We were grateful for that.
As Kenny sings, though, you never really say goodbye to
Jost. Instead you say, ‘until we meet again.’ That is the real beauty of happy
hour at White Bay.
It’s That Time of Day by Kenny Chesney
It’s that time
of day
That we all
knew would come
To pay for
all the rum
And pull up anchor cuz we’re done
It’s that
time of day
I see a
cotton candy sky
So many
colors in my eyes
Proof again God’s alive
This ain’t a
goodbye, it’s ‘til I see you again
What a
wonderful time we’ve all shared my friends.
Another day
at sea has come and gone away,
Adios to
Jost
Adios to
Jost
Adios to Jost, it’s that time of day
It’s that
time of day
When we
bottle up the sun
Let our
inhibitions run
Feeling courageous and numb
It’s that
time of day
When we take
a leap of faith
Hand in hand
as we pray
In this moment we could stay
This ain’t a
goodbye, it’s ‘til I see you again
What a
wonderful time we’ve all shared my friends.
We lost our wonderful dog Jasmine today. She was 15 years, 4
months and 12 days old. That’s over 105 in human years. Jasmine lived a lot of
life. She rode with her daddy when he
traveled the Baja Peninsula. She’s been to Moab. (I have yet to see Moab!)
Jasmine has been to the top of Colorado 14ers (although she rode to the top of
one mountain inside daddy’s backpack when she was a puppy). Not once, but twice she patiently rode in the back seat when we drove Florida. She swam in many ponds, lakes and rivers. She chased a
lot of tennis balls. And she was with her daddy in Aspen in 2000 when he met
me. He trusted me to watch his baby, who was only 3 years old at the time. She had the softest ears, like velvet. Now
it’s time to say goodbye.Good puppy.
Since last month's blog was photoless I thought I would do something different this month - A photo essay as they call them in the biz. This is actually how the blog got started, with a webpage called Ugly Volleyball Nets. I took it down when I started this blog. Although most of the photos I have are ugly, the ones below are some of the nicer nets to play. All my volleyball court photos are available to friends on Facebook, so friend me if you want to see the entire album. Enjoy!
This was taken in Aspen in 1997 on the grounds of the high school at the Motherlode Volleyball Tournament. Georgeous.
This was taken in Esslingen (Stuttgart), Germany, in 2010. It is part of the city public pool and you have to enter the pool grounds to play.
This is from Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, from December 2012, during our trip to the Orange Bowl. The group playing on the far net are members of the FSU marching band.
This is one of a group of nets at Gulf Shores, Alabama, from January 2012.
This is Smather's Beach from Key West, Florida back in December 1998. Taken right after Hurricane Georges so the shore is pretty torn up.
This is a court next to Lake Zurich in Switzerland. Since the ferry boat was slow, we got to see a few plays and these people were good. Wish we could have played here.
This net is in front of the Sheraton Maui on Ka'anapali Beach on Maui. We'll see if it's still there when we head back in November. Looking forward to playing here.
This is a summer day on North Beach, Chicago. Awesome sight with all those people and the buildings in the background. The building with the two towers is the John Hancock building.
This net is behind Pirates Bight on Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. Pirates Bight is a restaurant and rest stop for boats and the only structure on the island. Nearby in the bay is Willie T's boat and bar.
This shot was taken on Ambergris Caye, an island of the coast of Belize in Central America. The net is located in front of a bar in the town of San Pedro. We played on it earlier in the day and when we returned for dinner, locals had taken it over. They were good too.
This net is one of many on the famous Manly Beach near Sydney, Australia. The people playing are semi-professional players who meet here everyday to practice. I got to pepper with them, but they wouldn't let me play.
Thirteen years ago this month I had lived in Denver for just
over a year and a half and I thought I knew everything about my new home;
adjusted to the altitude, converted to the Broncos, learned the short cuts to
downtown at rush hour. So when my mom and brother came for a weekend visit that
April, it proved how little I did know about living in the Centennial State.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning as we prepared for a day
trip to the mountains. The sun was shining gloriously in a bright blue
cloudless sky, warm and welcoming on my face. Even my cat Snickers was enjoying
a sun bath on my apartment balcony before we left. My brother, who was on
Spring Break from the university, was already in the mountains with friends and
would meet us for dinner after a day of skiing. Because of the warm weather I
wore sandals and a short sleeve shirt. Mom wore jeans and tennis shoes, but
also had on a t-shirt. With little more than a wallet and a camera, we headed
west.
The drive to the mountains that day was as gorgeous as a
drive in the mountains could get. In the spring sunlight, the trees and shrubs
along the interstate were a brilliant green; the rocks had trickles of snowmelt
running down to the side of the road. Patches of white snow still clung to the
summits. We were headed to the town of Breckenridge. To get there we traveled
west on I-70 through the Eisenhower-Johnson Memorial Tunnel , the highest
vehicular tunnel in the world at over 11,000 ft. straddling the Continental
Divide. As we emerged from the tunnel, we arrived in Summit County, one of
Colorado’s best skiing areas with resorts such as Keystone, Copper Mountain,
Arapahoe Basin and Breckenridge. We turned off the interstate at Frisco and
took Highway 9 into town.
In some ways Breckenridge is the quaint mining town it was a
hundred years ago with Victorian homes and street lamps, yet in other ways is a
modern ski resort village. It’s filled with craft shops, trendy and
not-so-trendy restaurants (Bubba Gump?), and a smoke shop or two, if you know
what I mean. We spent the afternoon walking up and down the main street,
walking into this jewelry store or that t-shirt shop. Some stores were closed
with signs on the door that said, “On vacation, back in two weeks.” That’s what
happens in the time after Easter, but before Memorial Weekend during what
locals the “mud season,” when the skiers dwindle before the mountain bikers
arrive. We had agreed to meet Chad and his friends for late lunch/early dinner at
Breckenridge Brewery around 3 PM.
When people think back to the beginnings of the craft beer
movement in Colorado, three breweries come to mind. The Wynkoop in Denver, New
Belgium in Fort Collins and Breckenridge Brewery. All gained a foothold in the
1990’s and led the Western US out of the dark ages of beer brewing into a new
and exciting century. Breckenridge is now the 41st largest craft
brewer in the county. At the time we were there, brew pubs were still a novelty.
Chad and his two friends couldn’t stop talking about how
great the snow was on the mountain and how much fun they had. That is until the
food came and we all stuffed our faces. What we didn’t notice from inside the
pub was that the clouds were rolling in off the mountain. The blue sky quickly
turned white, then grey, then dark. As we left the pub to walk back to the car,
the loudest crack of thunder ever heard by human ears jolted us out of our
shoes. As the roar subsided, fat white snowflakes began to fall, both beautiful
and scary. Chad, the weather student, said we needed to get going because thunder
in the mountains was not a good thing. He left with his friends and Mom and I
left in my 1993 Dodge Shadow to head back to Denver. The fluffy white snow grew
thicker and thicker and got darker and darker as we drove. By the time we got
on I-70, the wind had picked up and was blowing the snow straight at the
windshield making it hard for me to see. If we could just get through the
Eisenhower Tunnel, I knew the weather would be better on the other side.
We were driving the steep downhill heading into the valley
where the towns of Dillon and Silverthorne met. I was only going about 35 mph
because the blowing snow made it hard to see. Fortunately there wasn’t much
traffic. As we approached the off ramp to Dillon, a state patrol car with its
lights flashing was stopped and turned sideways in the middle of the road. There
were two cars ahead of me and both of their brake lights came on. Then one car
began a slide and bumped into the car next to him. A state trooper was waving
both cars to the off ramp. Trying not to panic, I gently tapped the brakes to
slow down and the trooper holding a large electric torch waved us off the
highway too. We had no idea what was going on. Once off the interstate and in
the city of Dillon, I tried to get back on the interstate at the Dillon on
ramp.A large metal gate was blocking
the on ramp and four cars were lined up behind it. I got in line behind them.
Then it hit me. State patrol closed interstate because of the snow. Who knows
when it will open up again? Minutes, hours, days? I realized we only had two
options. Stay in line and hope the weather changed or find a place to stay
quick. If we stayed in line, I’d have to run the engine to keep us warm and
that would use up all our gas. And what if the highway didn’t reopen? I had to
act.
I pulled the car out of line to great protests from Mom. We
were going to lose our place in line! Where are you going? What are you doing?
“We’re finding a hotel,” I said. But why, she asked.
“Because we can’t spend the night in the car.” That was when
the reality of the situation hit her. Right next to the interstate on the
Silverthorne side of the valley was a Days Inn. I’d passed it many times
driving to the mountains, but had never stayed there. Mom went inside while I stayed in the car. She
came out almost 30 minutes later. The power had gone out and the hotel had to
book rooms manually. She also said the line was long, but she had managed to
get us one of the last rooms in the hotel.
We went up to the hotel room, but with the power out we
couldn’t watch TV. We needed to find something to do. Connected to the Days Inn
was an Old Chicago restaurant and even though we had just eaten, we decided to
go in. Since we weren’t driving anywhere I might as well have a beer and Mom
wanted some dessert. The Old Chicago was packed to the rafters, obnoxiously loud
and nowhere to sit. A couple who had a hightop table, but didn’t have any chairs
let us stand at the table with them. I ordered a beer and Mom asked for a menu,
but the waitress shook her head. The desserts were gone and with the power out
they couldn’t cook any food. Our only option was chips and salsa, so we took
it. We wondered aloud if Chad and the other boys were OK and if they made it to
tunnel before the interstate closed. I had a cell phone, but reception was
spotty and I couldn’t get a signal. Mom didn’t have a cell phone at that time.
We enjoyed chatting with the others around the table. Most
had been skiing for the day and were on their way home when the interstate shut
down. The couple that gave us space at the table had been sightseeing like we
were and stopped in Silverthorne to shop at the outlet mall. They had ordered a
salad to share and may have gotten the last leaves of lettuce in the building.
A shout came from above the din.
“May I have your attention please?!” said a short older
women standing on a planter. She wore an Old Chicago polo shirt so I assumed
she was a manager. “I’m sorry, but we have run out of food. Colorado law states
that we cannot serve alcohol without serving food so we are going to have to
stop serving. You’re all going to have to leave.” A collective groan came from
the crowd.
After settling our tab, we walked back to our hotel room.
The power was back on so we were able to watch TV. However, their cable or
antennae or whatever they used for a signal was having technical difficulties so
we were stuck watching a local channel that was showing a Saturday night cheesy
made-for-TV drama with a fuzzy picture. Finally, Chad was able to call my cell phone
on his friend’s cell. They were staying at a hotel not too far from us in
Silverthorne. They were all OK, but their power was out and they were in the
dark. We agreed to meet at the Village Inn Restaurant about a block away the
next morning. At 10 pm the news came on and that’s when we were able to learn
about the storm that trapped us in the
mountains. Could have used that information 12 hours ago.
Suddenly the fire alarm went off; the second loudest noise that
day that almost gave me a heart attack. With all the electrical problems the
hotel was having, we didn’t know if this was the real deal or not. I stuck my
head out the door into the hallway. A woman in a bathrobe was standing there
and asked me if I thought it was the real thing. I told her I didn’t know. Mom
called the front desk and was told that it was indeed an electrical glitch so
we did not have to leave our warm rooms for the cold and snowy parking lot. TWENTY
MINUTES went by before the alarm stopped.
After the news and the alarm ended we started watching
Saturday Night Live. We got about ten minutes in when the power went out and
the room went completely dark.
“Well, I guess that means good night,” Mom said with a sign.
Still in our clothes we crawled under the covers for some sleep. It didn’t last
long because at 2 am the fire alarm went off again jarring us awake.The power had also returned. For a second
time I stuck my head in the hallway, but saw no one. Then the alarm suddenly
stopped. We turned out the lights and TV that all came on when the power came
back. Once again in a dark room, we went back to sleep.
We both woke up around the same time later that morning. The
lights and TV worked still worked so the power was still on. Looking in the
hotel’s bathroom mirror, I was completely disheveled and desperate for a
toothbrush. Couldn’t do anything about either. I called Chad on my cell phone.
They were up and getting ready to head to the Village Inn. The restaurant was
close enough for us to walk to in the chilly morning air. Fortunately, we could
see the sun.
In another packed restaurant over a breakfast of pancakes
and orange juice we all talked about the trials and tribulations of our
overnight stay. The hotel the boys were in still didn’t have power. To avoid
their dark room they spent some of the evening bundled up in the hotel’s
courtyard chatting and cloud gazing. Unlike us they at least they got some sleep
last night. As we ate, the lights in the Village Inn would flicker with power surges. As Mom and I returned to my car we saw vehicles buzzing by on the elevated
interstate next to the hotel. As we drove back to Denver, it was once again a
sunny day and as we emerged on the eastern side of the Eisenhower-Johnson
Tunnel no one would have guessed there had been a blizzard by looking at the blue
sky and green trees. By the time we returned to my apartment in Denver, the
temperature was 65 degrees. What a difference 70 miles makes.
***
I have since learned from this experience to ALWAYS check
the weather before heading into the mountains. I have also learned that for
every 1000 feet of altitude change, there is a 10 degree difference in
temperature and when there is thunder during a snowstorm, it’s called Thunder
Snow (actual weather term), something that only happens in spring. It is the
loudest, most bone rattling sound you will ever hear. I now carry a winter
emergency kit in my car with a fleece blanket, a candle and matches, jumper
cables and a tin can full of kitty litter. What I find amusing about this story
is that it occurred before there were smart phones and 4G, etc., and how much
trouble we had calling each other and how far we’ve come with mobile technology.
I also thought I had photos of this trip, but I can't find them.
We arrived in Ft. Lauderdale before noon. Not bad
considering we started in the Mountain Time Zone.We found a cab and were heading to the beach,
the Westin Beach Resort and Spa specifically. The cab took us down Ft. Lauderdale
Beach Boulevard with the wide inviting beach attached to the Atlantic Ocean on
one side and the promenade filled with shops, seaside restaurants and resorts
large and small on the other. The day was warm, but windy.
The Westin lobby was utter chaos. Ft. Lauderdale is a major
cruise ship port and the lobby was full of families who were either heading to board
a cruise ship or heading to the airport to go home. An entire corner of the lobby
was filled with bags next to a line of impatient people waiting to pick them up.
The families going on cruises were extremely impatient, some even shouting to whoever
would listen. We waited patiently in the SPG check-in line and once we got our
turn, the check-in process was fast. Soon we were in our partial oceanview
room. It was in the second building on the property and a long walk from the
lobby, but it had a great view of the beach and boulevard and the quiet side
street next to us.
We were in Ft. Lauderdale for two reasons. My reason:It was my 45th birthday. My
husband’s reason:His alma mater, Northern
Illinois University, was playing Florida State in the Orange Bowl on New Year’s
Day. Since it was lunchtime, food was at the top of the activity list. During
the cab ride, a three-story complex with bars, shops and restaurants caught my
eye. On the top floor was a place called Big Kahuna with umbrella covered tables,
green fake palm trees and tiki torches on a rooftop deck.
We walked two blocks south to the complex, which held a
variety of places to eat and drink including a Hooters restaurant and a Fat
Tuesday frozen drink bar. Even though I thought the name Big Kahuna was cheesy
(Hawaii in Florida?) those rooftop tables on the top floor appealed to me. We
found a table that was close enough to the bar so my husband could see the
Bears games on the TV, yet close enough to the open doors for me to be in the
sun. A young pretty blonde handed us menus.
“It’s my
birthday today,” I announced. “What do I get?”
“Um, well,
we can probably give you a shot,” she said. I glanced at the back of the menu to
the dessert list.
“I was
hoping for some cake.”
“Nah, it’s a
shot.”
“Shotta
what?”
“Whatever you want.” I asked for a gold tequila with a
splash of lime juice. She came back with a small plastic cup and said it was
Cuervo Gold. It was actually quite tasty, but I really wanted was the dark
chocolate lava cake they had listed on the menu. We dined on a series of
appetizers and Coors Lights. The beer menu at this establishment was minimal
and the choices of draft beer were downright dreadful. At least the food was
good. We had takaki (seared tuna) and wings. Not an unpleasant way to spend an
afternoon.
My birthday dinner was at Shula’s on the Beach, a steakhouse
inside our hotel. It was a steakhouse that was part of Don Shula’s Florida restaurant
chain, which according to what I found on the internet, had a good reputation. The
menu was fairly typical of a steakhouse, but again the beer selection was
lacking. I ended up drinking a raspberry martini made with berry-infused rum.
We both had steaks, mashed potatoes and green beans. Good, but nothing special.
Since I didn’t get cake for lunch we also ordered Shula’s molten lava chocolate
cake for dessert. It was so big that even with both of us eating it, we still
couldn’t finish it.
The next day was New Year’s Eve and it was a beach day.
Well, it would have been if it hadn’t been for the intense winds coming off the
Atlantic. If you were a kitesurfer, a windsurfer, a paraglider or even a kite
flyer, it was a great day. The wind didn’t stop people from hanging out on Ft.
Lauderdale’s wide sand beach or dipping in the water, however, the lifeguards
were busy keeping people close to shore because of the large waves. Apparently Speedos
are making a comeback as evidenced by a game of co-ed volleyball at the public
courts near the Sheraton Hotel.
Lunch was at Margarita Cantina Crab and Seafood House on the
beach boulevard a few blocks south of the hotel. We picked it because it was
close and it had tables on the front sidewalk so we could eat and watch the
beach. Once again we were disappointed in the beer list, Coors Light and Bud
Lite. They did have Landshark Lager in bottles so I had one. The food was
typical American Mex. After the giant steak last night, I settled for a chicken
taco salad and avoided the shell.
The only clothes Christian brought on this trip all had NIU
logos all over them. T-shirt, polos, jackets, hats, he was all in. As we ate
our lunch people walked up and down the boulevard and every now and then we’d
hear shouts of “Go Huskies!” as similarly attired supporters walked by.
Sometimes we even started the chants when we saw other Huskie supporters
walking past.
New Year’s Eve would be at McSorley’s Bar about a mile north
of the hotel. We chose it because they had a replica of the Time Square crystal
ball on the roof made from PVC pipe wrapped with Christmas tree lights. As we
walked into the old brick building shouts of “Huskies!” from everyone at the
bar greeted us. Unbeknownst to us an NIU alum group had chosen this very bar to
have their New Year’s Eve celebration and Christian in his NIU polo was
immediately recognized as a good guy. The bar held a mix of recent grads and
older alums (meaning “our age”). I sat next to one of the recent grads. He was
there with a group of buddies who drove down in a tailgate van and proudly showed
us pics on his cell phone. The van was the size of a small apartment and had a
big, flat screen TV, detachable grill and its own bathroom.Like most of the rest of his group, they
graduated from NIU last spring, but then never left. Some actually had jobs
with the University. One of two girls in the group was giving another alum a Sharpie
tattoo of the letters N-I-U on his arm. We could see her calligraphy on several
other arms around the bar.
On the other end of the spectrum were the alums who were our
age. One was a corporate pilot, another was a financial advisor, and another
was in insurance. There was a woman with them who was the alumni coordinator.
She’s the one who picked McSorley’s for the alumni bar because it was close to
the hotel they were staying at. All of us were here to celebrate the Huskies playing
in their first bowl championship series.
McSorley’s Beach Bar took up space in the entire building.
The first floor was the bar. The bar was oval and covered the entire first
floor. It also had the prerequisite tattooed bartenders, both men and women. We
asked our bartender if she had any local brews on tap and were disappointed
with the answer. McSorley’s Ft. Lauderdale is actually an offshoot of an Irish
bar in New York City and she offered us the beers that were brewed there, which
she said they send down to Florida. They were good, but it was becoming clear
that Ft. Lauderdale didn’t seem to have any craft beer of its own. McSorley’s
also didn’t have a kitchen, but patrons were welcome to order a pie from the
pizza parlor across the street and eat it at the bar. Christian went over and
ordered one for our dinner. After pizza and beer, the group including us went
upstairs to the rooftop bar. The evening was still early and we were the only
ones up there at first. The rooftop bar had a DJ and that tiny Christmas light
ball in the corner. As we chatted and drank with our new NIU friends, the
rooftop slowly filled up with New Year’s Eve revelers. Oddly enough the younger
members of the group left early because the guys in the van had to be at the
stadium at 10 a.m. to set up the tailgate. It was left to us old people to keep
the party going.
With less than a minute before midnight, the DJ got on the
mic to let everyone know he needed a countdown. Time to see that Christmas
light ball in action. As we counted down from 10, the DJ used a pulley to drop
the ball about five feet from the top of the pole. Shortly after midnight, our new friends left
to get some sleep before the big game. They were all going to the stadium about
noon to tailgate at a game that wouldn’t start until 8 p.m. Because it wasn’t
yet midnight in Colorado we considered staying and ringing in the Mountain Time
New Year. We didn’t make it.
New Year’s Day was sunny and bright, but still windy. When I
opened our window, the ocean blast entered the room. A small plane flew over
the water along the beach pulling an Orange Bowl banner behind it. Our good friend
Trace, another NIU alum, was flying in for the game tonight and scheduled to
arrive at the airport about noon. He was also getting a rental car and picking
us up for the game. He would stay with us at the Westin and take us to the
airport the next morning. We decided to get some lunch so we could leave for
the stadium as soon as he dropped off his stuff at the hotel. We wanted to get
in on some of that tailgate action too.
We went back to the 3-story shopping/eating complex near the
hotel. We passed on the Big Kahuna and Hooters and instead chose Lulu’s Bait
Shack, a very woodsy place as in old wood bar and walls, and wooden stools. It
looked a lot older than it probably was. We were walking to some seats at the
bar when we passed a table with a family of Huskies around it. “Go Huskies” we
all shouted to each other. Sitting down at the bar we ordered the only thing
they had on tap, Coors Light, along with some sandwiches.
An older gentleman sat down next to Christian and ordered a
beer. He wore an NIU t-shirt, a brother in arms. Seeing our NIU attire he
offered up his backstory while lighting up a cigarette. He lived in Baltimore
and worked in DC. He was supposed to be the game with several of his college
buddies, but they all backed out. He flew in to Ft. Lauderdale that morning,
took a cab to the beach and planned to sit in a pub until it got closer to game
time where he would hail another cab to take him to the stadium for the game.
Then after the game he would take a cab back to the airport where he would
spend the night until his flight left at 6 a.m. the next morning. He offered to
buy us a shot, but we politely declined. He then offered to buy the pretty
young blonde bartender a shot. She said that even though she drank too much on
New Year’s Eve and only got two hours of sleep before she had to be at Lulu’s,
she’d be happy to share a shot with him. He bought us each one more beer and we bought
him one. Christian’s phone rang. Trace had landed and was getting the car. He
would be there in an hour.
We arrived at the stadium around 4 pm. After parking the car
we began walking around the large parking lot. We were looking for Lot 10
because that was where ‘The Van’ would be. We walked around the entire stadium
and couldn’t find Lot 10, but saw plenty of tailgates, both NIU and FSU. Flags were
flying and tents were set, stereos and TVs were blaring, drinks were hoisted, grills
were smoking, bags were thrown, taunts were shouted - a classic football
setting. Despite being held in FSU’s backyard, we could see NIU was well
represented. However, we still couldn’t find Lot 10 or “The Van.” The lot
numbers started at 11 and went up from there. What the heck was going on? We
stopped to figure out what to do next, continue looking or go inside, when some
familiar faces walked by. It was two of the guys we met last night. After
hellos and introductions to Trace they showed us to Lot 10, which turned out to
be in some annex parking lot as far from the stadium as you could possible get
and still be on stadium property. Despite the distance, the tailgate was
rocking. It was the largest NIU tailgate we had seen with an entire row of
cars, trucks and vans, tents, lawn chairs and flags. We found the group of
alums from McSorley’s and they offered us grilled hamburgers and chicken legs
along with beer and chips. Trace, Christian and several other people were
wearing NIU jerseys so a group picture was necessary for the alumni blog. ‘The
Van’ was everything they said it would be, gigantic and painted a deep red with
a giant TV hanging from the back. The doors were open and sure enough I saw the
in-vehicle toilet with a line of people waiting to use it. It was like a camper toilet and placed behind
the driver’s seat. A steady stream of people stood at the side door. The area
was mass chaos with people shouting and singing and I didn’t know any of them,
but we were all comrades in football.
It was an hour before kickoff and with so much optimism in
the air we were all so… happy. We were hugging and cheek kissing and saying Go
Huskies! Someone broke out singing the school song and everyone joined in. We
toasted football and Huskies and friendships and held our Coors Lights high. In
that moment we were on top of the world, the MAC school that could. We were
going to prove Kirk Herbstreet wrong! That euphoria would last until a fumble
and two touchdowns in the fourth quarter put the game out of reach by FSU. But
at that moment…we were the best college football team on earth.
At this point, the road
flattened out a bit, as much as it could flatten out on a volcanic island, so I
started running again. The mile markers on the road said I was only three miles
in. Ugh. At the next uphill I walked what I thought was a good pace when two
young blondes glided right past me chatting loudly as if on a park stroll.
“Why I could do this drinking a Heineken!”
said the first one. “Why I think after we’re done, we need to turn around and
walk back!” said the other.
From behind, I heard a woman
say, “Lizard Hill is the most vertical part of Centerline, even more so than
Bordeaux.” Not sure if she was talking to me, the woman caught up and we walked
side by side. Wearing a white t-shirt, white visor and grey shorts, she started
to get a slight edge at the top of Lizard Hill when a sharp left turn took us
back down again. Downhill was my time to run. This particular section was
especially steep and I had to concentrate to keep control of my feet so I wouldn’t
go flailing and get a bad case of road rash. At the bottom several Jeeps were parked
along the road, which meant two things - the entrance to Reef Bay Trail and the
halfway point to Coral Bay. After the trailhead was another steep uphill. I ran
about halfway up before walking again. More switch backs, then up and up and up.
At the end of a gravel driveway a woman clapped and shouted. “The downhill is
coming soon! You’re doing great! Keep going!”
For most of this middle part, I
had been in the shade of tall trees. As I neared the top of a curve, the trees
opened up to the sky. A vinyl sign hung next to the road. The woman in white
had caught up to me again and read the sign out loud. It said our current
location was the highest point of the race.
“This is the highest point?” she asked out
loud. “I thought Bordeaux Mountain was
the highest point?”
“I did too,” I replied. At the
start of the next downhill, I began running again. I could hear drums beating
in the distance. Coral Bay was getting closer.
My running was short as another
uphill began. I had no trees to shade me, but clouds still clogged the sky, although
they had whitened considerably since the start. It was only a matter of time
before they would dissipate and the sun would bear its full force on the
asphalt road. As I turned another switchback I could hear a harmonica. A
welcome sound! At dinner the previous evening, a local woman said the harmonica
player was the best part of the race because he marked the start of the final
downhill. She said the player was an old guy and he stood on a rock. As I
rounded the corner, there he was just like she said. He was dancing on the rock
and puffing his harmonica. He stopped playing to cheer for me.
After the harmonica player was
Colorful Corner, so named because of the three brightly painted buildings at
the spot where the Northshore Road met Centerline. Many people had gathered here
to cheer. The drummers were here as well. Six guys pounded out a marching
rhythm on some bongo drums, a snare drum and one steel drum. The beat was
perfect for charging up the rest of the hill since I didn’t want that woman in
white catching me again.
As I passed Colorful Corner, picturesque
Coral Bay finally came into view, blue and green and full of boats. Several
runners stopped, some in the middle of the road, to take pictures. I had to
dodge around them. Apparently they didn’t see the perfectly good scenic perch on
the side of the road.
Finally, the last two miles into
Coral Bay, all downhill. I began running again concentrating on large strides
and landing gently, trying not to jar my ankles, knees, hips, spine, brain, etc.
My legs felt like lead, but here gravity was my friend so I had push on. The
sun poked out from behind a cloud.
While concentrating as hard as I
was, amazingly I still found things to annoy me, like the bead of sweat that refused
to fall off the tip of my nose. I kept wiping it with my hand only to have it
immediately reappear. Then I ran up to a guy who was walking and just as I got
even with him, he began to run. Really? He shuffled his feet too, even more
annoying. He shuffled a short distance ahead and began to walk again. I caught
up to him and he took off running again. When he stopped to walk, I caught up
to him a third time and he began to run again. Com’on dude, seriously! I pressed
on and passed his shuffling ass. The shuffling stopped when the guy finally gave
up and walked.
I rounded another curve and several
signs on the road greeted me, bright yellow signs and they read in succession –
“One Mile”…”To Go”…”Lime Inn.” At the end of the third sign was a water station
sponsored by the Lime Inn restaurant and manned by volunteers wearing yellow
t-shirts. I grabbed one last water cup, swallowed half and dumped the rest over
my head. One tuff mile to go.
The road flattened out so I didn’t
have gravity’s help anymore. The tuff miles were taking their toll as I saw
more walkers than runners ahead of me. Unfortunately, this was also the section
of the course that was open to motor vehicles and several cars slowly made
their way to Coral Bay alongside me, which created lovely exhaust fumes to
breathe.
As I approached town large
groups of people stood along the road. The school soccer field appeared ahead. That marked
the finish, but the race organizers didn’t make it easy. I had to run past the
finish line on the outside of the field to the school building. A volunteer in
an orange vest pointed me into the school yard entrance where I ran onto the
field itself. Lined with colorful flags and a huge crowd of people cheering the
way, I sprinted to the finish. A familiar voice startled me.
“Com’on honey!” It was my husband. I pushed
even harder. The timer above the canopy displayed 1 hour, 53 minutes with the
seconds ticking away. As I crossed the line a woman, a race volunteer, told me
good job as she pushed me off to the side to make room for the runner behind me.
Another person put a medal around my neck. Suddenly my husband appeared giving
me a hug.
“You made it!”
I was in a bit of a daze so he
led me to a water station and then to the t-shirt tent so I could claim my
finisher’s prize. I could already feel my quads tightening so I asked to walk
around. He suggested we walk to Skinny Legs and get a table. As we walked he
asked about the race. I told him it was brutal and I stopped running after the
first mile. He was shocked to learn I didn’t run the whole thing.
“And you still made it in under
two hours?”
He was impressed and I realized
I should be too. I conquered the 8 Tuff Miles. My reward: A cheeseburger and Presidente at Skinny Legs
with a table full of other runners. After a second round of Presidentes, we had
all made plans to run it again someday. St. John wasn’t so tuff after all.
8 Tuff Miles (Registration is already closed for this year)
We were fortunate enough to be invited to help out with the
PA Beer Festival at the Philadelphia Convention Center in November. The
two-session event was a lot of hard work and we stood on our feet for almost 14
hours. However, it was an incredibly successful event and lot of fun too. The
event feature 96 breweries and over 250 kinds of beer. Nice!
After a well-deserved Sunday morning sleep in (we slept in
for Philly, it was only 8 a.m. in Denver) we were grateful to have a day in
Philly all to ourselves. We had two items on our agenda:The Liberty Bell and the perfect Philly
cheese steak.
The first part was easy. After checking out of the hotel we
hailed a cab to the bell. Our feet were exhausted after the beer fest and even
though we were told the bell was only six blocks away, we opted for a ride. The
cab dropped us off at Independence National Historic Park and the first thing
we noticed was the line already stretched out the front door of the Liberty
Bell Center. Fortunately entrance to see the Liberty Bell is free, as it should
be since it belongs to all of us. My husband and I hauled our carry-on bags to
the back of the line. The reason for the long line is the security check-in at
the entrance. It was almost like boarding an airplane, but I can understand.
The Liberty Bell is a symbol of freedom and a symbol of the United States. They
don’t want any funny business. However, it was more than slightly embarrassing
to have the security agent open up my carry-on and go through my underwear and
pull out my make-up bag to examine the contents. And since we had such large bags, it took
longer to check us in then those with just a camera or purse. We made it a
point to smile and say thank you to the agents. I even asked the door agent how
her day was going. She said she couldn’t complain, after all it was a nice day
outside, almost 55 degrees.
After getting our carry-ons back we began walking down the
large window-filled hall. There were posters and placards and even video
screens all explaining the history and significance of the Liberty Bell. My
husband looked at me.
“Do you really want to read all this?”
“Not really, I just wanna see the bell.”
“Let’s go then.” So we walked past all the people who were
ahead of us in line and straight to the back of the building where a crowd
gathered around the country’s most prized possession. As we approached a family
moved away and we were granted a full-on view of the Liberty Bell.
The bell was back lit by a large window making it a
nightmare to take photos. I took some anyway, playing with the settings on my
camera and hoping for the best. The bell isn’t that big in size, maybe four
feet by four feet, but it weights almost 2000 pounds and is made of 79% copper,
25% tin and small amounts of lead, zinc, arsenic, gold and silver. The bell
hangs from its original yoke made of American elm. It’s quite beautiful. A
magnificence surrounds the bell because it is a tangible symbol of America,
something we can see and touch. Well, actually, they won’t let you touch it,
but you could if you don’t mind being arrested. The bell has a well-documented
history. It was made in London in 1751, but cracked after arriving in Pennsylvania.
American craftsmen John Pass and John Stow cast a new bell using the metal from
the English bell in 1753.
“By 1846 a thin crack began to affect the sound of the bell.
The bell was repaired in 1846 and rang for a George Washington birthday
celebration, but the bell cracked again and has not been rung since. No one
knows why the bell cracked either time.” (Liberty Bell Center website)
Independence National Historic Park is also home to
Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed, Old City
Hall and Congress Hall, all together made for a beautiful outdoor setting
decorated with pumpkins and hay bales for the season and several horse-drawn
carriages to give people tours. Children played in the park grass and the trees
still had a few leaves on them.
While I took pics of the buildings, my husband called a
colleague who happens to live in Philly because he had a very important
question. Where could we find the best cheese steak sandwiches near the Liberty
Bell? After a lengthy discussion my husband was given a destination:Steaks on South.
Hailing cab #2 we told the driver we wanted to go to Steaks
on South. The driver said no problem and proceeded on 6th Street
through what appeared to be a very historic and very old residential
neighborhood crowded with small, colonial brick houses. After only a few blocks
the cabbie pulled over on a corner and said, “Is this OK?” My husband said
yeah, sure. But when we got out, we were next to a dry cleaner.
“Is this it?” he asked.
“Well, it’s about two blocks that way,” he said pointing
east. “Do you want me to drive you?”
“No, no, we can walk two blocks.” With that we paid the fair
and got out. We walked the two blocks and arrived at Jim’s Steaks with a line
outside the front door.
“Is that
it?” I asked.
“No, it’s
Steaks on South.”
“Maybe he meant Jim’s Steaks on South?”
“No, it’s Steaks on South.” Not sure where to go, Christian fired up his
smartphone to get a map. The phone took 10 minutes to warm up, but he found it.
“Oh, man, we need to go a few more blocks that way.” We
continued walking east. Despite the confusion, the walk was quite pleasant.
South Street was a bit of an anomaly with old storefronts painted and decorated
in contemporary palates. Bright shades of green, pink and blue along with vibrant
murals made each building stand out. And the shops were a hodgepodge of
florists, cafes, smoke houses, cheesy bric-a-brac, art galleries and bars. The
residents strolling the streets were just as decorated, such as the mod lesbian
couple with piercings, tattoos and old-school high top sneakers. One pushed a
baby stroller with baby girl all decked in princess pink toile inside. Then
there were the guys hanging out on the street. One guy compared a Ford Focus
parked out front with his sister’s new Toyota Prius. “That car is the shit!”
Really? Car talk has come a long way since I debated Camaros vs. Corvettes in
high school.
We finally arrived at Steaks on South, or SOS, and the place
was empty. Not the line out the door like we saw at Jim’s. What could that
mean, we pondered. Could Jim’s be the best place because it had a line or was
SOS a hidden gem no one new about? We stuck to our friend’s recommendation and
ordered up at the counter. Christian ordered the Cheesesteak hoagie. A
Cheesesteak sandwich is literally just steak and cheese, unless you order it as
a hoagie, where they add tomato, lettuce and onion. His cheese of choice,
Cheese Whiz. I chose a Cheesesteak hoagie with Swiss.
The sandwiches were everything we had hoped they would be. While
we savored our bites, a few people walked in and ordered lunch; an older
couple, a group of women and then a group of about 12 college students,
prominently displaying Greek letters on their shirts. SOS was no longer empty. It
was almost 1 p.m. by the time we left and we asked one of the cooks if there
was good place to watch NFL football nearby. He suggested O’Neal’s and said it
was just around the corner.
O’Neal’s Irish Sports Bar was a tall skinny building with
both a front door and a patio door wide open so we could easily see inside
where a long wooden bar stretched way into the back. We walked inside and there
were still several seats at the bar even through the first set of NFL games
were about to start. Christian asked the bartender, a guy about as wide as he
was tall, if we could get the Broncos game on one TV. He said no problem and
even told us which TV we were getting. We had two beers in front us just as the
game kicked off.
During a commercial I happened to glimpse a tattooed skinny
man place a burger and fries plate on the back of the bar, and then walk away.
The giant bartender came over and ate some fries off of a plate. A minute later
the skinny guy returned and noticed some fries were missing.
“Did you eat my fries?” he asked with a British accent. Then
he looked at us. “Did he (pointed at bartender) eat my fries?” Not sure of the
work dynamic in place here, I said, “Maybe.” From the other end of the bar came
a reply.
“So what if I did? I’m your boss, watcha gonna do about it?”
the bartender said, more than asked.
“That’s my lunch man!” and then the two of them broke out in
hysterical laughter. “When you get your lunch, you own me some fries.”
A guy came into the bar wearing a Broncos hat and asked if
the seat next to me was taken. We sensed we had a comrade in football , but
before we could introduce ourselves the bartender came over and told him he would
have some extra fans helping him out and pointed at us. The guy turned out to
be a Boulder native who lived nearby. He wound up in Philly because his wife
was getting her Master’s Degree there. O’Neal’s was his regular Sunday football
haunt because the bartender, who was also the owner, would accommodate just
about anyone who came in with their favorite game.He said there was one time when he arrived
late and there was only one TV left in the bar. It was behind him above the
front door. He had to sit the whole game with his back to the bar. Broncos’
fans do whatever it takes.
He told us there is a Pittsburg contingent that gets to
watch their games on the second floor. He also said there was one obnoxious guy
who was huge San Diego fan and just as he said that, the guy, wearing a dingy
SD t-shirt and hat walked in the front door and said, “Hello everybody!” By
second quarter, our new friend’s wife arrived, but the bar was full so he gave
up his seat to her and the two of us were able to chat during the game.
One of the things we talked about was the mellow 70’s music
played over the loud speakers. Apparently the bartender loves that kind of
music. Music like You’re in my Heart by Rod Stewart, Philadelphia Freedom by
Elton John, Summer Breeze by Seals and Crofts, Green-eyed Lady by Sugarloaf.
(Tell me if you remember that one?) The bartender would sing along and he had a
very nice voice. A cook from the kitchen came out and begged the bartender to
change the music station. He was granted his wish and soon Enter Sandman by
Metallica came on followed by Shook Me All Night Long by ACDC. I also heard Mas
Tequila by Sammy Hagar. By then the bartender had had enough and switched the
music back.
Here’s a conversation I overheard between the bartender and
a patron.
“So anything
new going up in the building on the corner?”
“Nah, guy
wants 10,000 dollars a month” said the bartender.
“Does the
Greek still own that Place?”
“Yeah,” the bartender replied. The bartender knew pretty
much everyone in the place and greeted them all and asked how their families
were. When Christian ordered an IPA that turned out to be the last drops of the
keg, the bartender let him have the foamy beer for free, even though it was
still a full glass. With the unseasonably warm weather and bright sunshine
flowing in through the open doors and windows, I decided I could easily live
near this bar. Maybe even in the bar.
After two beers it wasn’t long before nature called and I
made my way to the far end of the bar where the restrooms were. There were two,
but they weren’t designated men and women. People could use whichever one was
open. It didn’t take much to realize these were some unique bathrooms. I’m only
5’4”. The blue tiled bathroom ceiling was dropped so low I could touch it with
my elbow bent. I had to stand to the side of the toilet to shut the door. A
teeny, tiny little sink was tucked into the corner. I had to sit with my knees
to the side and under the sink because the door almost touched the end of the
toilet. I haven’t seen a port-a-potty that small. I mentioned the tiny
restrooms to our new friend’s wife and she laughed.
“Yeah, you get used to it after a while. I don’t even notice
it anymore.” She explained that a lot of the area’s buildings were originally
old houses dating back to colonial days. Rooms were smaller then. I’ll
say. I was so astounded by the bathroom’s size I had to go back and take some
photos because no out west would believe me.
After another Bronco’s victory, we paid our tab, said
goodbye to our new friends and then walked into the sunshine to grab a cab to
the airport.
After several visits to this Caribbean hideaway Kenny and I
have noticed there is a certain melancholy at this place that considers itself
as the happiest on earth. Kenny put his feelings very succinctly in a song. I,
however, will blather about it in this blog.
But oh the joys experienced in those three short hours! An
entire life is packed into them because the people you meet will become
lifelong friends you will never see again. You trade stories about your kids
and pets, share smartphone photos and get awkward hugs from men you don’t know
while your husband gets cheek kisses by co-eds. You laugh, you cry, you sing
songs and dance and yes, you get drunk. You
beg your boat captain to stay for just one more drink or you beg your new
friends’ boat captain to stay. When you’re on a boat, the vision of Jost
getting smaller behind you is depressing. When you’re on the shore, it can feel
down right lonely watching the boats leave one by one. If fact, a lot of things on Jost shut down
after the tourist boats leave, which makes staying on the island even more
lonely. The two places to stay in White Bay, The Sand
Castle and Ivan’s Stress-free Campgrounds, don’t have TV’s or phones or wi-fi.
When the sun goes down, you are in the dark. The Soggy Dollar’s kitchen closes
at 8 PM. We didn’t know that when we stayed on the island. However, in true
island manner, when we arrived hungry at 8 PM the bartender and chef offered us
a series of appetizers; all that they had left that
evening. We were grateful for that. 
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