Therese's Travels

Oxford, PA

For the past five years I’ve been going to Oxford, PA, once a week to visit my mother. In those many visits I’ve had the opportunity to sample nearly every restaurant in the area. We’ve had Italian, Mexican, American modern, American retro—you name it. Oxford is a great example of a small town full of good local dining. What I mention here is in no way a comprehensive list.

Over the years we’ve seen restaurants come and go in town. Peppercorns has now been replaced by Muse but we haven’t had the opportunity to try it. The tea room on the corner has been replaced by a store for children, much to my sister’s regret. I haven’t yet eaten in the new Mexican place but I recently had a mushroom-cheesesteak at La Sicilia on Route 10. We miss the Oxford Seafood Company and hope George and his family are doing well. The Miss Oxford Diner is a landmark and the place my mother and I ate when we first came to Oxford. I will never forget the waitresses’ kindness to my mother over the years—or their Boston crème pie.

One of my mother’s (and my) favorite places is Morning Glories Coffees and Teas, a small place on Market Street right downtown. The food is always fresh and creative, from the salads to soups that can only be described as beautiful and delicious. The lunch menu has some staples, such as the Mediterranean plate (hummus and pita, greens--my mother’s favorite) to a traditional, chunky, savory chicken salad. We have been there so many times that the owners greet us as locals. Definitely worth a visit.

A few blocks from the main street is Numzees Tavern and Grill. My sister and I go there when we’re in the mood for a beer with lunch or a substantial crabcake. Most days the place is packed but we’ve never had to wait for a seat for more than a few minutes; the waitstaff really hustles. Warning: Their French fries are addictive, but they will give you a smaller serving if you ask. And I just discovered they’re about to start offering coupons on their website. I think there’s a crabcake in my future!

The most recent addition to the area is in Nottingham, which is right next to Oxford and home of Herr’s. In fact, it was Herr’s who bought the Nottingham Inn and is now in the process of rehabbing it into a hotel (more on that later). For now they’ve opened the Nottingham Inn Kitchen & Creamery. Delectable local-based food with some out-of-the-ordinary menu items, like a barley salad or a crab omelette. Another place where the fries are recommended—here they come speckled with cracked black pepper. There’s even a dinner menu beyond the lunchtime soups, salads, and sandwiches, but I haven’t tried that (or dessert!) yet.

Oxford is another one of those towns just off a main road (Route 1, America’s first interstate!), full of local businesses that people have no idea exist. Get off Route 1 at Route 476 or Route 10 and drive into Oxford. You won’t have any difficulty finding a good place to eat.

Ohio, part 2: On "the Road" again

We had a nice time in Cincinnati and I was sorry to leave my husband. But once I was on Interstate 70 I couldn’t wait to get to the exit outside Zanesville and head for the National Road Museum/Zane Grey Museum. I actually had to drive on Route 40, which felt right because what had originally been the National Road is now I-70 and Route 40.

I pulled into a nearly empty parking lot (it was, after all, a school day) and walked into the large building housing not only the two museums I came for but—wait! there’s more!--also the Ohio Pottery Museum. Curator Kat Miller greeted me and sold me my ticket. Kat is very passionate about the museum and was happy to show me around.

Those readers born after President Eisenhower’s interstate road system was created might not be familiar with the National Road, “America’s first federally planned and funded highway” (see Karl Raitz, ed., The National Road). The original plan was for a route from Cumberland, Maryland, through southwestern Pennsylvania, to Wheeling, West Virginia. Building the road began in 1806. By 1850 it stretched to Vandalia, Illinois, and beyond.

A centerpiece of the museum is a huge Conestoga wagon, which is what the first travelers used—Henry Ford was still 100 years in the future. When I see artifacts like the wagon, I try to imagine my 20th/21st-century self in them. No, couldn’t do it this time. No upholstery, no bathrooms along the road, and most likely plenty of potholes.

There were places to stop, though. Drovers’ stations were the 19th-century equivalent of truck stops—places for those hauling goods or livestock long distances. Once stagecoaches really started carrying people west in numbers, taverns sprung up to meet the demand for food and rest. The museum’s very impressive diorama (largest in existence when it was built) of the National Road, from its early days under construction up to the 1920s, when it became Route 40, illustrates that growth.

The National Road witnessed the evolution of travel in America. Once the railroad system developed in the mid-1800s, the National Road became more a farm-to-market highway. But by the beginning of the 20th century cars were starting to take to the road, and so the museum has a ca. 1899 steam-powered automobile (which I couldn’t picture myself in either!).

From there I moved into the Zane Grey Museum section. I had visited the Zane Grey Museum in Lackawaxen, PA, as part of my first book. Grey is considered the “Father of the Western Novel,” and the PA museum is his home on the Delaware Water Gap. I was curious to see how Ohio would add to my Zane Grey experience.

The answer is “quite well.” The Ohio museum contains artifacts donated by Grey’s widow. I saw movie posters, book illustrations, even his dentist license! This “High Priest of the Outdoors” (he had more than one title) loved deep-sea fishing so the museum has a chair and rod and reel for marlin fishing.

My favorite display was a complete replica of his study in Altadena, CA, including a lap-board desk. I love seeing writers’ work areas—I always wonder if they daydreamed, procrastinated, doodled (these days it would be playing Solitaire on the computer, not that I would know anything about that). With the aid of his editor-wife Dolly, Grey completed 120 books, so he was certainly doing something right.

The final section of this multifaceted museum is Ohio pottery. Zanesville, Weller, Rookwood, Roseville—can you say Antiques Roadshow? That was the extent of my familiarity with these names and, honestly, television does not do this pottery justice. These pieces were breathtaking in person.

When I first saw “National Road Museum/Zane Grey Museum” (and then the pottery), I wondered why they were together. But while you may not at first think these three subjects are related, they do have a common theme. A road, a writer, and works of art: all American crafted.

This museum is a great stop on a very long interstate. If you can’t make it to the museum anytime soon, you can watch this video on YouTube. I left the museum with one more stop to make . . .

To be continued . . .

Ohio, part 1: Drive, she said

In what was surely a moment of insanity, I agreed to meet my husband in Cincinnati (in fact, I suggested it!). But I had to teach on Tuesday night, he had to be in Cincy by noon on Wednesday. It would be a 466-mile trip. So he flew, I drove.

I dropped him off at the airport at 6:00 am (still dark!), filled my tank, and hit the Pennsylvania turnpike. As the sun came up in my rearview mirror I thought, “only eight hours and I’m there!”

One of the perks of driving alone is not having to coordinate rest stops or food preferences with a traveling companion. I stopped at the first rest area for breakfast. I stopped at the second rest area for more coffee without anyone saying, “We just stopped!” I wasn’t the only one, either—I was amused to see some of the people in line from the last place.

After that, it was tunnel, tunnel, road work, tunnel. I kept punching the buttons on my radio but I could feel the boredom taking over. Two hours on the road and I was already bored? I told myself it was just because I knew the turnpike so well and it would improve when I got off.

At the New Stanton exit I headed south on I-70. Maybe it was because I was driving alone, but the local place names started to strike me as funny. Hunker, Wyano, Twilight . . . I took a picture of the sign at the Lover exit and tried to come up with their town slogan, but “Lover is for Lovers” just didn’t sound like it would bring in the tourists.

Finally, I crossed into West Virginia. Yes, I sang “Almost Heaven . . . “ At Wheeling I saw a sign for the “Doc and Chickie Williams Highway, Country Music’s Royal Couple.” I wouldn’t know until I got home that Doc Williams had just passed away a few months before. He and his wife, Chickie, often performed on Jamboree USA in Wheeling and all over the country (see www.docwilliams.com for their entire story).

West Virginia passed in nearly the blink of an eye. I stopped at a Sheetz convenience store and thought, “This could be Pennsylvania except for the beer on sale.” But the beer was also Pennsylvanian--Yuengling!

And then Ohio—only four hours, I thought (not nearly as brightly as I’d embraced the idea of eight hours five hours ago). I tried to convince myself that Ohio would be interesting since it was territory I had only crossed once before, and that was in the backseat of a car squeezed between my mother-in-law and her sister as we headed for a family reunion. But I soon realized that Ohio looks a lot like Pennsylvania, except the font on the road signs is different.

And then I saw a sign. Not something supernatural, but a real sign on the side of the road. It read “Zane Grey Museum/National Road Museum.” Wow! I thought. It’s like Ohio knew I—collector of small museums—was coming. Pennsylvania has a Zane Grey Museum and of course I wanted to compare the two. And I had edited The National Road, a two-volume set on the history of what became Route 40, so of course I had to see that as well.

But I was still on my mad dash across Ohio. I had to be in Cincinnati within a few hours, so I made a note to stop on my return trip. Energized, I kept driving. It was a relief to turn south at Columbus and then finally see Cincinnati ahead. I checked into the Garfield Suites only an hour later than I had planned, which for me is pretty good.

To be continued . . .

Edith's Kitchen, Catawissa, PA

One of the best things about researching a new travel book is getting back on the road. And one research source I didn’t have last time—the Internet--is now a major source of information for me. It’s a great way to find those places I wouldn’t necessarily see otherwise.

On a sunny winter day Mary the Photographer and I drove north toward the small town of Catawissa. I had been reading about the cabooses in Catawissa (say that three times fast!) and came across an ad for Edith’s Kitchen. Once I saw the “Mess” on the menu, I knew we had to eat there.

When people travel, they are sometimes uncomfortable walking into a “local” establishment, feeling out of place, thinking everyone else knows each other. But at Edith’s we felt at home immediately. A sunny, warm room with freshly painted walls covered in eclectic “art” (the Mona Lisa, framed flowers, a lumberman’s saw, pretty much anything they felt like putting up), a waitress bantering with customers. Edith’s is a few blocks off the main street but clearly no one has problems finding it—nearly every table was taken.

The menu as posted on the Internet is comprehensive and includes “The Mess,” which they explain by saying, “we figure it all goes to the same place anyway.” That’s my kind of attitude! The waitress handed us the lunch menu. Even though it wasn’t on the lunch menu I suspect if I had asked for a Mess, they would have accommodated me, but the grilled eggplant sandwich sounded so good. Mary ordered the “grilled cheese and rustic tomato soup.”

While we were waiting for our meals, we read an article posted on the wall about the restaurant’s beginnings. Sean and Shauna Thomas opened their establishment in December 2010 hoping to give diners some fresh, local fare. In September 2011, like so many other places, the restaurant flooded from the dual impact of Hurricane Irene and Tropical Storm Lee. Unfortunately, having been open less than a year they weren’t eligible for government assistance. But with a lot of help from friends and family Edith’s Kitchen was saved.

And when I saw our lunch, I wanted to thank those people. My grilled eggplant sandwich, on very fresh bread, was heavenly. And Mary’s soup was both delicious and large (when they say “hearty bowl,” they’re not kidding). The waitress convinced me to try the banana cream pie as well. Edith’s is not a place you’re going to leave hungry.

After we ate, we wandered around the train cars next door (the season runs April to October so they were all closed up). Then we headed north toward our next destination and talked about when we could come back to Catawissa just so we could eat at Edith’s Kitchen.

Forget the fast food stop if you’re driving Interstate 80 near Bloomsburg. Take Route 42 (exit 232) 6 miles south and have lunch at Edith’s Kitchen in Catawissa. This is exactly the kind of place that gives “local” a good name.

Photograph (c) 2012 Mary Brenner

Last Week

On a cold, rainy day last week I took a short drive to State College, tickets to the memorial for Joe Paterno in my coat pocket. I come from a Penn State family so I don’t only bleed Blue & White, I cry Blue & White. Like so many, I was compelled to say goodbye in person and felt very fortunate to be one of the 12,000 who secured tickets.

The first time I drove Route 322 to State College I was a high school senior. I hadn’t made up my mind about where I was going to college and I was punishing my Penn State father by talking about Pitt. He sent me to visit my older sister in Pollock Hall, I came back ready to swear my allegiance to all things Nittany Lion.

That first drive came back to me last week. It was cold then, too, with snow here and there on the ground. Back then the highway ended at Port Royal; from there it was two-lane to Seven Mountains. There were no “convenience” stores loaded with gas and snacks. If we stopped to eat, it was at Zimmie’s Diner in Mifflintown. I nearly took the old route, just for the memories, but I didn’t have the time.

What I did have, though, was the luxury of being alone with my thoughts. I tried to remember that girl of so many years ago. She would have been amazed at how her life turned out. She didn’t understand that going to college would change her, mold her, benefit her in so many ways. She didn’t see the husband, the lifetime friends, the multifaceted and meandering career path. She just knew something was out there and this was the road to find it.

I arrived in State College, had lunch with a friend, and we boarded a bus to the memorial. I had wanted to walk across campus, like I’ve done so many times, but it was raining. We stopped at the Paterno statue before heading into Bryce Jordan Center for the memorial. More than enough has been written about that; I’ll leave it at “I was there.”

When we came out, it was still raining but I decided to take that walk across campus, a path I’ve taken so many times after a game. Past the swimming pools (I remember when it was just one), through Pollock Quad, past South Halls and onto College Ave. I stopped at the mural, altered twice in the past three months, which I had never really looked at before. I bought my sister a hoodie. I paused at some storefront memorials.

And then I got back in my car to make the trip home. After my first visit to State College, I had no idea how life would change. When I left last week, I knew that things would never be the same again.

America's best idea indeed . . .

I just watched all six nights of PBS's National Parks series. Usually I don't have the patience for these programs or don't care about the subject matter (baseball? I think not!). But the Parks are near and dear to my heart.

Well done, beautifully photographed. My only complaint (as registered elsewhere) is too many white-male experts, not enough of everyone else. I highly recommend the series to every single blessed American (and by "blessed" I mean blessed to have these parks in our country). From the Yellowstone beginnings to the reintroduction of gray wolves (I saw one last year!), from the fights over Hetch Hetchy to the fights over the Grand Tetons (imagine!), even from the slaughter of Native Americans to the slave quarters in Florida to the Japanese-American internment camps in the West and the Flight 93 site in Pennsylvania, it's one great big swath of history. It's our best and our worst, it's who we are.  

Penn's Cave

Sometimes we travel for vacation, for relaxation. Sometimes we travel for work. And sometimes we travel looking for ourselves. Like many people, I’ve spent some of my adulthood trying to piece my family together. It’s not that I was adopted or that I didn’t know who my relatives were. But my parents came from small families. The few aunts, uncles, and cousins I did have lived in other states. And I was a child when most of my grandparents died, so I didn’t know them either.

I’ve been fortunate as an adult to spend time with my mother’s cousins and with my father’s brother and sister. I can see the connection from them to me, in my face, my build, my mannerisms, and my sense of humor. But it still surprised me when my mother told me I had Grammy’s arms. That’s a compliment and yet not. “Not” because it means they’re not exactly delicate and shapely, but a compliment because they come from my great-grandmother, Martha Frances “Mattie” Miller Close.

I only have small pieces of Grammy. I look at pictures of her and I think I remember her but I can’t be sure. She smiles in only one picture—taken late in life, she is seated in a chair in a yard somewhere, her middle-aged sons standing behind her.

She was born February 17, 1875, in Longfellow, Pa., Mifflin County, south of Lewistown. She married William Hugh Close of Milroy in Little Valley Church of the Brethren in Oliver Township, Mifflin County, in 1892. They moved to Milroy and had five children. Their first, a son, died in infancy and their last child, their only daughter, died of whooping cough in childhood. She moved to Altoona to take care of my mother when she was still a little girl and her own mother had been hospitalized. Mattie never went back to Mifflin County and died April 13, 1964, in Altoona.

Her entire life was spent in a very small area—less than 100 miles across central Pennsylvania—but her influence has lasted over a century.

My mother and I spent a few years working on the family genealogy, trying to trace and record the family’s earliest ties to Central Pennsylvania. We would often pass billboards for Penn’s Cave and my mother would say, “That’s where Grammy spent her honeymoon. She talked about it for the rest of her life.”

A little background for the uninitiated: the first recorded discovery of Penn’s Cave, “America’s only all-water cavern,” was in 1796 by the Reverend James Martin. It opened for the tourist trade in 1885. Even though I went to Penn State, I’d never been there. Indian Caverns in Spruce Creek and Mammoth Cave in Kentucky were the extent of my underground experience. The ubiquitous “See It By Boat!” never seemed enough of an enticement.

But here I was, years later, still thinking about the family and the pieces that could be put into place. And I decided to go see that wonder Grammy talked about, and try to imagine what she thought when she saw it.

From my other cavern visits, I expected a gift shop and ticket-seller. When my friend Patty and I pulled into the parking lot, though, our first view was of a large Victorian-era building with “Penn’s Cave House” painted on the front stood between us and the cavern entrance. Of course, that was the hotel where Mattie would have stayed! (Now it’s a private residence.) We went into the gift shop to pay our admission and wait for our tour time. Ooh, every stamped cedar souvenir you ever dreamed of! (Not mocking here, I still have my little cedar chest from Horseshoe Curve!)

To get to the cave opening we had to walk down a steep incline where a narrow wooden boat waited. Unlike so many tours I’ve been on where everyone is chatting and laughing, this time the group filed into their seats rather quietly. The small children looked both really excited and really nervous. Our tour guide, Tom, asked us to “keep your hands and fingers off the ledges” and then we were off! As the boat glided into the darkness, I heard a little voice say, “I’m scared.” And then another one asked, “Are there any bears in there?"

No, no bears. Just 11 million gallons of water passing through the cavern every 24 hours. The air is 52 degrees and the water, a light emerald color, is 38 degrees year round. Tom also told us the cave is 13 feet high at the entry but inside it can be as low as 2-3 feet (not for the claustrophobic!). There must be a law that it’s not a cave tour unless we get to see stalactites and stalagmites with names--my favorite was the “Statue of Liberty” (pretty good likeness!).

I watched steam rising off the lights and Tom pointed out remnants of earlier tours--soot from their torches still marks the inside of the cave. My thoughts returned to Grammy and the reason I was here. What did she think, this 17-year-old new bride, in this strange place? She’d traveled so far from her home for this honeymoon, most likely by train from Lewistown and then a buggy from Centre Hall. Was she scared? Did she hang onto her new husband? Or was she fascinated, wishing the boat ride could go on forever? In her day there was no hole at the other end of the cave, out into the sunlight for a bit, so she got no break from the darkness. No wonder she talked about it the rest of her life. It must have felt like she had traveled to the ends of the earth.

When I left Penn’s Cave, I got in my car and drove to dinner in State College. When Mattie left Penn’s Cave, she went by buggy to her new home in Milroy and a new life. A world of difference. But somehow, for a little bit, lives shared.

The Hershey Story

Hershey, PA, is like no other place on earth: A town made from chocolate. Okay, that's every kid's dream but not quite accurate. In truth, Milton Hershey made his fortune with milk chocolate and built a town--and then the beginnings of an amusement park--for his workers. I've been going to Hershey, PA, all my life. We didn't have family vacations, but we had Hershey Park, my father's favorite destination.

Now I live nearby. Of course I take my houseguests to Hersheypark and to Chocolate World--the rides, the candy, the "sweetest place on earth!" But that's not the Hershey from my childhood, not the Hershey I love.  Most people would say that place is gone; I like to think it's just harder to see. When I drive through town, I know which routes around the park give me the best view of the days before fences and admission prices--where the Comet wooden rollercoaster, or the picnic pavillions, or the little carp-packed creek. For those few minutes, it's a nice little trip back.

Recently, a section of town has undergone a metamorphosis. The Hershey Museum of old (you knew there had to be a museum in this piece!), which used to sit at the edge of the park, has closed. Its resplendent replacement, the Hershey Story, shines prominently on Chocolate Avenue, just west of the chocolate factory. In one word: "Gorgeous." In two words: "Well done."

The first floor is Cafe Zooka, the Chocolate Lab (I'll get to that one), and ubiquitous gift shop. My friend Matt and I started with lunch, Cubano panini for him, chicken and strawberry salad for me. Excellent. It was good that we did not choose dessert, because the cafe offers the Countries of Origins Chocolate Tastings. We shared a "flight" of six from around the globe, all within 20 degrees of the equator. Even though Java was the lightest and I'm a milk chocolate kind of girl, I liked Equador the best. Full bodied, velvety texture. Now I know why they call it chocolate liquor.

Matt and I walked upstairs to the Hershey Story itself--a beautiful museum dedicated to the life and accomplishments of Milton Hershey. Hershey failed at business a number of times before turning to first caramel and then (what I consider a natural progression) to milk chocolate. But that's only part of his story. Milk required cows, so he moved his business to the PA countryside (closer to the dairy!) and then began to build the town. After that it was gardens, a carousel, a bandstand, a pool, a school for orphans . . . on and on. Not just a candymaker, Milton Hershey was both visionary and philanthropist. 

And that's where I got to see "my Hershey" again. Photos of the town through the years. A machine that wraps Kisses (it moves when you push a button). Chocolate-bar molds people lucky enough to have toured the factory will remember. A timeline of Hershey bars through the years: the Rally bar? Hershey-ettes? Butter-chip? I'd forgotten all of them.

For those looking to do more than reminisce (yes, the kids!), the Story has many interactive features. I got to design my own chocolate bar and get my picture taken as though I was riding the first Hershey coaster, the Wild Cat. (Would have liked that better if it had been the Lost Jungle, but this was pretty good.) I even got to email them to myself! I wouldn't recommend this as a place for toddlers, but school-age children will really like it.

The Chocolate Lab, on the first floor next to the cafe, is a chocolate classroom. When we passed, the room was full of school-age children in food-prep bonnets listening attentively to a woman talk about geography--as it relates to chocolate, of course. The Lab offers a number of hands-on classes, open to the public, and tickets are discounted if bought with a museum ticket. I'm glad I got to see the factory when they still had tours, but I think if given a choice back then--hmm, look at chocolate in vats or actually touch, smell, taste chocolate. Not a tough decision. 

The Hershey Story will probably fill up every time it rains (parents need to take their kids somewhere until the rides open again), but it shouldn't be relegated to just a dry alternative to the park. It's a interesting and engaging--I'd even call it sweet--trip in time.

Five Days in Sunny California--"The End"

Friday morning I had to be down in the lobby at 9 a.m. Joe wasn't yet well enough to fly so his sister was picking him up for an extended stay. We parted, and I flew home alone. Great conversation on the way with other Penn Staters, who turned out to be from my hometown no less.

Joe stayed in CA another five days. He went to the wineries in Temecula, a place we had been a number of years before. He said it's changed significantly--more wineries, more tourists, a less intimate experience. He also went to the Huntington Botanical Gardens, where he took many pictures of cacti in bloom. He highly recommends it.

Reflecting on the five days: I didn't expect to like Beverly Hills. I had no interest in seeing Rodeo Drive and, as it turns out, I drove past it a number of times but never drove on it. But I liked the area. Beverly Hills was pretty and with only one exception everyone I met was friendly and helpful. Some high points to a rough week: I will be forever grateful to the woman who stopped when I was standing outside the parking garage trying to find the hospital I had just left Joe at. Annie at Mickey Fine's (yes, we even ate there again on our last day together!) made us feel at home. And the Beverly Hilton was beautiful and well maintained (and I got to see it on TV when the Golden Globes were on!).

Five Days in Sunny California--Day 4

Finally, the day we came for! Yes, "I love a parade!" We had to be in the hotel lobby at 5 a.m. for the bus to Pasadena and the Rose Bowl parade and game. We thought 5 a.m. was painfully early since Pasadena was less than an hour away, but after experiencing rush-hour traffic a few days before, we figured they knew what they were doing.

Smooth bus trip. I learned that to get good views for the Tournament of Roses Parade, you need to have tickets for reserved seats. (People camp out all night along the parade route for good nonreserved viewing.) We had to walk a few blocks from where the bus parked but it just added to the anticipation. They warned us it would be cold, but not surprisingly the PA contingent wasn't bothered.  We had to wait a while for the parade to start (and every time I think of the wait, Kool & the Gang's "Celebration" pops into my head because the float in front of us kept playing it over and over and over).

Finally, it started! Float after float, band after band, celebrity after . . . well, yeah, some of them, too. Grand Marshall Cloris Leachman looked fabulous!  The floats were magnificent. When I was a kid, I had the pleasure of marching in many a parade representing my school, so I was particularly interested in the bands. With one exception, they were phenomenal. Manners are clearly not what they used to be--the USC band chanted "Penn State sucks" as they passed our Blue and White contingent. The only black mark on an otherwise wonderful experience.

Back on the bus, went to the game, the pain of a loss exacerbated by the taunting from USC fans and the team. Good-natured teasing is one thing, but that's not what we were hearing. It wasn't just my section of the stadium either. Again, is this considered acceptable? I had been so excited to go to the Rose Bowl, the "Granddaddy of them all..." etc. I would not recommend the experience to anyone.

Bus ride back to the hotel. We weren't that hungry so we went down to the hotel bar for a drink and a snack. Our waiter was excellent--he could see we were exhausted and took very good care of us. It was a good way to end our last evening together in Beverly Hills.