T's Travels

Gracie's on West Main, Leola, PA

It’s a gorgeous late spring/early summer day. You decide to take a drive, maybe through Lancaster County. It’s strawberry season so everywhere you go signs pop up STRAWBERRIES! ONIONS! LETTUCE! You stop, you shop, you drive on. Getting on to lunchtime you start to think about a place to eat (because even though you bought strawberries, you didn’t eat quite all of them . . . yet!). Where do you go? Some national chain on the major highway you’ve been avoiding? Nonsense! If you’re anywhere near Leola, and you don’t go to Gracie’s on West Main, you will have missed an opportunity.

I only found the place because my sister and I were meeting for lunch and wanted it somewhere between us. She is an avid Yelp user and so she said, “Do you know Gracie’s?” I’ve never even been in Leola, so no, I hadn’t heard of it. I arrived late (I had swung through Lebanon to pick up Shuey’s Pretzels for my brother-in-law [see below]) and when I found the restaurant the parking lot was full and I had to park in the back (not a problem). Gracie’s does not have a large roadside presence (e.g., no windmill on the roof). It is part of a conglomeration of businesses under one roof, not quite a strip mall, not quite a business center. What it is, however, is a really great little restaurant.

They serve breakfast, lunch, dinner, brunch, and bacon. Lots of bacon. (The menu says: “We use real butter for our eggs and toast, and rendered bacon fat for our home fries.”) Also an assortment of grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes, other sandwiches, soups, and salads, too. I debated getting the Irish breakfast sandwich (one of my favorite things to see on a menu: Breakfast all day!) but opted for a lunch item instead—the PLT (pulled pork, apple butter BBQ, lettuce, tomato and ranch dressing on toasted sourdough—shouldn’t that be PPLT?), but I skipped the ranch dressing. My drink was not my usual Diet Pepsi but a locally made cola, with real sugar but not overly sweet. Sister went for the Cobb salad and took half home.  

It came time for dessert (well, yes) and I ordered the strawberry-rhubarb Riesling crisp cake and she had the key-lime pie with a macaroon crust. We were very happy diners. I had just ordered another key-lime pie to take home to Husb when the cook showed up with a slice of her angel-food cake with strawberries and whipped cream. She said they had it left over and everyone else had had some so “enjoy!” Oh, we did. I have never had better angel-food cake. I wish I could make it that well!

Gracie’s is the kind of place if you’re not a local you may not know it, if you drive by it you may not notice it, but if you go in and have something to eat you will never forget it. I’m already ready to go back and try something else on the menu!

Note: You probably don’t know Shuey’s Pretzels either. A plain little house on the east side of Lebanon that creates pretzel heaven Wednesdays through Saturdays. Large hard pretzels in two forms: regular and beer (the latter a little thicker). Not so hard it hurts to bite them but just right. Made fresh every day; the shop often smells like heaven. And if you want soft pretzels, they’re available only on Saturdays. I have not yet had the pleasure but one of these days I will.

(Photo from Gracie's Facebook page)

Cambridge Springs, PA

Before people had hot tubs in their backyards . . . before beauty salons advertised “day spa” facilities . . . even before many people had indoor plumbing . . . the only way to sit and soak in hot water was to go to a hot spring. So that’s what people did.

As Europeans settled across what became the United States, they began utilizing the hot springs used by Native Americans. Doctors sent their patients to bathe in the hot springs and drink the mineral water known to cure everything from psoriasis to dyspepsia. Hot springs were curative.  Hydrotherapy—still used today for stiff muscles—was very popular.

By the second half of the 1800s, however, the springs became recreational as well as medicinal as resorts sprung up. While many Pennsylvanians have heard of Bedford Springs, probably few are familiar with Cambridge Springs, a small town on Route 6 between Erie and Meadville in the northwest corner of the state. At its peak Cambridge Springs had “more than 40 hotels, spring houses, and rooming houses” serving the masses coming to bathe and recreate. At the height of the fad “eight trains a day” brought visitors to the town.

As Mary the Photographer and I drove across the metal bridge over French Creek and into town it was hard to imagine that this little town was once so bustling. Our destination was the Riverside Inn, the last operating vestige of Cambridge Springs’ resort heyday. Most of the old hotels are gone, victims of fire or the Great Depression. The Riverside continues on as a hotel, restaurant, and dinner theater.

We found the Riverside just off the main drag. This great Victorian lady sits among trees near the creek, its wraparound porch stretching leisurely on either side of the front entrance. It was easy to picture women in big hats, sitting in rockers on that porch, fanning themselves on a hot summer day. Mary and I walked inside to the large lobby, past the sweet Victorian touches such as a fainting couch and love seat, looking for the restaurant for lunch.

Once we were seated by the lace-covered window I looked around the room we were in—the dining room is very large, just like one would expect in a resort. We were having a late lunch so there weren’t many people there. I could just imagine the waiters running back and forth between the kitchen and the guests, trying to serve the hot, hungry crowds. Our server, however, had the freedom to relax with us and we had a nice conversation about the history of the Riverside.

With its warm décor it was harder for me to imagine this building as any sort of a medical facility but they had doctors on staff and did offer what they called “electrical treatments” in addition to the springs. Obviously trying to quell anyone’s concerns about the medical side (or maybe just to reel more guests in), a doctor employed at the resort assured potential guests that “there is nothing at all at the Riverside to remind one of the unpleasant features of a sanitarium." With that I would agree.

After lunch we had a good opportunity to look around the inn. Down the hallway from the dining room was a large glass case with Victorian costumes. On the level beneath us was the dinner theater, where a bus group was watching a comedy—we could hear them laughing, which I understand, is the best medicine. The dinner theater operates all year, with a wide range of plays and holiday events bringing visitors to town.

We drove out of town looking for other signs of the Cambridge Springs of 1900. Our server had said that a few other structures had been hotels but they don’t stand out among the buildings. The town was also home to Alliance College, which welcomed President William Howard Taft at its dedication in 1912 and closed in the 1980s. In 1904 Cambridge Springs hosted a chess tournament at the Rider Hotel (lost to a fire in 1931), which led to a chess move being named for the town.

Today Cambridge Springs is a quiet little place where presidents and chess players are just memories. But the Riverside Inn can still remind visitors of the glory days.

Photo by Mary Brenner

Colorado, Day 3: A lost railroad found

We checked out of the hotel and headed west on 285. Our goal was Gunnison by nightfall but otherwise we had no plans beyond following the dotted (scenic) line on the map. Route 149 ran right through Creede and so did we—it just felt too early to stop. Passed through some great views (I’ll let the photos speak for themselves):

At Mount Baldy Cinco we stopped to look a little while.

At the bottom of the mountain was Lake City, clearly a very popular summer vacation spot and the headwaters of the Lake Fork of the Gunnison River. It looks like a place I’d enjoy staying for a few days . . .

It was getting near lunchtime and so we started to look for a good picnic spot. Shade was essential, seating by the water would be a bonus. Just as we rounded one curve on 149 I saw a little sign that said “Campground,” so we turned in. Drove down a gravel road, past a number of tents next to the Lake Fork. Further on, at a stop sign was another sign, pretty much warning us not to go any further if we had trailers, were nervous about landslides, or basically didn’t know how to drive. To my husband “Not safe to drive here” means “Welcome!” So of course we kept driving.

But it didn’t seem treacherous. There were plenty of pullover places if a car was coming in the other direction. The Lake Fork was on our left and the mountain on our right kept getting steeper and rockier. Some of the rocks seemed to have been cut, which we thought was odd. Finally we found a group of trees on the riverbank, some large rocks perfect for picnicking. Watched the water flow, wondered if people whitewater around there. Even though there were people here and there along the way, I felt we were really in our own little world. That’s one of the nice things about picnicking.

After lunch we continued driving because Husb. The canyon (it was now a canyon) became narrower and we noticed historical markers on the mountainside (I told you Colorado is good about labeling things). Turns out the road we were driving on was formerly the railroad bed for the Lake Fork Spur of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad between Sapinero and Lake City. A number of markers tell the story of the railroad. We walked a small trail that led us past the rocky foundations of housing used by railroad management during the building of the railroad; they didn’t look like all that much but they beat where the workers slept—they often huddled under trees at night, not having structures in which to sleep, even through the winter. The existence of the railroad explains why some of the rocks looked hand-cut; they were!

Eventually the driving stops in a parking lot. We walked beyond that just to see how far the trail goes. The water slowed down and then nearly stopped, full of tree debris. We couldn’t see much farther but the last 20 miles of the 35-mile railroad bed are now underwater. When I came home and looked it up, I found out this is called the “Lake Fork Spur Scenic Drive.” It’s the scenic drive equivalent of a small museum—you may think it’s not much from the outside but once you do it, you will be so glad you did.

If you do this drive, and you come back out to the stop sign, and you see a sign that says “Route 50 15 miles” if you turn right, and you think, “Oh, I want Route 50, I’ll take this,” think about this first. It’s 15 miles on top of the mesa. That may be what you want, but then again . . . it goes on and on. At the end we found ourselves on the west side of the Curecanti National Recreation Area, with Gunnison (still our destination) to the east. A little highway driving, witnessing a dump truck lay a lot of rubber to avoid hitting a line of cars stopped for construction (the car at the end of the line actually moved because the driver thought he might get hit, which was a smart move—the same truck had passed us doing at least 80 mph), and coming into Gunnison.

As we drove down the main street of Gunnison we saw a sign on a roadside stand: HATCH CHILES. Yes indeed it was chile season. People in Colorado (at least the section we were in) set up stands and roast chiles by the side of the road. Husb had brought me a large bag a few years before from a trip west (yes, I know, some wives get nice jewelry when their husbands travel, but I couldn’t have been happier to get the chiles). We were hoping to score again on this trip. In Alamosa we saw a TAKING ORDERS FOR POBLANOS sign but we weren’t going to be in town when they roasted. So we stopped at the sign in Gunnison and told the woman we’d be back the next afternoon for a half-bushel of roasted hatch chiles.

Then we went in search of a hotel room. Trip Advisor #1 was the Inn at Tomichi Village, an independent establishment just outside town. Clean, quiet, reasonably priced. Done. And we had no regrets. Dinner at the High Alpine Brewing Company—very creative pizzas and nice brews. We wandered around town a little, looking at the artsy little shops and restaurants. Gunnison is a nice place to find yourself (not as in “find yourself,” but as in “hey, I’m in Gunnison, Colorado! Nice little town!”).

We slept that night dreaming of chiles and mountains. One more day to go . . .

Next . . . once again off the track . . .

Colorado, Day 2: Walkin' in the sand . . .

The next morning—the big one! I strapped on my hiking boots and we arrived at the dunes at 9:30 ready to go. To get to the dunes everyone must cross Medano (pronounced MED-a-no) Creek. During June and July the creek runs at full capacity and people play in the water and the sand just like they’re at Wildwood, New Jersey! But in late August the creek runs at little more than a trickle so we could cross it without getting more than the bottom of our boots wet.

First dune, easy—up and down. Second dune, not so easy—up and where can I go that’s not down? Third dune, how to cross it—stick to the ridge? Walk on the slope? Whoa, is that too steep? Hiking the dunes takes thought and consideration in where to step and what direction to go. We were lucky in that it had rained the night before and so more sand was firm than the day before. We also had no wind so there was no blowing sand.

I probably made it halfway before I said, “Good enough! Yay me!” Husb went all the way, as I knew he would. Until he was nearly at the top we could still hear each other and once he got to the top I could still tell it was him and could see him wave at me.

Coming down the dunes is much more fun (a little dip, a little slide) and faster. In no time at all I was back in the parking lot to retrieve my sneakers (still drying out from Zapata Falls) from the roof of our car. As I waited for Husb I watched families head toward the dunes, carrying little sleds (they say you can sled down the dunes but I never saw that in action). Hiking boots was a good choice in footwear for climbing; I can’t imagine trying it in sandals.

After such a triumph we decided to go to the Sand Pit picnic area to have our lunch. Looked like an easy hike, 1.5-mile total. But the trail was full sun and soft sand. I felt like I was at the beach except there would be no ocean at the end to reward me for the effort. When we reached the picnic area we saw it was also in full sun. Eventually we found shade under a tree and had our lunch, then took the road back to our car, passing the (unmapped) very pretty Ponderosa Pine picnic area looking so cool under the trees.

By the time we reached the car we could see storm clouds in the distance, so a scenic drive sounded good. The Los Caminos Antiguos Scenic Byway runs in a square from Alamosa east to Fort Garland, south to San Luis, and west to Romeo, where you can go north (back to Alamosa to complete the square) or south to Antonito. Mount Blanca, one of Colorado’s 53 fourteeners (I learned what that means on this trip) rises in the northeast corner of that square, a solid, anchoring landmark.

We watched the vegetation change subtly as we drove, shades of green and gray and brown. At San Luis there is a Stations of the Cross monument, with a walkway up the hill and a crucifix on top. As the rain came, we approached Manassa and one of my trip’s highlights—the birthplace of boxer Jack Dempsey, considered one of the greatest heavyweight fighters ever to step in the ring. I was so excited that when Husb stopped the car I ran across the road in the rain and never took a picture of the actual building (the one here is from someone else).

Inside, the walls are covered in Dempsey memorabilia. In the midst of it all I met Michelle Richardson, who has been tending the Dempsey homestead for 18 years and was very happy to tell me the story of the Dempsey family’s struggles and how Jack became the breadwinner through his success in the ring. My regular readers know no trip to anywhere is complete without a visit to a small museum. Jack Dempsey’s Birthplace was just what I needed!

Our final stop of the day was back in Alamosa at the visitors’ center. We weren’t sure whether to stay longer in the area or move on. The man I spoke with was quite helpful and recommended a drive to the west, up to the town of Creede and beyond. We had heard that from a friend as well, so that’s what we decided to do. Back at the hotel we told the woman at the front desk that we’d be checking out in the morning. This is the difference between booking with an independent and a chain hotel; we could change our reservation with little notice. I still completely support staying at independent places (which, as you will see, we did for the rest of the trip) but for this part, the chain hotel was perfect.

The end to this perfect day: dinner at Calvillos, which according to more than one person we spoke to is the best Mexican restaurant in Alamosa (and there are a lot of Mexican restaurants in Alamosa!). Tamales for me, combo for Husb, green chile sauce all around, it was as good as any Mexican restaurant we have ever been to.

Next . . . a lost railroad . . .

Colorado, Day 1: Somewhat Rocky, somewhat high (but not "high")

Some people plan their vacations down to the minute—they create an itinerary, make reservations for every night, choose their restaurants in advance—and then don’t deviate from that plan. Other people are more freewheeling, maybe knowing their route in advance but not knowing where they’ll spend a night or even if they’ll stay on the road they thought they might take. Neither group is wrong in their approach.

I, my dear fellow travelers, fall somewhere in the middle. I will choose a destination, know (pretty much) how I am going to get there and what I might like to do, and definitely have a pretty good idea of where I’m spending the night. Activities are separated into “want to,” “have to,” and “if there’s time . . .” I just finished a vacation based on “have to (but want to),” a family wedding in Colorado. Because it was the end of the summer, I could convince Husb to take the entire week and we could vacay a little before the big event.

For our trip Husb had decided (his “want to”) we should go see the Great Sand Dunes in southeastern Colorado. I had never even heard of the place but what the heck. I made reservations for us in Alamosa, at a chain hotel (this will be important later). We started out in our rental car (a little “yow!” for the price of a 4WD car in Denver) heading south down 285 toward the vast San Luis Valley (which is about the size of Connecticut!).

Scanning the radio dial (because of course we listen to local radio when we travel) we found 97.5 “Hippie Radio.” And then we found the hippies. Colorado is very helpful in showing what is along the road, or off the road, with signs and arrows. We saw a sign for Crestone Brewing Company and so we turned left. Went past a marijuana place (my first!) and kept driving toward the mountain in front of us. It seemed like forever (especially when the police car, lights flashing, came up behind us, but then he passed us by). Finally we came to a tiny hamlet named Crestone. Brightly colored buildings, a few shops, a motel. A vibe that made me turn to Joe and say, “So this is where all the hippies went.” Turns out I was kinda right. For the uninitiated, Crestone is considered “the Shambala of the Rockies.”

Never did find that brewery but Alamosa was not much farther down the road. We checked into our hotel and went in search of dinner. San Luis Valley Brewing Company sounded good. Typical bar menu, typical local beers EXCEPT for Valle Caliente—a beer with a chile kick. I had to try it and loved it: a lighter beer with a warmth to it, went very nicely with my Portobello wrap. We chatted with our server (also bar manager), Evan Roberts, a bit and somehow got around to “where are you from?” Turns out he grew up about 30 minutes from where we live. Alamosa, Colorado, is a long way from central Pennsylvania.

After dinner we wandered through the downtown—despite the Walmart on the edge of town, there is a JC Penney’s on the main street, as well as a number of local businesses. Train tracks run right through town; we saw some very cool old train cars from the San Luis and Rio Grande Railroad.

The next day, unfortunately, I had to get some work done before we could go out on the dunes, so we didn’t get there until nearly noon. FYI to people who want to experience climbing the Great Sand Dunes, it is best not to start out just as the sun is getting hotter. While the sand is cool morning and evening, daytime can be blistering (150 degrees, they say).

So we did the visitor center, complete with video, and then decided to go to Zapata Falls, a much cooler experience. Three miles of rough road and a quarter-mile hike uphill. (If that sounds awful, go no further.) But it wasn’t awful and we were shortly looking at the creek. Falls, you say? They actually inhabit the cave upstream. To see the falls, you have to get your feet wet! I said brrr, no thank you. Husb walked as far as he could without getting wet and then, figuring he was so close, went all in. I watched him disappear into the cave. A few minutes later he came out and motioned me up. He said, “It’s worth it. Come on.” So I did. Yes, worth it!

Afterwards, in dry shoes, we stopped at the Oasis (little restaurant outside the park), where I had a chile burger. (I didn’t mention—it’s chile season in Colorado!)

After that we took another trail, nicely shaded and all uphill so Husb went on out ahead of me. I had some trouble adjusting to the altitude and just couldn’t keep up. We hydrated conscientiously the entire trip but there were times when I just couldn’t catch my breath. So we hiked up Mosca Pass separately, which gave me some nice time to rest and watch nature around me. No snakes, no wildlife beyond a squirrel or two, but what concerned me was the dark gray clouds sneaking into my sky.

By the time I heard the first crack of thunder, Husb was back by my side and we headed down the trail. Storms in that area, they say, can come up quickly. They can also be misleading in direction and intensity. We got a little rained on before we reached the car but nothing serious. The entire week was like that—storms came and went, some wetter than others, but nothing to ruin our plans.

Next . . . the Great Sand Dunes . . .

The Streets of Baltimore

“. . . the prettiest place on earth is Baltimore at night” —Bobby Bare

I fell in love with that city just after I got married and found a job at Hopkins. I have always loved Philadelphia and so Baltimore, another Federal-era town, was a natural fit, but it’s Philly-more-funky.  I don’t get to Charm City near as much as I would like but last night I had the pleasure of dinner and a show—with my Husb, no less!

We met up with Marion Winik and her friend, Doug Preston, and headed for Brew House No. 16 at the corner of Read and Calvert streets. Not one to stick to convention (and that would be putting it mildly), writer and writing professor Marion became involved with the creation (specifically, the liquor license) at the Brew House and is now its most enthusiastic supporter. After we sat down, she introduced us to owner Harry Hummel and told the story of how they bonded as neighbors in Glen Rock, PA, when their sons became friends (there’s even a hayfield fire in the story). So when Harry and brewmaster son Ian needed a liquor license in the name of a Baltimore resident, now-relocated Marion stepped in. Thus was born Brew House No. 16, housed in an old firehouse building (yes, complete with the poles).

Dinner menu . . . what to eat on a hot, hot day. For starters the three-hummus plate (roasted garlic and lemon, cilantro lime, roasted bell pepper) and a basket of soft pretzels (homage to PA, of course). Note: Be sure to order the housemade mustard with the pretzels and you’ll never have Herlocher’s commercial version again! (I say “commercial version” because I don’t believe what they’re selling in the grocery stores is the same as what we used to have at the Train Station . . . but I digress.)

And drink choices? Husb went with the excellent Brew House Coffee Porter (“flavors and aromas of coffee, roasted chocolate malt”)—very memorable. I had the lighter Strawberry Fields, “an American wheat ale brewed with 20 lbs of strawberries from Calvert's Gift Farm. Mild in bitterness and body.” In fact, I had two.

This may be a brew pub but it’s not all bleu-cheese burgers and sweet-potato fries! We had a cornucopia of entrée choices, from pan-roasted rockfish to duck confit poutine. Husb did order traditional, the Firehouse burger (“Roseda angus beef, double-smoked maple bacon, roasted garlic aioli, hand-cut fries”), and Marion went with the chili-glazed mussel bowl (“roasted garlic, preserved lemon, sweet chili glaze, toasted baguette”) and a salad. Doug and I were of a like mind: we both ordered the crispy split-pea cake (“yellow split pea polenta, grilled mushrooms, roasted sunchokes, red pepper hummus, pea shoots”), which came with some red-pepper hummus on the side. It was perfect for the hot day, light and delicious, perched on a bed of greens. I love it when a restaurant dares to be a little different with the vegetarian entrée and goes beyond a “veggie burger.”

We could not linger, regrettably, because we had a show to go to. So we headed down to Creative Alliance, housed in the Patterson Theater on Eastern Avenue. Their mission statement spells out exactly why I love Baltimore so much: “The Creative Alliance builds communities by bringing together artists and audiences from diverse backgrounds to experience spectacular arts and education programs and engage in the creative process. We provide support to area artists, promote Baltimore as a center for creative production, act as a positive force in our community, and advocate for cultural expression rooted in a sense of place.” C’est tout.

I paused before we went inside because the sun and clouds were conspiring to do spectacular things.

Then I had to admire the exterior of the Patterson, itself a beauty.

Inside, on the first floor is an art gallery (check out their website for everything Creative Alliance offers—they do a lot) and a music venue (with a bar!). While we had auditorium-type seating for the show, Marion said that sometimes they do a club layout with tables and chairs. The performer—Steve Forbert (you who know me are right now not surprised). When Marion found out that Doug was a long-time fan, of course she got in touch with us about joining them . . . Steve, with Mark Stuart accompanying, did not disappoint the full room of loyal fans—btw, look for his autobiography to be published at the end of the year.

The end of the night, we walked across the street to the car, which was parked in front of Matthew’s Pizza, “Baltimore’s First Pizzeria” (someone at the show told me that a neighborhood date in the 1960s meant a movie at the Patterson and pizza at Matthew’s). The colored milk jugs strung high above Eastern Avenue were lit, giving a festival atmosphere to the evening—yes, “the prettiest place on earth.”

Washington, DC

Over the years I have seen the monuments on the National Mall again and again as we took guests to visit our nation’s capital. I’ve seen new monuments come to fruition and old ones get a facelift (or, sometimes, a repair). Friends who had already seen the monuments themselves were coming to DC and so I worked to plan a weekend that gave them (and me) a new side of Washington.

We started with the State Department Diplomatic Reception Rooms, where they actually do host diplomats and other dignitaries. I had heard about this on Antiques Roadshow and made a reservation. Our tour guide, Chic, showed us through the rooms with both authority and humor. Nice way to start the weekend! Dinner that night was at my favorite Peruvian in DC, El Chalan, and of course included Pisco sours. We ended the evening by walking past the White House at night, a little reassurance as we knew the terrible news from Paris (and so were not surprised when we were scooted a little farther away than usual).

Desk where the Treaty of Paris was signed (State Department Diplomatic Reception Rooms)

Breakfast the next morning was at Paul, which quickly became our friends’ “regular” breakfast place. They come from York County, PA, the best agricultural place I have ever lived, so I gave them the option of visiting Washington’s Eastern Market in Capitol Hill on this sunny November day. In addition to the fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats we’re so accustomed to, Eastern Market has a large outdoor international flea market. We looked at furniture both new and antique, clothing, jewelry. We talked to vendors, admired little kids’ outfits, and bought a persimmon. We even sampled deep-fried cheese curds from a Juniata County, PA, dairy farmer.

Carpets for sale (Eastern Market)

From there we hailed a cab to the National Building Museum (built 1887 as the Patent Office). Right now they are featuring an exhibit on the construction of the World War II memorial. Another exhibit details the efforts to repair the earthquake damage to the National Cathedral and the Washington Monument. We strolled back toward their hotel, past the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, and back to Pennsylvania Avenue. It was heartening to see people gathered in front of the White House again, some in awe, others protesting, and one solitary woman—Melody Crombie—campaigning for president. Dinner at Firefly, just off Dupont Circle, was noisy but warm.

Sunday—just another morning at Paul. The weather was so gorgeous we decided to walk to the National Museum of the American Indian. On the way we stopped at the Department of the Interior; not many people know that building has both a museum and an excellent Indian craft shop open to the public (of course they weren’t open while we were there since it was Sunday), with an adjacent sculpture garden. We wandered down the Mall, around groups of kids playing kickball, until we got to 13th Street and had to stick to a walkway. Sounds of drumming could be heard for a block or so before we saw the drummer and his plastic bucket collection making beautiful music. A quick pop into the National Gallery to show our guests a Van Gogh I love brought disappointment—it’s back in storage. But a great thing about so many of the DC museums is you can do that—pop in, pop out—for free!

The drummer at the Smithsonians

The Van Gogh we missed

At the American Indian museum, artists were working with clay as part of the Ceramics of the Southwest: A Native American Heritage Month Celebration. In the center of the room, the Zuni Olla Maidens were performing the Pottery Dance, balancing pottery on their heads! (I probably wasn’t the only person watching, just to see if that pot would move.) I spoke with the dancers afterwards, who were only too happy to talk about their dance and their clothes and what they kept in the pots (salt is traditional, a cellphone is not!). Our guests and I started looking through this museum by watching the introductory film. This was the first time I have seen it—quite spectacular and gives you a good idea of just how massive a project it is to depict the peoples who are designated “Native.”

 

Zuni Olla Maidens

We had one more tour stop for the day before dinner and so hailed a cab for Georgetown. A note on cabs vs. Metro in DC: if you are just going from place to place, Metro will get you there very efficiently. However, if you have people interested in sightseeing on the way, cabs may be the best way to go. Every driver we had was both pleasant and knowledgeable. We got to see buildings we would have missed if we had traveled underground.

According to a walking tour book I found, 3307 N Street NW is the house where John and Jackie Kennedy were living when he was elected president. And 3017 N Street NW is where Jackie first lived when she left the White House. So we took a little stroll through Georgetown. Walking the residential streets is a pleasure if you like to admire architecture in its many forms. We then headed down to the waterfront where kids were ice-skating on a little rink, past the C&O Canal, and back up to M Street for dinner at Bistro Francais (again the French!). I highly recommend the Poulet Bistro—cooked perfectly! We sat at the window table, so part of our dinner amusement was watching people realize they had parked in a bus zone.

Georgetown waterfront, looking up toward M Street

 

Our final day was a day-long van tour of the monuments with a National Park Service ranger. As I said, I have seen the monuments many times. But I have never had a narrator before. Our ranger, Mark, took us first to the Washington Monument where he showed us some of the repairs (having seen the engineering explained two days before at the National Building Museum made it even more interesting). I am old enough to remember being able to walk down the stairs from the top of the monument. That’s not allowed anymore (graffiti) but the windows on the elevator allow riders to see some of the decorative stones inside the monument. It’s a great trip down!

We next went to the World War II Memorial where, again, our trip to the National Building Museum paid off. We had seen a video of the Memorial artist discussing the wreaths that are held up by eagles (he got the idea from wreaths held up by angels in a church in Italy). That exhibit—including the plaster casts of the friezes also at the Memorial—gave us a whole new perspective. From there it was the Lincoln, the Vietnam (including the nurses!), and the Korean War memorials, with explanations and narrations by our ranger. I noticed many people hanging around our group, listening to him. A lunch break, Jefferson, and finally FDR. As I always say, if you haven’t been, go. If you have been, go again. Not when it’s hot or cold, but when you can spend some time among these monuments, reading, learning, reflecting. We’re so very lucky to have them.

A wall at the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial

This itinerary was a huge four days. We could have done less, but the weather was excellent and we promised ourselves we’d skip anything we didn’t feel like doing. I got to see parts of Washington where I’ve never been and visit a few old favorites as well. DC is a great city to visit . . . and I know I’ll be back before long!

Judy's on Cherry (and the Pagoda), Reading, PA

Unusually warm November weather brings the temptation to play hookey from work (winter is out there somewhere!) and get out on the road. Mary the Photographer, of course, is retired so for her it’s just taking advantage of a gorgeous late fall day. So that’s what we did.

I took the shunpiker's route from Harrisburg to Reading—weaving up and down country roads, sometimes on Old US 22, sometimes not. Once we were on 422 I started reminiscing about taking that road to Hershey as a kid. I pointed out where my father was so pleased to buy us all 15-cent hamburgers, how we never got to eat at the Ranch House Restaurant (still there!), and all those other landmarks of my memory.

In Wernersville I noticed an old building with a mansard roof, many windows, fancy entrance; it was obvious it had been a hotel in the late 1800s. Then we saw another one, and another one. I didn’t know of any business in Wernersville that would have required that many hotels, so once I got home I looked it up. At the turn of the century (late 1800s-early 1900s) Wernersville had been a resort town, like Cambridge Springs and Jim Thorpe! (Far more recently it had also been home to the Gosselin family, but until the day there’s one titled “Terry the Writer and Mary the Photographer,” this blog doesn’t cover reality shows.) Today the Heidelberg Heritage Society is headquartered in Lerch Tavern, on the main street of Wernersville. Looks like I’m going to have to make a trip back there one of these days . . .

But I digress. This was supposed to be a non-work day. Mary and I were headed to Reading. Plans included lunch and a visit to the Pagoda because Mary (gasp!) had never been there. With a little research I found a restaurant in center-city Reading that sounded perfect. As we drove through West Reading, though, I thought about ditching it in favor of one of the many little restaurants that lined Penn Avenue, where people were sitting outside enjoying the day and their meals, but I didn’t. I had selected this place on Trip Advisor reviews and what I was in the mood to eat. Judy's on Cherry was it.

We found the restaurant pretty easily, with parking right out front. The building had been a farmers’ market; the brick exterior and wooden floors remain, as well as the high wooden ceilings. The atmosphere is inviting and warm (maybe it’s that hearth-fired oven); I like that it doesn’t look like anywhere else I’ve ever eaten. The menu has some unique qualities as well: butternut squash soup with crab and curry, “Cowboy Ciao” (smoked salmon, arugula, bruschetta tomatoes, couscous, roasted corn, nuts, dried fruit, pesto buttermilk dressing), and “Mediterranean Mezze Tasting Plate” (chickpea, garlic ground almond and yogurt, and fig black olive tapenade, roasted red pepper, feta and thyme relish, crispy flatbread).

Speaking of that flatbread, our server brought us some just after taking our order. It was warm and delicious. I resisted eating more than one slice, though, because I had already ordered the butternut squash soup and mini crab salad sandwich combo. Mary chose the Enraged Penne Pasta (spicy plum tomato sauce with fresh basil and parmesan cheese), which went very well with the flatbread. The food was delightful—my soup smooth but not too creamy, the crab sandwich a perfect size for a side, plus a little salad of greens with a very light dressing. I could have stopped there and been quite happy.

But on the other side of the wine list was the dessert menu. I had to look. And there, right in the middle of the list, was “Mrs. Wesner’s Coconut Layer Cake.” What could I do? A really good coconut cake is very hard to come by. So often they are bright-yellow, tough, oily concoctions with inches of fluffy sugar troweled on and a smattering of coconut on top just so they can call it “coconut cake.” Based on my lunch, though, I thought maybe, just maybe, this one would be different.

I’m so glad I did. It was the best coconut layer cake I have ever eaten. It tasted like I had made it (and wouldn’t I like that recipe so I could). The cake itself was laced with coconut, the frosting was delicate (not too thick or too sweet), it was perfection. I thought about taking some home, but it wouldn’t have done me any good—that too would go away (be eaten, possibly by my husband) and then I would still have to drive back to Reading for more. So it will live in my memory (and some day I will be back in Reading . . .).

As we left the restaurant, I told Mary to look up the street. There, looking down on us, was our destination, the Pagoda. A short ride later, we were on Duryea Drive, headed up. Warm fall day, enough leaves still on the trees to make it pretty. On the way up I told her about Charles Duryea testing his cars on that very road by having his daughter do the test-drive (see my first book). We rounded one final curve, and Mary finally got to see the Pagoda that I’ve raved about for so long. It was closed (it’s open weekends so you can buy souvenirs and climb to the top) but there were many people outside enjoying the weather and the view of Reading. I never get tired of it. After that we drove the rest of the way up the mountain to the Fire Tower and where the hotel was (see my next book [almost done, I swear!] for that history) before heading down again toward home.

What a great way to spend a day off—driving the countryside with a friend, eating at a really nice restaurant, and catching waves of both history and memories. I will be back at work tomorrow but the mellow from today will stay with me. Everyone needs to play hookey once in a while.

Photos of soup and Pagoda by Mary Brenner

Linglestown's 250th anniversary

This is what “local” is all about. Linglestown (outside Harrisburg, PA) is celebrating its 250th anniversary in 2015 and the main event is happening this weekend. I’ve seen volunteers put their hearts and souls into the effort, working for over a year to raise money for the festivities. Some of Thomas Lingle's direct descendants even came to take part in the events.

So far they’ve had a church service, a flower show, a very large parade, a craft fair, Native American performances and Revolutionary War re-enactors, kids’ activities, and a festival. I have heard more than one person say, “This should happen more than once every 250 years!” (Actually, Linglestown used to have an annual event.) Last night there was a beer garden and live music in town (wish that one would continue!). There are more events today—including softball games—and everything caps off tonight with fireworks. Pretty impressive for our little town.

Yesterday I walked down the mountain and into town because Notes with Nature in Mind (aka Mary the Photographer and her business partner Linda) had a booth at the craft fair at Koons Park. I couldn't believe how many people were still in town hours after the parade. The restaurants in town--St. Thomas Roasters, the Eagle Hotel, St. Thomas Restaurant, Packer's Pizza, and (the newest addition) Mellow-Minded Cafe--were packed with visitors. As I reached the park, there were more crowds at the kids' events and the craft fair.

The main street of Linglestown (Route 39), post parade . . .

Kids participating in the Native American dances at Koons Park:

While I was walking, I had time to reminisce. Although I was a child (no, really, I was) I very clearly remember when Pottstown had its sesquicentennial (that’s 150 years) in 1965. That, too, had a parade and a fair, some re-enactors. They also had a beard-growing contest among the men. I found some pictures of that week on Pottstown Parks and Rec’s Facebook page; here are a few examples.  

Linglestown is a lot smaller than Pottstown, and it's 50 years later, but events like this remind us that people still care deeply about the place they live. Congratulations, Linglestown 250!

 

St. Boniface, Ephrata, PA

Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t go see Pope Francis in Philadelphia, so I settled for St. Boniface in Ephrata. Well, maybe “settled” isn’t quite the right word. I would have loved to see Francis in person (not on a Jumbotron), but logistically it wasn’t going to happen. So instead I sought solace—in St. Boniface Craft Brewing Company.

Unique idea: You have a building (it’s a former creamery on Route 322 just west of downtown Ephrata) with a brewery where you serve libations, no food. Parked outside the building is one of a number of food trucks, so the menu rotates. People can buy their food from the truck, get their beer from the brewery, and wah-la! And ahh!   

I stopped by there just this afternoon with two empty growlers. After a little sampling, I left with both full: Hegemony Stout in one and some hard cider in the other (fyi, the latter they don’t make in house). The stout was as good as any I have ever had—and, remember, I’ve been in the homeland for Guinness! The cider is crisp and clean, none of that musty taste (from using bruised and dirty apples) some other ciders have. I’m not an IPA drinker but they have enough to satisfy that contingent as well.

I’m going to keep an eye on their schedule (Fridays and Saturdays only) for what food truck is showing up when so Mary the Photographer and I can hit the road. St. Boniface Craft Brewing is also appearing at numerous local events across Central PA—check out their website. And now that I have this written, I’m going back to my cold mug of Hegemony Stout and some football.