Tag Archives: atlanta

Threading the Needle, and Tired

Unless you just emerged from a bomb shelter to read my blog, you’ve probably heard that American Airlines canceled something like 9 million flights this week. Since my itineraries had me flying to Dallas, Miami and Atlanta on American, you might say that my travels this week were in some jeopardy. Fortunately, the only cancellation I suffered was from Denver to Dallas, and I was footsteps away from the counter when it happened. So I was one of the lucky ones that immediately got an aisle seat on a Frontier flight leaving just one hour later.

My Miami and Atlanta segments were on 757′s, which were unaffected by the FAA inspections. They were also completely, totally full so there was no risk that they’d cancel those flights just to free up equipment. Overall, I’d say that I got pretty lucky.

The airports, however, were absolute pandemonium this week. Miami in particular seemed like a third world country just learning how to operate an airport. There were hundreds and hundreds of people trying to get booked on alternate flights at the counters and people like me just trying to make the flights we were scheduled for by somehow penetrating the crowd. Those rope barriers they use to zig zag lines? In the American section of the terminal they were like crazy quilt random drunken mazes with badly placed signs to tell you where to go in and out. Consequently, a lot of people were simply unhooking them and walking through to the place they needed to get to. It wound up having all of the downsides of the rope maze (frustrating, constrained flow) and all of the downsides of anarchy (angry, chaotic crowds). I don’t know how far away we were from some kind of violence breaking out in the airport, but I’m guessing not much.

Once you got through security and into the gate areas it wasn’t much better. It was literally hard to move in places. And speaking of violence, I saw something on Concourse D near the Admiral’s Club that I’ve never seen before – at least not in the US. Walking toward me through the crowd were two hulking Miami Police officers holding short stock automatic rifles, fingers on the trigger guards. Just behind them was a very petite blonde wearing a pair of those super-sized don’t-take-pictures-of-me-you-scum-paparazzi sunglasses. Behind her was a small entourage of unremarkable looking women.

Who was the blonde? Why did she rate a police escort with nearly shouldered automatic weapons?! Is that how the cops roll in Miami? Surrounded by several hundred people that couldn’t move waiting on their airplanes, what would they actually do with them in the case of an attack?

Anyway, I was glad to get out of there and be on my way to Atlanta. The Greatest Kid in the World and I will be spending a few days together while she starts her Spring Break.

After that, I get to return to Dallas for a whole week!! I’m very excited about that. For the past 30 days I’ve slept in my bed in Dallas only 3 of them. That’s nuts. This is the longest string of travel I’ve had in I can’t remember when. I’m tired, I’ve gained 3 pounds or so, I haven’t been to the gym in weeks and both my house and apartment are a mess. Enough.

How to Totally Blow $165

Two weeks ago as I was leaving for San Francisco on the way to Bangkok I was in a bit of a hurry when going through the Atlanta airport. While struggling with my bags, shoes, coat, the plastic bins for my laptops and the other nonsense at “security” I made a mistake which would come back to me a long while later. Instead of clipping my Atlanta set of car and house keys to the key clip in my briefcase I dropped them into a zip pocket in my carry on luggage. I would sort it out after re-assembling myself on the other side of the metal detectors, x-ray machines and government employees. Only I didn’t.

Last Friday morning while still pretty badly jet lagged I threw together my luggage for the weekend trip to Atlanta and then points beyond this week. In the fog of fatigue I was operating on pure routine, not really thinking ahead. I didn’t need the carry on bag that I took to Asia, only my suit bag and brief case, one which I’d check, the other which I’d carry on.

My keys, of course, are still in Dallas right now, sitting in the little zip pocket of my carry on bag, laughing at me.

So this is what Friday was like:

  1. Discover that my Atlanta keys are NOT in my briefcase while going through “security” at DFW and hooking my Dallas keys onto the key hook.
  2. Mumbling “@#$%” repeatedly and just loud enough for the government employees to give me a good second look.
  3. Catch a cab in Atlanta up to the house. $85 with tip.
  4. MacGyver my way into the house during a break in the POURING rain.
  5. Wait for my daughter to arrive, call another cab, ride down to the airport with her. Another $80 with tip.
  6. Drive back to the house.

Keeping two homes in two cities and traveling like I do it was bound to happen I guess. But I’ve got to get a better Plan B for that situation. Maybe spare sets of keys hidden in my briefcase or something?

Le Cafe Crepe

This week has been a gourmet tour of Atlanta’s northern suburbs. On Wednesday night I took my dad out to Amalfi Ristorante, a great Italian place just south of Roswell square. You may recall that he has run out of things to remodel at home and so now he’s driving to Atlanta and giving my house the do-over. I pay for the materials and subcontractors, he does all of the work, and I take him to dinner whenever I happen to be in town at the same time he’s there. Anyway, Amalfi is a good spot. If you like better Italian food I think it’s one of the standout options outside of the perimeter. I had the veal with mushrooms. Very nice.

Thursday I met a couple of my old Atlanta friends at Aspens, a great steak house that’s part of the Sedgwick Restaurant Group. All of their places are excellent in my opinion. I had the fish special this time, a mahi mahi filet on onion & mushroom risotto. Awesome!

But last night was the best stop. For more than ten years I’ve dropped in on a little place hidden away on the fringe of Marietta Square called Le Cafe Crepe. Now this is a place you just have to experience. Quiet, candlelight, intimate. I honestly can’t think of a better place to go if it’s a good slow meal with conversation that you are after – there are a total of maybe 12 tables in the whole place. A real live Frenchman named Alfred Carraz is chief cook and bottle washer, and sometimes waits the tables too. Last night, however, it looked like business had picked up a bit from the last time I visited several years ago. He had a little Vietnamese woman waiting tables and a big teenage looking kid helping him in the kitchen. I had what amounts to a ham crepe with cheese sauce and it was just as excellent as everything I’ve ever had there. My date liked her choice too, a chicken and mushroom combination. We split a nice bottle of French wine. She’s a pretty neat woman – a mutual friend has been trying to set us up for a while and we only just got to meet. We closed the place down – great conversation. Doesn’t hurt any that we have a love for public speaking in common. First time I’ve ever gotten to know somebody with that kind of background.

Anyway, if you’ve ever found yourself missing that European cafe experience when you are in Atlanta, you could do a whole lot worse than Le Cafe Crepe. Now I just need to put the &$%@ brakes on my fine dining before I outgrow everything in my closet….

Riding on the Ghost Train

In 1920 my grandmother was born into what was luxury for her time. Her father was a doctor and his family had various interests throughout the county in which she grew up. Despite living in that rural part of the South Carolina low country, her home was equipped with things that were as uncommon then as they are taken for granted today. It had running water fed by a spring and electric lighting powered by a generator kept in the small stone “powerhouse” at the rear of the property. I remember seeing it’s ruins when I was a small boy, confused by the idea that electricity could come from anywhere other than a power line.

Despite the rare wealth of her youth my grandmother was twelve years old before she ever saw an automobile. From the few times she told me the story it was clear that the experience left quite an impression on her, but not nearly so much as the trains of her day did. An illness took her father when she was a little girl, and by the time she entered college the Great Depression had taken what was left of his land and fortune. She didn’t complain very often about either of those losses, but whenever we rode back to her ancestral home together she lamented the disappearance of the railroads. She used words like “marvelous” and “grand” to describe what the trains and train stations were like in the travels of her youth.

Yesterday I finally got a sense for what she must have experienced. It was a cold gray February day. Not much fun to do anything outside, and not many options for diversion downtown with all of the traffic disruption on the 75/85 connector. Still, we wanted to get out of the house and do something we had not done recently. So it was that my parents, daughter and I found ourselves doing something that we’d never done before – visit the Southeastern Railway Museum in Duluth, Georgia. It’s hard to give a sense of what it is like to visit there. It’s one of those things that you almost have to see to appreciate.

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The Savannah & Atlanta 750.

One of the trains in renovation there was the Superb, used to transport Woodrow Wilson on occasion and Warren Harding on a cross-country tour in the last days of his Presidency and his life. Think of the Superb as the Air Force One of the Roaring 20′s. Most of the spaces inside reminded me of the close quarters in an airplane or, perhaps more appropriately, a modern cruise ship. While cramped, it was clear that they were luxurious in their time. It was the same for some of the other train cars there at the museum, the ones that might have carried passengers more like my grandmother and less like a head of state.

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Harding’s sitting room in his private car on the Superb.

There were other antiquities there too – rail cars that were rolling post offices, rail cars refrigerated with block ice for transporting fruit cross-continent, rail cars used to house workers during weeks away from home while they worked on the rail road. There were countless other relics big and small of a vast and vanished transportation infrastructure which most of us today have no idea even existed.

I often wonder what mysteries of my youth that I’ll struggle to explain to my daughter as she gets older and then to her children some day. Staring at the Iron Horses of a bygone era it was hard to grasp which of the “grand” and “marvelous” things in our present lives might make that list.

Hard to Top That

Every once in a while you hear a story about some really cool experience that a friend or family member has that’s truly unique. For example, I had a friend that got to ride in an M1-A1 Abrams tank once. They did all kinds of maneuvers that sounded pretty impressive, among them rolling through a forest of scrub pines at speed and laying down trees like blades of grass. I went to high school with him before he enlisted and became a Combat Engineer. His job, more often than not, was blowing stuff up. Some guys have all the fun.

The neatest story I’ve heard in a very long while, however, was recently posted over at my friend James’ blog at the arc of time. I won’t spoil the story, but it involves flying big jets (sort of). Go check it out.

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The Bucket List

Go see it. It’s not going to win any Academy Awards but the subject matter is the kind that’s always worthy of attention, and it would be very hard to go wrong with both Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman in any script. Rob Reiner doesn’t. Morgan Freeman does funny outraged surprise like nobody else, and may be the best film narrator of all time. Jack Nicholson remains the singular talent that he has always been. Their friendship on screen is very well done. The back-and-forth between Nicholson’s character and his male executive assistant is good stuff too.

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This dinner-and-a-movie night out was my third date with the woman I met at Rice a few weeks back and went to the Shakespeare Tavern with last week. That continues to be time well spent. As Forrest Gump would say “That’s all I have to say about that.”

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Blame the Pie

Speaking of Heaven and Hell, I should tell you about the pie that my daughter and I ate tonight. Wow.

Today we shopped at Whole Foods for the groceries we used to make tonight’s awesome dinner. Rosemary roasted chicken, green beans with sauteed shallots and brown rice. I really enjoy cooking and she loves learning how with my help. It’s one of the things we really enjoy doing together. Wholesome and heart warming yes, but let’s get back to the pie.

While crossing perfectly innocent things off the list we came across an apple pie in the baked goods section that was a must-have for dessert. We don’t get to eat things like this very often. She has a deadly peanut allergy and most store-bought baked goods these days make a blanket statement about the risk about cross-contamination. Eat at your own risk basically. Allergen info was very clearly marked on this pie, however, and there was nothing to be concerned about. We jumped at the chance and took it home. This was the real deal folks. I don’t know how many calories per slice it has and I don’t care. Real shortening used to make the crust and all the other details that make an awesome apple pie.

While necessity may be the mother of invention, serendipity is often the author of bliss. We had a cup of heavy cream left over from the last time she was in Atlanta. It would expire before our next time together. Perfect excuse. After the pie was warmed in the oven I brought out the Kitchen Aid and we whipped the cream into the genuine good stuff. Not Kool Whip, not Ready Whip, not any whip. Whipped cream.

Do you like ice cream on warm apple pie? I do – and let me tell you – that’s nothing compared to what we tasted tonight. One slice of that pie loaded up with a big glop of fresh whipped cream surely exceeds all the glory of heaven. The big problem with that fact is this – having already tasted paradise I’m now left with far less incentive to behave well in this life. So should you ever be disappointed in me know this: I blame the pie.