Saturday, August 13, 2005

(Click on any picture to enlarge.)

AUGUST 4

Ray flew into Detroit to begin our 2nd annual baseball trip. The plan this year hinged on two consecutive days in New York—a Sunday game, rescheduled to begin at 8:00, with the Cubs vs. the Mets; and a Monday night game featuring the Sox vs. the Yankees.

When building the itinerary we devoted three days to New York for other activities, including ‘Boogalooing down Broadway’, not knowing exactly where Broadway was, nor even coming close to understanding the intricacies of the boogaloo.

But that was for later. For now we were headed for Comerica Park in Detroit, a park Ray had yet to visit.

We first made a respectful pass by old Tiger Stadium, a place where we began our baseball sojourns some 15 (or more) years ago. She’s still standing, although we thought she looked forlorn and neglected. We’re not sure what plans anyone, much less the City of Detroit has for this place, but for now it stands fenced and weedy.

We circled Comerica to find parking and found a particularly helpful attendant who saved a place for us to have easy egress, which we ultimately needed. When Ray told him about our trip, he sighed, and expressed his admiration. This incident became the germ for a mission statement for our journey.

We skated into Comerica for a mere $6 each and took a look at the statues of Tigers past adorning the outfield area. Near the main concourse, the former Tigers’ announcer Ernie Harwell, one of Ray’s heroes, had his own statue.

After a sumptuous meal of ballpark food we settled into some seats, not ours, down the left field line, near Ichiro, and made our first audio report for the blog.

The Tigers (Motto: ‘We’re trying to look good even though we play in Beirut’) looked great in their home whites and the field is spacious and clean. It was some special day for little league kids because the stands were peppered with brightly colored t-shirts.

The game itself was uneventful. In fact, it later won our award for the worst game of the trip (Tigers eventually win 3-1 against the Seahawks (Motto: ‘Ichiro is all we have’)), but in the best stadium. So we decided to make an early exit to beat some of the Detroit traffic. And we had a long way to go to get to Washington, DC, before midnight.

We didn’t beat the traffic because we were thwarted by construction. It took a fair amount of time to reach Toledo, but once there it was all clear through Pennsylvania. On the other side of the road, a six mile backup loomed because of a horrible looking accident which occurred a few miles past one of the tunnels. Actually it wasn’t a backup as traffic was just plain stopped and people were out of their cars. The state patrol wouldn’t let cars into the tunnel so the parking lot was long, hot and looked frustrating.

We made Breezewood by 9 and looped into DC by 11 found our hotel in order and settled in easily.

AUGUST 5

Our vision for Washington was to do some sightseeing during the day and catch the Nationals playing the Padres in RFK stadium. So, after a pretty good rest, a morning run (by Ray), and a breakfast at a local place on M Street, we headed toward the World War II memorial.

The memorial has a great location, along the line between the Lincoln and Washington monuments. But that’s about the only thing I liked about it. I suppose in the funereal architecture realm, it’s difficult to capture the efforts of a nation for four years as well as over 400,000 US deaths. But I found it uninspiring.

We walked over to the Korean Memorial. By now it’s getting steamy, the temperature is rising and the infamous Washington humidity soaks us. But the memorial was shaded and peaceful. The statues gave a sense of being there and the black granite wall, with a nod toward the Vietnam Memorial, contained sandblasted images capturing the faces of the time. Now this was a step up from the World War II memorial.

Next we headed for the FDR Memorial. This was something special. His lengthy presidency was presented in a manner which segmented his terms, while showing his physical decline. But each scene was anchored by a quote, usually powerful, and ones that not only still hold true, but contain greater meaning in these difficult times.

We were very impressed with this memorial, understanding that the pictures do not do it justice.

But by now we were hot, sweaty, thirsty and hungry. So we headed back toward the hotel certain that we would find a place to eat along the way.

The President is out of town for five weeks and Congress is not in session, so the streets are inhabited by tourists and government workers. But we find a nice place that seems to be popular just a block or so west of the Executive Office Building. I think we consumed about a gallon each of ice tea and lemonade.

After lunch our pups were barking so we strolled back to the hotel, and snoozed.

In the evening we jumped on the Metro, which rekindled past trips to DC. The Metro wins our award for best subway, although Toronto’s comes very close.

The trip to RFK was a breeze, taking just over 15 minutes. The walk from the station to the stadium passes a gauntlet of scalpers, vendors, and street people. The stadium contains the same. But the mission statement for the trip became clearer.

RFK is a football stadium rehabbed into a baseball park. The Washington Redskins used to play there. Major league baseball made a decision last fall to move the Expo’s from Montreal to become the Nationals in Washington, DC. I can’t imagine what kind of condition the stadium was in, much less the field, but I must say that they did a masterful job on the field, (Ray tells me it’s because of the experts at US Cellular Field on loan to oversee the field rejuvenation) and an acceptable job on the stadium.

This game was much more fun. The Nationals were leading the Wild Card race in the National League, and the Padres were leading the Western Division, although they were one game below .500 at the time.

To top that off, the Nationals were pitching Livan Hernandez, a Cuban refugee, of substantial girth and mirth. A few weeks before, Livan threatened to end his season by getting knee surgery. Soon after he reconsidered.

Livan pitched well against a pesky Padre lineup, but in the sixth inning, the manager, Frank Robinson, pulled him and on his way into the dugout Livan flung his mitt into the stands. While in the dugout he hurled more stuff—a jacket, and something else. He later said that he has always liked to give things to the fans.

The game went back and forth until the Padres scored in the 9th to beat the Nats 6-5. It’s late (for me) and we head back to the hotel before our leisurely trip to New York tomorrow.

AUGUST 6

Ray wanted to see Fed Ex Field, where the Redskins now play, before leaving Washington, so we head west. After capturing a couple of pics of the Supreme Court building, we go east on Constitution (or was it Independence?) to the outer reaches of Washington, into Maryland and almost to the beltway.

There we find this monument to the NFL. Carved out of a hilltop is this enormous structure, surrounded by a desert of parking lots, which is used, at most, 20 times a year.

A thousand years from now, when archeologists find these things, they will say they harkened back to the Coliseum in Rome.

We then take a nice little drive to Baltimore to see Ravens stadium. The Baltimore team is putting on some kind of opening of camp, fan experience, so the roads are clogged. Yet we were able to find a place to snap a picture.

Then it’s on to NYC. But first we must negotiate the New Jersey Turnpike, no easy task. Truthfully, the turnpike wasn’t so bad; the Iron Skillet Restaurant along the way, however, taxed our digestive systems.

Our next mission was to see Jimmy Hoffa’s (alleged) grave at the Meadowlands. We asked a toll booth operator how to accomplish that. After numerous attempts at following his directions, we gave up and headed for the Sheraton Towers, our home for the next three nights.

It’s Saturday in New York, the weather is sweltering here too, and the tourists combined with the locals enjoying the outside, make this place manic. We have directions but are redirected in turn by one way streets and, at our last turn, some kind of street festival that looked as though it ran for many blocks down 7th Avenue, the street our hotel was on.

Ray called the hotel to ask advice on what to do, and as soon as he hung up we spy a parking garage a block away from our hotel. Ironically, it was the cheapest place we parked all week.

We schlepped our bags to the hotel, found our room wasn’t ready, so we checked our bags and went on a mission to find a place to eat, a place to buy cigars, and a place to smoke ‘em. Our concierge knew it all. We got the smokes, and got a bead on a steak house and a club and went to check into our room. Unfortunately for us, someone else got it. So we were able to get another one at the end of a long hall on the 42nd floor.

It was a nice quiet, clean room, but it felt like we were Lilliputians the room was so small.

We cleaned up and walked down the street to Gallagher’s, a famous New York steakhouse. I knew I would like the place when I saw all the pictures of ballplayers on the wall, including Yankee greats, but also many, many obscure players from the 20’s and 30’s hanging with them.

In addition we sat next to an 86 year old gentleman named Hank that we had a three hour conversation with about baseball and politics. I hardly remember the meal the conversation was so delicious. Alas, we shook hands and parted.

Our concierge recommended a place called the Carnegie Club featuring a Frank Sinatra imitator. So we enjoyed the fake music and the good cigars before stumbling back to the hotel.

AUGUST 7

At 5:30 am there was a knock on the door. Ray bolted upright and peered through the peephole to see some woman mumbling something outside the door. We couldn’t go back to sleep for some time despite our road weariness, but eventually rolled out of bed in the mid-morning and had breakfast at Lindy’s next door. (One omelet--$21—'Y’all better bring yo’ wallets.')

Afterward we walked to and through a portion of Central Park to the John Lennon memorial. (No, the theme is not funereal architecture, but after last night’s observations of so many less fortunate people we agree on our mission.)


I must say that past journeys by us have had a common theme, “Touching Lives” being the most frequent. But now we are in a different stage of our lives, and while touching lives still rings true, we expand it to . . .

. . .“Sharing our Good Fortune”


How this manifests itself remains to be seen.

We train it down to Little Italy for a late lunch/early dinner at another concierge recommended place--La Mela. The food was good, although, without sounding too elitist I still have not had any Italian food that comes close to what Ann and I had on the Amalfi coast this spring.

The street was right out of a Godfather II movie set with a parade of people to match.

Then we take the subway to Shea, Ray suitable adorned in his Wrigley Field hat. The first people we see on the platform are a young couple from the Chicago area and the guy says to Ray, “Hey! Cub fans!” In my dream of dreams I wish I had a picture of Ray’s reaction, a combination of horror and chagrin. He was quick with his disclaimer. “I’m a Sox fan.” The guy said, “So am I!” So Ray spent the bulk of the trip talking to him and I spent time talking to her, a CPA, with an accounting degree from NIU.

The train went through a neighborhood with the most beautiful graffiti I have ever seen until we arrive just outside Shea. Our new friends take a picture and we head inside.

Shea is much better than I had been lead to believe, but it’s still a mid-60’s ballpark with 21st century prices; our seats, waaaaay down the left field line on the mezzanine level were $41 each. But we’re here safely and, oh yes, did I mention the Cubs were playing—it’s Zambrano vs. Zambrano—no relation even though they both are from Venezuela and wear the same number 38.

To be precise, the Cubs (Motto: ‘This Year is Just Like All the Others’) didn’t play tonight; they just showed up, losing to the Mets (Motto: ‘Next Year is Now’) 6-1.

On the subway platform we thought a fight was going to break out between a Yankee fan and a Mets fan. It got really loud; a cop had to come and did a great job of calming things down and one of the guys and his posse got on our car. A Mets fan near me said that ‘they were just having a conversation.’

I was mourning because the Cubs season appears over. Ray was mourning because he didn’t get a Pedro Martinez bobble head doll. Some kid on the subway had already sold his for $20 to one of Ray’s competitors.

AUGUST 8

Ray and I did different things this morning. Ray visited WSCR (The Score) studios, a Chicago radio station broadcasting from the Grand Hyatt here in New York. Then he walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and the World Trade Center location. I took the train to the Staten Island Ferry, past the Statue of Liberty, turned around, took the train up to Columbus circle and had lunch at Trump Tower, a three-course price fixe for $20. Now that’s more like it.

Again, we rest in the afternoon to gear up for the Evil Empire, the New York Yankees (Motto: ‘We Demand World Championships!’) and all that must kneel before the greatness that is Rome.

The White Sox (Motto: ‘We just wanna be noticed’) are having a terrific year. Everything seems to be clicking and the players appear to be having fun. Of course, as I have so often heard, but rarely experienced, winning can be fun.

My last visit ten years ago to Yankee Stadium was the thrill of a lifetime. My seats were right by the dugout thanks to a friend, and David Cone pitched a one-hitter. This time was far different.

We started out with a beer at Stan’s, a watering hole across the street. It had the obligatory smart-ass New York bartenders, more so because of our Sox hats I suppose.

And I got frisked. Admittedly looking suspicious I didn’t expect that. It’s never happened before anywhere, anytime. And it was surprisingly unnerving.

And since our seats were bleacher seats we couldn’t get into Monument Park in centerfield so I was only able to get shots of people looking at the monuments to past Yankee greats.

And the place looked bad—run down, ill-maintained, and in disrepair.


And the bleachers were uncomfortable. In addition to the hard metal on my flat butt, it got very crowded with Yankee faithful, some boisterously so, and others venomously so. A cop kicked out a couple of guys who were in a Sox fan’s face 30 feet or so down the row.

And it rained—well, sprinkled at first, then a little harder, but by the fifth inning, it virtually stopped. It felt quite good and was a respite from the swelter.

And the Sox lost 3-2, and despite this being voted the best game of the trip, we didn’t ‘start spreading the news’ at least not as joyfully as the Yankeeacs were singing it on the way out of the stadium (voted Worst stadium of the trip).

AUGUST 9


We roust ourselves out of bed early and bust out of the city in quick order. Ray proposes a stop at West Point Military Academy to complete the GSMA (Grand Slam of Military Academies).

The visitor’s center is closed we are so early so we make our plea to the security guards. After we were rejected, we headed to Toronto, pronounced ‘Tronno’ (Motto: ‘We aren’t in the US’).

We decided to stop at a Friendly's Restaurant in Corning, New York, to gas up and eat up, not to mention another opportunity to share our good fortune.

The trip took all day with the thought of making it through Canadian customs near the end. Although we have nothing to hide, we certainly look like it. And we are expecting a thorough examination and maybe even a frisking.

Here’s the withering unexpurgated interrogation we encountered at the border:


Customs Official: Hello

Me: Hi

Customs Official: Nation of origin?

Me: U.S.

Customs Official: Destination?

Me: Tronno

Customs Official: Carrying any tobacco, liquor, plants?

Me: No.

Customs Official: Purpose of Visit?

Me: Baseball

Customs Official: Thank you. Have a nice vist.


It was more difficult to get into Yankee Stadium (Motto: Elephant Graveyard).

Despite hitting some rush hour Toronto traffic we arrived at the Inter-Continental (voted Best Hotel) at about 5 pm. After our obligatory concierge meeting we decide to pick up a couple more cigars, walk to a Sushi place (voted Best Meal on the trip), and have a smoke and a drink in the hotel courtyard.

While checking in on the TV for the results of the Tigers vs. the Blue Jays, they break to show that a fan is suspended on the foul ball net in Yankee Stadium. Later it is reported that the 18 year old just wanted to see if the net would hold him.

And we thought we had seen it all the day before.

AUGUST 10

Ray works out at the fitness center. I sleep.

We eat breakfast at a nice spot a couple of doors down on Bloor Street and decide to take a photographic tour or Toronto that is mentioned in one of the books in the room.

But first we must receive the ceremonial out-of-town haircut. We trundle over to Danny's near the hotel and get clipped.

Afterwards we hop on the subway (Voted Best Subway on the trip) and after getting our bearings, start the tour. The first stop is a sculpture garden that is under construction, so it's a bust. The second stop is a school of design that itself is a design.


Then we hike, and I mean hike, to Bathhurst Street for some pictures of the street art, as well as Ray’s attempt at spreading our good fortune on a mannequin.

And then we find it—unexpectedly, like finding an unknown oasis in the desert—instructions for how to do the boogaloo. Our pilgrimage is coming full circle. And yet somehow boogalooing down Bathurst doesn't quite play as well as it would have on Broadway.


Here Ray demonstrates his newly formed significant boogaloo skill next to the instructions we discovered.


This street may be the most eclectic street
I've ever seen, and, remember, I live in Madison. Various places are decorated with all manner of strange and exotic things. The building to the left believed strongly in recycling, while the one below, if one looks closely, celebrates entymology.


Then we hit the Hockey Hall of Fame and retire to an eatery for lunch and to watch the Sox play the rubber game of the three game series with the Yankees.

We watch the Sox pull ahead 1-0 and head back to the hotel where Ray watches the intense finish with the Sox again victorious 2-1. It’s a great series for the Sox. But our focus is now on the Skydome (Motto: We’re huge!) and the Blue Jays (Motto: We’re loud!).

We negotiate with a local entrepreneur getting front row seats in the upper reaches of the place for $15 Canadian.

But our goal of roaming the place was blocked by stadium policy, not to mention its design and we spend the game with our new friends in the sweltering dome.

The Skydome, renamed Rogers Centre, is cavernous, especially so since the roof is closed this evening because of expected inclement weather. The sound system works well, maybe too well, and the graphics are the best I've ever seen. Out of town scores are displayed well and one can easily track what's going on in games in progress. But it is big. And busy. Hardly a spare moment goes by without some exhortation or shameless plug. Even the game ball was delivered via FedEx in a van by FedEx employee Felix Chen.



Ray ponders the game's progress and our journey's end while our new special friend, Russ, oversees.


AUGUST 11

We rise early and depart early to arrive in St. Charles by 4 pm, dropping Ray off and landing in Madison soon thereafter.

AWARDS

Best Baseball Stadium—Comerica Park, Detroit

Best Subway System—Washington, DC

Best Food—Sushi Inn in Toronto

Best Hotel—Inter-Continental in Toronto

Worst stadium—Yankee Stadium

Worst Subway—New York

Worst Food—Iron Skillet somewhere in New Jersey

Worst Hotel—Hilton Towers, New York