Category: Travel

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Our State Fair is the Best State Fair

Big Chrissy and I recently took a trip to Illinois and Iowa to spend some time with his family and to put all that California cuisine behind us and do some serious hunkering down with the sublime and artergy-clogging tastiness of our country’s heartland.

Chrissy’s sister and family drove us to the Iowa State Fair, a beautiful drive through rolling hills of corn, farms and past the World’s Largest Truck stop. There are over 50 items that you can eat “on a stick” at the Fair. I asked to see the fried-butter-on-a-stick, just to see it, to confirm that it wasn’t part of some anxiety dream I had before getting my last cholesterol test. A half stick of butter, battered and deep fried. Butter reigns supreme here, there’s even a life-sized cow made of the stuff. And a butter Snow White, the queen and the seven dwarves. Or are we calling them the seven little people now?

The fair is pretty grand as fairs go, with so many things to do and see, all those prize-winning vegetables and flower arrangements… but the highlight for me was the Women’s Chicken-Calling contest. I don’t know how effective these calls are, as there were no chickens nearby to answer, but each woman chick-chicked and cluck-clucked and sang and hollered on an almost operatic scale that I couldn’t imagine any chicken not being completely seduced by.

Downtown Davenport, on the Iowa side of the Mississippi, is a lovely old town, with quaint brick buildings and interesting new architecture, like the Figge Museum. We visited the Davenport Main Library, designed in the 1960s by Edward Durell Stone, a building “designed for tomorrow.” The architecture indeed feels like it belongs in a future that hasn’t quite happened yet. Or that was supposed to have happened in the late ’60s but didn’t, except in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

In Moline, on the opposite, Illinois, side of the Mississippi, we stopped at the Belgian Village Inn for sandwiches. Chrissy had the VandeRueben, a modified rueben sandwich the size of a laptop. Completely stuffed, we then ate ice cream sundaes at Lagomarcino’s, which has been around for 100 years, the interior unaltered.

I’m so comforted by things that never change, food from another time, when men lived to be 56 and died of heart failure, eating whatever tasted good. Back to California and whole grains and free range edible creatures… ho hum.
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Sonoma Sausage

My sister Carol and brother-in-law Bruce came out for a visit, to see their kids who have fled West, and visit their recent offspring. Megan, Carol’s daughter, is currently not dating Matt, who works on a ranch in Valley Ford, in Sonoma County, near the coast, beautiful minimally developed hilly farmland.

There seems to be a whole movement in the Bay Area of young ranchers and farmers newly discovering the land and the many opportunities to grow things to consume. Engaged with the whole process, they grow, process, sell, and, in Matt’s case, cook.

We all took a drive up to the ranch to visit Matt and the animals. It’s such a peaceful place, no sounds other than the wind in the trees and the occasional chicken cluck. Rabbits periodically hop by. Matt makes his own salumi from the pigs on the ranch. It’s funny to see him interacting so lovingly with the animals whose flesh he’s going to be flaying soon. Funny, but also nice to see the animals so cared for and blissed out.
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The Dating Game: Series Finale or Cliff Hanger?

I was beginning to think that perhaps this post would never come, but this season of the Dating Game—it seems, and I hope—is, okay, very well could be the last. The season finale in Greece found Stavros taking my heart and everything else that’s attached to it. Actually, to be on the safe side, let’s say that the season ends with a cliff-hanger, the two of us taking tentative steps towards bridging the distance between us. Meanwhile, I secretly pray for the continued collapse of his country’s economy and a future together somewhere beyond 60% pay cuts and 23% value-added-tax on food.

I’m writing this on the airplane from Athens to Philadelphia. Since leaving him at the airport I’ve been crying, for a few hours now, my already red face even redder, my glasses fogged, face puffy, like a big puppy, the door clicking shut as my master goes off to work, for the day, maybe forever, will he ever return, who’s going to fill my bowl, pat my head…

Stavros is beyond anything I’ve fantasized about, a contemporary and breathing incarnation of the statues of Hercules, Apollo, Silenus, Hadrian, Poseidon, italian river gods—representations of idealized male beauty and virility that have spurred my erotic yearning and artistic production for years. But physical perfection isn’t all that is contained in this magnificent vessel, he’s charming, witty, smart, honest, good teeth, a vibrant presence so thrilling to be around. There’s nothing else I can learn about him, nothing more needed to confirm or validate the overwhelming desire I have for him.

He’s a little more practical. Even though we’ve already talked about marriage, and he brought it up, not me, when I told him I loved him, he didn’t reciprocate. I started strangling him and said, “Say it! Say it! Say you love me! I know you do!” He responded that love takes time, that he would tell me in 2 years. 2 years?? Not content to wait that long, and fully aware that his reticence had only to do with his lack of experience (he’s never told anyone that before. As you all know, I fall in love pretty swiftly and decisively. Sometimes, well, often, it’s the guy that’s not right, but never my feelings, they’re always authentic and deeply felt. This time, though, my feelings finally landed on the right guy), I took his head in my hands and, stroking his beard, said for him, “Chris, I love you so much, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He didn’t protest. He just slapped me and said “Snap out of it!” in his Greek-Cher Brooklyn accent. I am Ronny Cammareri.

Last week we took a few day trips, a beautiful boat ride out to Agistri island, where we kept missing the bus to the other, potentially more interesting section of the island with the isolated nude beaches, walking back and forth on the hot road between our tiny little sliver of desolate beach and the bus stop. Another day we drove to Sounio, and the lovely ruins of the temple of Poseidon. Byron was there and carved his initials on the temple and wrote a poem. Everybody else started carving his initials, too, so now it’s roped off. Supposedly this was the spot where the distraught Aegeus leapt to his death after his stupid son Thesseus sailed into port under a black sail, rather than the agreed upon white one, which would have sent the message that he had slain the minotaur and was alive. Like how do you forget something like that? The Aegean is named after him, this loving father of our stupid hero.

We went to several open-air cinemas in Athens, one with the lighted Acropolis as dramatic backdrop, another with comfy couches, all serving beer and food, the stars twinkling above.

We spent a few more days swimming in the sea off the rocks near Vouliagmeni. Stavros has a special spot on a stretch of secluded rockiness peopled with naked sunworshippers, segregated into groups of young gay, young straight, old straight, and our group, the sagging graying daddies. These guys must go out there every day, for their skin is the color of rich Corinthian leather, and of course no tan lines, just dark honey skin dramatically setting off their gray pubes. There’s no beach, no sand, just rock and blue crystal clear water and the occasional voyeur.

One night we met up with some friends and stood around and drank beers in a bar called “Big” where everybody is big and nearly everybody smokes. Stavros spends hours and hours doing this. Except for the smoke, I was in heaven.

Six more hours to go on this flight, not even half way. Ugh.

So my dear readers, thanks for tuning into my dating adventures all these years. My narrative trajectory will now be called The Stavros Chronicles and will concern my new interest in furthering positive Greek relations. When will we see each other again? When will he tell me he loves me? Will I ever learn Greek? Will we indeed get married and live happily ever after? And where, exactly, is this happy-ever-aftering to take place?

I expect everyone of my crowd to make fun
Of my proud protestations of faith in romance,
And they’ll say I’m naïve as a babe to believe
Every fable I hear from a person in pants.

Fearlessly I’ll face them and argue their doubts away,
Loudly I’ll sing about flowers in spring,
Flatly I’ll stand on my little flat feet and say
Love is a grand and a beautiful thing!
I’m not ashamed to reveal
The world famous feelin’ I feel…

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The National Archeological Museum

The National Archeological Museum in Athens is a spectacularly impressive repository of ancient Greek art and sculpture. Yesterday I waded through Mycenaean and Cycladic artifacts, kore, stele, classical bronzes and sculpture, my buddies Hercules and Silenus, Dionysus… Standing in front of Poseidon, a bronze work from the 5th century BC, I was moved to tears, the body is so serenely balanced, the gesture so confident, such power and intensity—and just exquisite craftsmanship. Most of the surviving bronzes from antiquity were found in shipwrecks, or buried, the rest melted down for military use. We can speculate on some of what has been lost, as many copies were made in marble, but because of the relative lightness of bronze, and the cast being hollow, something like the life-sized galloping horse below couldn’t be easily replicated.

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flow’ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme…
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Cupbearer Coco

I really do feel like a metrosexual Ganymede, swept away by Zeus to urban Athens, although instead of taking the form of an eagle, he whisked me here via airplane, then transformed himself into my Stavros and made me his cup-bearing catamite. (Stavros, despite looking older than me—or I like to think so—is actually 6 years my junior, so we’ll stick with this vision of Olympian pederasty. And hopefully eternal youth and immortality.)

Last weekend we took a day trip to Delphi, stopping first in Livadeia, a quaint little town perched at the base of a medieval castle. The spring-fed Herkyna River spills down from the hillside and cuts through town under a canopy of trees, providing a cool respite from the summer heat. The cathedral here houses a head of St. George. The use of “a” makes me wonder how many heads of St. George there are out there. Walking along the cool river bank, we heard the sound of plain chant coming from the cathedral, calming in the dappled shade.

The monastery of Hosios Loukas is picturesquely situated on the side of Mount Helicon, founded in the 10th century by the hermit Venerable (Hosios) St. Luke (Loukas). His remains are still there, in a glass sarcophagus sort of wedged between the original 10th century structure and the later 11th century church, his bony hand beckoning. Supposedly his remains exuded some sort of healing perfumed gas, and ailing pilgrims were encouraged to sleep by the side of the tomb in order to get a whiff of the miraculous vapors. The buildings are amazing works of Byzantine architecture, once lavishly decorated with mosaics and murals. Little remains of the original decorative elements, but the structures themselves are so beautiful, as are the few remaining monks.

Delphi is pretty spectacular, built in terraces along the side of Mount Parnassus, thought by ancient Greeks to be the earth’s naval. Apollo, as an infant, and supposedly with his first arrow, slew the serpent Pytho. The serpent’s body was tossed into a fissure in the earth and the vapors emanating from his decomposing body put the Oracle, seated on a tripod over the opening, into an intoxicated trance. It was in this state that she raved, her ravings then translated by the priests of the temple into elegant hexameter. I was unable to consult with the Oracle, as emperor Theodosius I closed down the operation sometime in 395 AD.

After Delphi we drove along the coast and took a little dip in the waters near the town of Galaxidhi.  Prior to 1890, Galaxidhi was one of Greece’s major harbors, but as with so many of these little coastal areas I’ve been to, shipowners failed to accept and convert to steam power, so the town became another quaint tourist destination.
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The Stavros Chronicles: Hydra

This weekend we (I’m already using the proprietary “we”) went to this perfectly picturesque little island in the Saronic Gulf, Hydra. It’s a film set of an island, formerly an important ship-building center, a tiny port village with 18-19th Century buildings. Jules Dassin’s Phaedra and Jean Negulesco’s Boy on a Dolphin (with Sophia Loren, her character also named “Phaedra”) were filmed here. There are no cars, or even bikes, although they do have mules for hire. Actually, if they allowed bicycles they’d probably have to put up guardrails, of which now there are nearly none, just sheer drop offs to that beautiful blue sea.

We swam in that amazing crystal clear water, ate delicious local seafood, took long walks around the island punctuated by our occasional dips into the sea. Stavros is the ideal flotation device, bobbing around without even having to tread water. The village was celebrating their involvement in the war of independence from Ottoman rule, which culminated in the burning of a boat in the harbor, fireworks spewing out from the boat and into the sky, histrionic music blaring, everyone in period costumes. There was dancing and much merriment.

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The Stavros Chronicles: On the Plane to Athens, then Landing & Finally, Waking

So Stavros and I have continued our virtual romance, spending hours a day chatting via Skype, exchanging teasing imagery and extreme longing across the world-wide web. And now I’m on a plane to Athens, about a month and a half after our initial online encounter. The love of my life, or of the next 3 weeks? We’ll see. In either case, I’m hoping to find expression of this desire that has consumed the better part of the last nine years, my quest for Mr. Right. I say things like, “Oh we’ll see how it goes,” while thinking that the only way I want this to go is for us to be together forever. But how in the heck is that going to work? And how do they expect us to sleep on these planes when they pack us in here like sardines? I’m sitting next to a Greek American woman, a 63 year old ballerina, who is so charming and beautiful and hasn’t stopped talking since take-off 4 hours ago, so at least the not-able-to-sleep portion of the trip is filled with her delightful commentary.

So I’m here, finally, since yesterday morning. Stavros had, until yesterday morning, existed as a 320 x 480 pixel representation of the man of my dreams. Now he’s the living, breathing embodiment of the man of my dreams. I will never forget seeing him at the airport for the first time, in his flip-flops and extended arms, a big grinning bear lumbering towards me. I still can’t believe he’s real, that someone could so perfectly conform to everything that I find desirable and attractive in a mate. He’s beautiful, sexy, attentive, silly, protective—he’s every favorable adjective I can think of.

Last night we went to the Acropolis Museum, which was celebrating its third anniversary by offering discounted admission and a public concert. The museum houses the decorative elements from the current Parthenon (frieze, metopes, sculptures, etc…), as well as the remnants of previous versions and archeological finds from the Acropolis. It’s an amazing museum, with glass floors providing visual access to the layers of archeological digs on the museum site. The experience of walking through the museum is to experience how this stuff was discovered and assembled, a walk through history, time and physical space.

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The Dating Game: Herb Ritts & The Cult of Celebrity

On Sunday, Señor Grant took me to the Getty to lunch with his cute girl buddies, Liza and Kim. They’re sisters, almost identical, smartly dressed with glowing white teeth. They finish each other’s sentences, refer to each other as “my sister” and are just a delight to observe. We walked through the Herb Ritts show, which left me with nothing. Unless you call emptiness something. He was a great technician, or the people who printed his pictures were, who masterfully appropriated the visions of countless other photographers—Richard Avedon, Irving Penn, Edward Weston—to create beautiful images of beautiful people that are completely without depth, all about surface. But oh those surfaces. Black skin in particular is rendered as a sumptuous textile.

Luckily, there was another teeny little show nearby, Portraits of Renown, consisting of celebrity portraits from nearly the dawn of photography to contemporary times. Each portrait conveyed an essence of the individual, the spark responsible for their fame. A portrait of John Barrymore as Hamlet by Edward Steichen had Barrymore in profile, slightly blurred, but his body sharp and in focus, the fiery energy in his head not to be contained. Lewis Morley’s iconic portrait of Profumo Affair strumpet Christine Keeler was shot in 1963—but printed around the time that the film Scandal was released—a publicity shot for a proposed film project, of her naked, confident, straddling a chair, her nudity hidden by her arms and the back of the chair. The show lusciously demonstrates how the photographic image has shaped our perception and experience of celebrity.

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The Dating Game: Mickey, Señor Grant and Me

Last weekend I flew down to southern California to spend some time with Señor Grant. On Saturday, he took me to Disneyland, after prohibiting me from participating in any planning. Always content to submit to the agenda of others, I happily surrendered. This guy knows his way around Disneyland like I know my way around a pint of Häagen Dazs Dulce de Leche. We spent about 12 hours running from attraction to attraction, with hardly a moment of rest, except for the brief corn dog respite.

Now, my experience with corn dogs has pretty much been limited to Trader Joe’s Meatless Corn Dogs, which are more like a medium for the delivery of ketchup. The Disney ones were like the Trader Joe’s ones plus about 1500 calories, a lot of grease, and seemingly real meat products. I wolfed down two and then was rushed off to the next ride.

I think that my favorite ride was Soaring over California. You sit in a ski lift-like buggy in front of a massive screen which effectively fills your entire field of vision. On the screen a film is projected from the point of view of Superman, or some gravity-defying Disney character, flying over the Golden Gate Bridge, through Yosemite, and various other parts of California, except I think Sacramento, our capital, which didn’t seem to make the cut. They raise the seats and blow air at you, and even pine scent as you pass over the timber line, so that the effect is like you’re really soaring over the state. It was simultaneously completely convincing and completely artificial, like being tossed into a giant movie.

I also loved the Hollywood Tower of Terror. You get in an elevator in this old hotel and suddenly you’re dropped 14 stories. And then the elevator goes up again and you’re dropped again. And again. I screamed and screamed. Aaaaaaaah! I nearly lost my corn dogs.

We dined in Ariel’s Grotto, outside by the water, romantic, in the only table with no heat overhead. So I shivered through my meal, warmed visually by Señor Grant’s fiery countenance. After dinner we made our way through several heated indoor attractions and then, suitably warmed, hopped over to the other side of the lake to see the World of Color show, “the WOOON-derful world of COOOOOO-loooooooor!” in which scenes from recent Disney films are projected on eruptions and sprays of water. Despite the signs everywhere warning that the area we were in was a “wet” zone, Señor Grant insisted that it was “only a mist.” When our neighbors expressed concern about getting wet, he calmed them with “it’s only a light mist.” The show was dazzling, the colored jets of water zigging and zagging, the fountains growing higher and higher… and then came the deluge. Which didn’t stop. Everyone around started screaming, I ducked behind Señor Grant but to no avail. We were soaked. I tried to avoid the angry stares of my wet neighbors, glaring at Señor Grant.

Actually I loved all the rides—the roller coasters, the singing animatronic critters, the Haunted Mansion—except for the Finding Nemo submarine ride, which was pretty lame. But to be fair to the Disney designers, by the time we got there, it was close to midnight, the corn dogs were wreaking havoc with my GI tract, we were wet, tired, kids were crying, everybody stank. It was time to go home.

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Pinson with the Parents

My parents are amazing. Their mid-80s are like the new mid-60s. I spent a few days with them last week, in Alabama. Mom is still like a merry squirrel, always moving, always talking… my dad at times seems like a grumpier parody of Walter Matthau, although he has this really entertaining habit of reading aloud road and business signs. “Abundance Love Christian Academy” is delivered as if he were addressing a Toastmasters Meeting, his roadside recitations allowing for no gaps in conversation. We went for a hike in the hills near Turkey Creek—my 80 year old parents, hiking up a mountain—and then explored the old swimming hole where my brother and I used to cool off during those hot Alabama summers. The creek winds through this beautiful forrest, off the road to the Turkey Creek Landfill. For a while there was going to be a prison built on the site, but the locals got together and came up with partners and funding to make it a nature preserve. As a kid, I remember the road on the way to the creek always littered with bags of trash, people too impatient I guess to drive all the way to the landfill. Now it’s all cleaned up, just pristine forrest and burbling water, conveniently about 1/4 mile from the dump.

Later in the week, my mom and I did some further exploring and found this cool old cemetery, The Red Hill Cemetery, off Tapawingo Road near Pinson Valley High. It’s not like Pinson is this big town, so it was somewhat surprising that I hadn’t stumbled across this place in the years I lived there, or that I had forgotten about it. The gravestones date from the mid-1800s to the early 1900s. Behind the graveyard an old road leads to an abandoned house with a tin roof and field-stone chimney, slowly being swallowed by the forrest. It’s the perfect setting for a horror film.