DanMargarita.com

March 23, 2009

Hooterville

I’d long ago dubbed Hooters restaurant as “the place to go when you want to pay a lot of money to be treated like crap by all the beautiful girls who ignored you in high school.”

Clearwater, Florida is home to the Philadelphia Phillies spring training facilities, as well as the first Hooters restaurant ever, established there in 1983. I’m guessing there has been a hefty turnover of staff since then as some of the original staff has probably gotten pretty hefty; you know, what with all the access to those free chicken wings.

After several years of attending Philadelphia Phillies games in Clearwater on my annual Spring Training trip with baseball pals Jim & Rick, I finally had the chance to visit the birthplace of Hooters; Hooterville itself, as it were.

The connection between Hooters and the Phillies is strong. Besides many ads around the ballpark, there is a “Hooters VIP Diamond Dugout” down the third base line. Fans sitting there can have their food served to them by Hooters waitresses.

Although Clearwater is the home of the original Hooters, many other ballparks seem to have Hooters waitresses patrolling the grounds, as well. In Clearwater, the Phillies use them as “ball girls” on each base line. That is, they are supposed to retrieve foul balls and give them to kids in the stands. I’ll leave it to you to insert your own “ball girls” joke.

From what I could discern, these ball girls didn’t seem to be selected for their athletic ability, or even their knowledge of the game as one of them unwittingly fields a ball in play that winds up being scored as a ground-rule double as a result of her interference.

My two previous experiences at a Hooters restaurant weren’t pleasant ones. The first occasion was at the old Hooters near the Boston Garden. I went in to check it out several years ago to have some food, a beer and watch a ballgame. After perusing the menu for just a few minutes, the bartender rudely asked “Are you gonna order something, or what?” That question pretty much made my decision for me. A simple “Are you ready to order?” as most service people would ask, would’ve kept me there and who knows, maybe coming back.

I told someone this story recently and it made me realize that after all these years it wasn’t fair to judge the whole chain and their staff by one bad experience, so I decided to give them another chance (honestly, it was in the interest of fairness). So I recently took a trip to the new Hooters on Rte. 1 for a meal, bypassing such other heart-congestion-inducing haunts as The Border Café and The Hilltop Steakhouse.

It may or may not surprise you to learn that the patrons at Hooters were about 98 percent male. Go figure.

The waitress was friendly enough and the fish sandwich was okay, but when I paid my bill of $12.25, the waitress brought back my change of… $7, instead of $7.75. I’m a pretty good tipper, having had many friends in the service industry, but when you automatically assume the extra .75 as part of your tip, I tend to simply deduct that amount and even a little less, so instead of the handsome tip I would’ve given, she got less than she might have (although still an OK tip).

While we had made several trips over the years to Clearwater for Phillies games, we had never visited the original Hooters, so we decide to make the pilgrimage to the original land of Hooters for the first time ever. The waitress was peasant enough and the burger was okay, but as I went to check the rest of the place out, I unwittingly went upstairs, not realizing that it’s for staff only. As I descend the stairs, I run into the manager who chews me out instead of saying “I’m sorry sir, this is for staff only.”

That pretty much cemented my opinion of Hooters and as I left for home the next day, I was determined that I was done with the owl-themed (yeah, right) restaurant for good. Or so I thought…

Making my way through Tampa Airport, I realize that I can’t find my cell phone. I search my bags frantically, re-trace my steps, go to lost and found…all the things you’re supposed to do. Figuring, well more like praying, that it had fallen out of my pocket and into the rental car from Rick which had dropped me at the airport, I try calling my own phone from a pay phone to see if Rick (or anybody) answers.

I try later again on and it hits me that if I did if fact put it in my luggage by mistake, perhaps the last thing I want to do in the post-911 era is have luggage handlers hearing a ring tone come from my suitcase.

Alas, through the miracle that is the Internet, I learn the next morning that Rick does indeed have my cell phone. It hadn’t fallen out of my pocket and into the rental car as I figured, though. It was found by the manager of Hooters.

Well, maybe I can give them one more chance.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:46 PM

November 17, 2008

To Pee or Not to Pee

“To everything, turn, turn turn” says the book of Ecclesiastes. Okay, let’s face it. You know it from a song by the ‘60’s rock band The Byrds. “A time for everything” also means that there is a time to NOT to do some things such as: make a cell phone call…especially when you’re driving, performing surgery or perhaps most importantly, going about your business at a men’s room urinal.

Last week my sister and I went to Chicago for the Chicago Bears Alumni dinner and football game. No, I didn’t play for the Bears, nor did my sister Jean, although she was quite a speedster in her time.

Our late father, Bob Margarita, was a member of the Bears in the 1940’s, which although he has passed, has enabled us to become part of the Bears’ family and get invited to Alumni Weekend. Hey, I’ll ride my Dad’s coattails if it means a free dinner, a cheap price at a five-star hotel and free tickets to a game. I doubt Julian Lennon is complaining too much about living off his father’s name.

Anyway, there are plenty of things to do in Chicago and even if you’ve done them before, by the time you’ve had a chance to do other things, you don’t mind doing the first things over again.

One of the things I did was go to the top of the Hancock Tower Observation Deck. The big change from the last time I was there was the new version of audio tour headsets, which now feature visuals to help you follow along with what the narrator is describing. Oh yeah, the narrator is actor David Schwimmer, aka, the weak link on the TV show Friends. Unfortunately, his narration is as wooden and forced as his acting.

The view from the 94th floor is stunning and what information David Schwimmer doesn’t give you, can be found on the walls of the inside of the deck. Did you know that Chicago was where the Ferris wheel and the Twinkie were invented? More importantly, it was where the zipper was invented. This would come in handy for my trip to Soldier Field.

As the late, great voice of NFL Films, John Facenda might put it, “It was a blustery November day as the Midwest winds howled and a brief but intense flurry came across the plains of Soldier Field.”

As someone from Southie might put it, “Everybody was gettin’ wick-id hamm-ahd!”

Well, a few spectators were, anyhow. Not that anybody was obnoxious but in the true spirit of tailgating, fans had lubricated themselves before the game and were tipping some cold ones during the game.

My eighth grade health teacher told us that alcohol made you warmer, even if it was a cold beer. I suppose she was trying to discourage us from drinking, but I doubt she figured we could use that as an excuse to drink in the wintertime.

As a consequence, this tailgate Sunday resulted in perpetually long lines at the men’s and ladies’ room. Of course, ladies room lines tend to be longer anyway, but that’s a discussion for another day (I don’t know how you ladies get through it).

Like any middle-aged man, at some point my bladder reached its capacity, but seeing the long lines for the men’s rooms, plus not wanting to miss any of the game, I chose to wait.

It seemed logical that if there is a line, that line will eventually subside. Well, the beer line, where patrons can only purchase one beer per person, didn’t subside (likely because they only sell one beer per person), which was why the men’s room lines (and women’s room lines) didn’t subside.

At some point, I could wait no more. I plunged into the queue and waited my turn.

There are certain protocols in a men’s room. Keep your eyes straight ahead or down and don’t try to strike up a conversation while going about your business.

These are, of course, unwritten rules. You can scour the U.S. Constitution and The Declaration of Independence all you want and you’ll never see the phrase “bathroom etiquette” mentioned once.

While not an unwritten rule, it seems common sense not to be making a call on your cell phone while in the act. Suppose you drop it. Are you going to retrieve it? Is the call that important? Couldn’t it have waited?

The gentleman making such a call didn’t have that happen, but he did incur the ridicule of the men in line behind him, who provided their own version of his conversation for our amusement.

“Hey, Ma…is it supposed to be this small?”

He was so wrapped up in his conversation that he never realized that he was being mercilessly mocked.

The funny thing about having to pee is that the closer you get to the opportunity to do so, the worse you have to go. Having been such a cold day, as previously mentioned, I dressed for the occasion with a jacket, four sweatshirts (one hooded, in true Belichick style), a T-shirt, two pairs of socks and two pairs of pants.

I don’t suffer from stage fright, at least not the men’s room kind, but with an extensive line behind me, the pressure was on…in every sense.

Fortunately, I completed the task successfully and I was extremely glad that my two pairs’ jeans weren’t in the old fashion “button fly” style, all because of a great Chicago invention…the zipper.

You were wondering how I was going to tie all of this in, weren’t you?

Then I was able to go back and watch the game in peace.

Too bad they didn’t sell Twinkies.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:52 AM

October 20, 2008

Back In The U.U.U.K.

In 1957, four young lads from Liverpool formed a rock and roll group. They didn’t set out to change the world or popular music or fashion in general. As it turned out, they didn’t, as none of that happened and the group went nowhere; however their friends, The Beatles, did quite well.

Nearly 20 years ago a friend of mine sent me a postcard from Liverpool which claimed (as read aloud by my Depression era-raised father) “Liverpool is a dirty, dirty, dirty city. It is like the asshole of Lowell.” Sorry, Lowell friends. I’m only quoting.

As a lifelong Beatles fan, I decided to make the most of my trip to the U.K by making a side trip to Liverpool where the Fab Four were born, raised, learned their musical craft and often drank tea.

When my friend (who shall remain nameless for his own safety) was there, he said that there wasn’t that much in the way of Beatles tourism, which quite surprised me. I was very pleased to see that is no longer the case and that in fact, Liverpool has come a long way in twenty years (as has Lowell). Not only has the city had a revival, but it has been named the “European Capital of Culture 2008” which kicked off with former Beatle’s drummer Ringo Starr performing atop St. George’s Hall to begin the festivities.

There are various Beatle tours and I opted for the Magical Mystery Tour bus, which passed by the houses where the boys were born or grew up in, including John Lennon’s Aunt Mimi’s house where she told him “The guitar’s all very well John, but you’ll never make a living out of it.” Sadly, Ringo’s childhood home is the only one on its block still lived in, as the others are boarded up, awaiting demolition by the city.

After a trip to the gates of Strawberry Fields, we go to Penny Lane. The bank is still on the corner but of course the banker moved his motor car, perhaps at the request of the police. The barber shop is still there but it is a hair salon now and the bus shelter is still in the middle of the roundabout (a “rotary” to us Yanks) but the pretty nurse who sold poppies from a tray has probably long since retired.

The absolute “must see” in Liverpool is The Cavern Club where the Beatles made their name and were discovered by their future manager, Brian Epstein. Okay, so it’s not the original Cavern Club, but a reconstructed version on nearly 70 percent (50 percent according to one postcard, but 70 percent according to two bartenders and a patron there) of the original site, using some 115,000 of the original bricks.

While I was there I discovered that Neil Innes, a member of the cast of Eric Idle’s (Monty Python’s Flying Circus) classic Beatles spoof The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash, would be performing the next evening.

The next day, after a tour of Albert Dock where I visited a surprisingly interesting Maritime Museum, I stopped to have lunch by the water next to a tall ship that flew the skull and crossbones famous "Jolly Roger." There were few crew members on deck but none possessed a wooden leg, an eye patch or a parrot. Also located at Albert Dock is a museum called The Beatles Story, which true to its name, revolves around the story of The Beatles. It contains lots of Beatles memorabilia as well as recollections of those who knew the Beatles in their youth, not to mention members of the Beatles forerunners, The Quarrymen.

The Cavern, which is replicated exactly like the original, is a long, narrow room with large brick columns on each side, beyond which contains more space for patrons on the outer sides of the room. Frankly, it’s not a great place to watch a show and patrons from the club’s heyday recall that the poor ventilation, the smoke, the sweat and condensation on the brick walls from the sweat, caused a putrid smell that made one’s presence in the packed room known to passersby upon exiting the club.

Before Neil Innes’ show, the club featured a trio from Japan called “The Japanese Sketch.” I knew they were pretty good because I had heard them the day before playing outside the club for spare change. The lead singer apologized for his broken English, which was certainly better than my Japanese, and then went into a nearly flawless Paul McCartney impression on the song “Yesterday.”

Neil Innes and his band Fatso (which included Rutles drummer Barry Wom, aka John Halsey) performed in an adjacent room, which was much better suited for performing than the rebuilt Cavern Club and after a 30 second song called “Test, 1-2, Test” he launched into three Rutles songs. For those of you unfamiliar with this brilliant Beatles parody, see: YouTube.

After a wonderfully entertaining show, I went back into the main club where a Beatles tribute band called “The Mersey Beats” played. So what if the guy playing George looked more like Paul than the guy playing Paul or that the guy playing John looked more like "Screech" from Saved By the Bell? The packed house made it seem like I was transported back to 1961, minus the smoke, which club and restaurant patrons aren’t allowed to do in Britain these days.

After that I went across the alley to The Cavern Pub which contains several rare photos of the Beatles at The Cavern Club, and I was able to impress a few locals with me Liverpudlian accent. Indeed, it was like being in a colorized version of the movie A Hard Day’s Night although, I know that was mostly shot in London.

For Beatles fans, one needn’t make the long trip from London to get to Liverpool, as they have their own airport, the John Lennon Airport (I think Gerry Marsden from “Gerry & The Pacemakers” has a taxi stand).

So, if Beatle fans are wondering if there’s much to do and see in Liverpool, I can only say:

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

Posted by dmargarita at 1:56 PM

September 25, 2008

Stadium Daze

Let me state right off the bat, that I don’t hate the New York Yankees. Oh, and sorry for the “bat” pun…and that one, too.

This past Sunday night, the Yankees played their final game at Yankee Stadium, also known as “The House That Ruth Built.” There won’t be anymore games there this season because as has been much noted here in the Boston area, THE YANKEES WON’T BE IN THE PLAYOFFS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1993…but again, I don’t hate the Yankees.

As a baseball fan I’m always happy to travel to ballparks other than Fenway Park (yes, there are ballparks other than Fenway) to see a game. Thus, I felt the urge to see storied Yankee Stadium one last time before it becomes yet another piece of rubble in the Bronx.

There are numerous ways to get to the ballpark, located in the South Bronx, from downtown. One is by car. The last person I know who did that, had his car broken into and several things stolen, including his tax returns.

The most common method of travel is by subway, on the D line which takes you to 161st Street. If you’re unsure as to which train to get on, just follow the mass of people wearing Yankees gear.

My ticket was for Row B, Seat 13 in the upper deck. One might reasonably assume that Row B would be the second row, but instead I found that much to my confusion, not only was the first row, Row “A” but that the second row was also Row “A”. The third row was Row B, as was the fourth row, and so on and so on.

I was able to figure out which Row “B” I was supposed to be in because I assumed the person sitting in the other Row B, seat 13, knew where he or she was supposed to be.

Having left an unseasonably chilly Boston, I dressed for the same weather in NYC but instead found my seats to be in the sun on a very hot and humid day. Being in seat thirteen meant that to get up and leave to go for a beverage, food or a men’s room break, I would have to inconvenience at least twelve people in either direction.

For a Red Sox fan, going into Yankee Stadium makes you feel like a cat trying to sneak into a dog pound. However, I’m not one of those fans who will wear Sox clothing into Yankee Stadium looking for a fight. I’m crazy, not stupid. In fact, since the Yankees were facing the Tampa Bay Rays, who are ahead of the Red Sox in the standings, I found myself in the unusual position of rooting for the Yankees. Sure, that may sound like General Custer’s wife rooting for the Sioux Indians, but if Mrs. Custer had a big bet on the Indians and knew her husband would still come home safe, she might make the wager.

As columnist and friend Bob Ryan recently noted in the Boston Globe, the current Yankee Stadium is NOT the same one that Babe Ruth played in. Okay, I’ve never actually met Bob Ryan, but I saw him at Doyle’s Pub once.

The current ballpark was constructed on the grounds of the original and opened in time for the 1976 season, and saw the Yankees win their first pennant since 1964. Not having currently won a pennant since 2001, that could be the reason why Yankee owner George Steinbrenner decided to open a new ballpark next door. If they win next season, he may construct yet another ballpark for the 2010 season.

Yes, I contemplated just what I might be able to take home as a souvenir, such as “Row B” but I settled for a couple of souvenir soda cups instead. That wasn’t enough for some fans though, as several news outlets reported that fans were trying to take seat number plates, a floor drain and even one guy who tried to steal a toilet seat. I can only assume that he figured that someone in the memorabilia market would pay big money for some remnants of The Babe’s e-coli bacteria.

Oh yeah, I forgot…The Babe didn’t do that in the current Stadium, either.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:48 AM

March 31, 2008

Burn! Danny, Burn!

I’m not sure what the technical definition of an idiot is, but if it’s someone who does something stupid repeatedly, knowing what the results will be and then he does it again anyway, than I’m an idiot.

Once again I recently made my way to Florida for my annual Spring Training trip, with my baseball compadres Jim and Rick. The big addition to this year’s trip was my new cell phone. The number formally belonged to a woman named Joyce and I’ve been besieged with calls for Joyce since acquiring the phone. (see: What The Cell?)

Having been without a cell phone for years, I broke down and gave in to the conventions of society. Also, I was tired of getting yelled at by people who can’t reach me because I don’t have a cell phone.

Sun., Mar. 16---Having arrived a day ahead of Jim and Rick, I head to Tampa Airport to pick them up. Unfortunately, I underestimate how long it takes to get to Tampa from Orlando, so I’m late getting there. As I enter the T.G.I Friday’s (our usual meeting point) with cell phone to ear, checking my messages (there were none), I spot them at the bar only after the bartender flags me down and gives me a thorough ration of crap that apparently had been prompted by them giving me crap while waiting for me to show up.

From there we drive to Bradenton to watch the Red Sox play the Pirates. Our seats are down the left field line, in the sun. Having been through this over the course of many years, one would think that I would know to put on sunblock, but it doesn’t enter my mind until I feel the flesh on the back of my neck being singed. By then it is far too late.

While waiting at the beer stand behind the seats I hear a cry to “Lookout!” and see a foul ball land behind the beer stand, just inside the fence amongst the belongings of the employees of the beer stand. I contemplated violating their stuff for the ball and while I ponder, a less shy gentleman rushes and grabs the ball from among the jackets and things. That would be as close as I would come to a foul ball the whole trip, and nothing but the trip. It’s great to see the Sox, but as is customary in Spring Training, the regulars leave the game and you watch guys with numbers like “78” play the later innings.

We then drive to Clearwater to watch a “Legends” game. This is not to be confused with an “Old Timers” game, because that is limited to former Major League ballplayers. A Legends game includes non-ballplayers like the local weatherman from Channel 6 and Bob Johnson of Bob Johnson Ford as well as Robin Zander of the rock group Cheap Trick. There was also some local radio guy making a jerk of himself, but the people seemed to enjoy him. When your second baseman throws like Ethel Merman and can barely reach first, you know it’s not a serious game.

Bob Feller starts on the mound for the American League team. Feller is a Hall of Famer, pitched three no-hitters and is considered one of the greatest pitchers that ever lived. He is also 89 years old. Though some of the players are not former big-leaguers, some of them are young, like the members of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and a couple of military men who play for one of the U.S. service baseball teams. One can imagine the tragedy as a 25-year-old lance corporal hits a rocket back through the box. Feller lasts two batters and is replaced by Gaylord Perry, another Hall of Famer. Perry was old and fat when he retired in 1983. He’s only older and fatter now.

Later in the game Michelle Smith of the Gold Medal winning U.S. Olympic softball team strikes out the side. Okay, so she pitched from 15 feet in front of the pitchers mound and used a softball, but she still struck out three former Major League ballplayers!

Mon., Mar 17---We get up early for the long drive to Vero Beach to see the Dodgers play, but we still manage to be late. The middle of the state is what I suspect few tourists who hunker down at Disneyworld ever get to see. There are farms, cows, horses and orange groves which make for quite a culture shock after being in Orlando.

This appears to be the last year for the Dodgers at Vero Beach, or “Dodgertown” as it’s also known. They plan to move to Arizona next year, after being in Vero since 1948 and playing on this field since 1953, where such baseball legends as Jackie Robinson, Duke Snyder and Pee Wee Reese trained. Tommy Lasorda also was here.

It’s a small ballpark, with seats that go about 16 rows high and harkens back to a simpler time, before Spring Training became a big business.

March 17 is of course St. Patrick’s Day, so the Dodgers wear green hats and the bases are green. Much of the team is on an exhibition tour in China so it’s largely unknown players, but its 85 degrees out so who cares?

There’s no night game so we take a long drive to Ft. Lauderdale for tomorrow’s game and find a room at a Budget Inn. The guy at the desk says he has no roll-away bed, so we get two rooms. After completing the deal with our credit cards, he informs us we have two rooms with one bed each. We explain that we need two beds in one room, which we thought we had made clear but he says it’s another $10. The deal has been made and we don’t offer to give him another $10. He says he’ll talk to his boss in the morning so he hopefully won’t have to pay the extra $10 himself, trying to guilt us into giving him $10 more, but we still don’t offer it. He does manage to let us know that there are “free adult movies on channel 88.”

Tue., Mar 18---The guy at the desk who’d said he “talk to his boss” the night before, is barking orders at the cleaning staff. Clearly, he is the boss. We make sure to check out by 10:00 so he doesn’t try to charge us for another day, which we’re pretty certain he would do.

We go to the Orioles-Twins game for my first game ever there, and get box seats on the first base side which have more leg room that I’ve ever had at any ballpark anywhere.

There is no night game, so we take a three hour drive across the state on Route 75, also knows as Alligator Alley, known for, you guessed it…alligators. Fortunately, we have gassed up because there is a 26 mile gap between the first and second exits.

Dinner is at the Ft. Myers Ale House, one of our favorite Florida chain restaurants where Red Sox first baseman Mike Lowell also winds up dining (see: What The Cell?).

The Econo Lodge we stay at does have a roll-away bed which I volunteer to take. I discover that if I curl up in the fetal position and sleep in the top half of the bed, I won’t be tortured by the bar running across the middle of the bed.

Wed., Mar. 19---Since we’re staying right in Ft. Myers, we get to City of Palms Park plenty early to look around and then see the game…or so we think. It turns out the game was scheduled to start an hour earlier than we expected. Yet it does not start for a while and we learn that the Sox players are considering not playing because it has been announced that the Sox coaches are not being paid for their upcoming trip to Japan, as they thought they were. The game is being broadcast on ESPN so the players use that leverage to work out a deal to get their coaches paid and the game goes on.

Our seats are down the left field line. My seat is in the sun the entire game but as it happens, the seat to my right manages to stay just in the shade the whole game, but I’ve made sure to use sunblock this time.

We then drive to Bradenton for the first night game ever there, as the Pirates celebrate their 40th anniversary in Bradenton. The Bucs play the Yanks and at some point we become aware that the Pirates fans behind us, a family with their grandfather, are getting annoyed with the obnoxious Yankees couple/fans sitting behind them. We don’t pay much attention but after the game the grandfather is giving crap to the drunk Yankee fan who tells him “Don’t get your blood pressure up”, in essence, making fun of the guy for being old. The granddad leaves and his son tells the Yankee fan he’ll be waiting for him outside. I later regret not using my cell phone camera to get a picture of it.

After the game, the obnoxious Yankee couple move down to the first row and the man tries to get former Yankee (and Red Sox) Doug Meintkiewicz to sign a baseball for him.

“Hey, Doug. Why can’t we get you back in pinstripes?” the man inquires.

Only after Meintkiewicz blows past him without acknowledgement does the man yell “Traitor!”

Thurs., Mar 20---We head to Winter Haven and as we pull onto a major highway, we see what looks like a major traffic jam as several State Police cars are pulled over. We assume it’s a car crash but then we don’t see any civilian vehicles. Upon seeing a trooper with an automatic weapon in his hands, we realize it’s a roadblock, not an accident. Fortunately for us, it is just before our entrance so we don’t have any traffic issues.

Lo and behold, Indians legend Bob Feller is signing autographs behind the stands so I wait in line and get an autograph and a photo with him on my new cell phone. I’m usually not big on autographs but he is a Hall of Famer and well, 89 years old. I’m tempted to beg him to stop pitching in Legends games for his own sake. The proceeds benefit the Bob Feller Museum, which is dedicated to studying all things Bob Feller.

Our night game is at the Atlanta Braves facility which is located at Disneyworld. It’s the only ballpark where parking is free but a pizza the size of a doughnut is $5. There is the All Star Café next to the ballpark where you could go and have a drink to wait out the tremendous traffic jam…but they don’t serve alcohol so we wind up sitting in traffic for an hour.

Fri., Mar 21---The day game is at Kissimmee where one used to be able to walk up to the ticket window before the game and buy a good seat. We do have good seats, next to the first base dugout about five rows from the backstop, but they’re purchased in advance. The upside is that the grandstand seats are no longer metal benches and the food selection is much better. My cell phone rings and Jim and Rick get a chuckle when I tell the caller “Joyce no longer has this number.”

The night game is at the Yankees facility in Tampa. Our seats are in the first row of the upper deck. I ask a guy two rows behind me to take a photo with my cell phone of me with the Yankee logo in the background. The woman sitting in between us is startled when she realizes I’m discreetly giving the finger.

Sat., Mar 22---The first rainy day of the trip and we drive to Clearwater to see the Phillies game, which starts on time despite the rain. However, the game is stopped in the fourth inning and then called after a 45 minute delay.
Rick learned the lesson of the downside of not having a cell phone while in Clearwater. Jim and I, both with cell phones, found each other but couldn’t find Rick. Since he was unable to locate us and couldn’t call us, he headed for our rental car. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one with the keys and thus stood there in the rain waiting for us to figure out that he’d headed to the car.

Sun., Mar. 23---My last game of the trip is back at Disneyworld. It’s in the upper deck again and once again, I make sure to use sunblock. By now, the first day burn that I got has started to peel and I look like Boris Karloff in The Mummy.

Mon., Mar 24---Jim and Rick drop me off at Orlando Airport and continue on their extended Spring Training tour while I hope that TSA Security doesn’t find a can of shaving cream in my bag and declare me an “Enemy Combatant.”

Then it’s back to work, back to reality and back to cold and rainy weather. It’s good to be home.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:51 AM

March 25, 2008

What The Cell?

Slowly but surely, I’m moving into the technology-based world of the 21st century. I’m now that annoying guy that you see talking on his cell phone constantly.

When I made my first trip to Florida for my annual Spring Training trip several years ago, I made my first leap into modernity by acquiring an ATM card. Having once been stranded in the U.K. without any cash, I knew that traveling in the then-20th century would simply be a lot easier with the ability to get cash. The reason I’d been hesitant to get an ATM card was that I feared if I had constant access to my bank account, it would just be a matter of time before I no longer had a bank account.

My reluctance with getting a cell phone has more to do with nearly being run off the road by people chatting away on the cell phones while driving and I didn’t want to also wind up being a hazard to the general driving public. However, with enough people complaining to me about trying to reach me and the knowledge that in an emergency, a phone is a good thing to have, I ventured to my nearest Verizon Wireless store.

Picking something with some cool features, the next step was selecting a phone number. That seemed simple enough but little did it occur to me that it would be a phone number that somebody else once possessed. Thus, almost immediately I started getting calls for Joyce. If anyone reading this knows Joyce Martin, please tell her to inform her friends that she no longer has the same phone number. I seriously considered playing pranks on Joyce’s friends, for sure.

“Hi, could I speak to Joyce, please.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess you haven’t heard. They’re still trying to find the rest of Joyce’s remains.”

No, I couldn’t do that…but it did cross my mind.

What plan did I pick? The cheapest one available! Nights and weekends are free so anyone calling me after 9 p.m. or on a weekend won’t cost me anything. Of course, Joyce’s friends don’t know that, so I have to spend much of my minutes telling people that Joyce no longer has this number. Since the number is new to me and few of my friends have it, I have more people calling for Joyce than for me! Well, I guess that’s one way to make new friends.

It didn’t take me long to become “annoying cell phone guy.” The added benefit of being able to access email, another addiction of mine, made me even more annoying.

Yet, it soon proved its worth. After seeing the Red Sox game in Ft. Myers, my baseball traveling companions, Jim and Rick and I stopped for dinner at the Ft. Myers Ale House. Our waiter, an admitted Yankee fan (bastard!), informed us that Mike Lowell, the Sox third baseman, was sitting in the next aisle. I usually don’t like to bother celebrities when they’re in public. I figure that they get hassled enough. Nor am I an autograph seeker. I was cured of that at a young age when my sister Jean helped me draft a letter request for an autograph to Detroit Tiger’s slugger Willie Horton. I sent a letter along with his baseball card to sign. I never heard back from him or got the card back. Little did I realize he would go on to ruin the presidential campaign of Michael Dukakis. What? That was a different Willie Horton? Oh…sorry.

Anyway, I asked the waiter to ask Lowell if he would mind posing for a picture with me. He agreed to pose but wanted to do it after he was finished eating. When I saw him finish his dessert, I meekly approached him and asked if he’d pose with me. I gave his friend the camera and he took the picture of the two of us. Still learning how to take a photo with the cell phone, I thanked him and walked away, only to realize that I had accidentally erased the photo. I had to re-approach him even more meekly and explain that I was new to the technology and asked him if we could do that again.

“You have to save it” he explained.

The photo was pretty blurry, but I wasn’t about to ask him to pose a third time.

Rick learned the tough lesson of not having a cell phone when our game in Clearwater was called due to rain. Jim and I, both with cell phones, found each other but couldn’t find Rick. Since he was unable to locate us and couldn’t call us, he headed for our rental car. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one with the keys and thus stood there in the rain waiting for us to figure out that he’d headed to the car.

Speaking of rental cars, there’s another technological leap that has occurred since my first S.T. trip. All rentals cars now seem to have to ability to unlock the car via a remote on the key chain. This has made the old days of wandering around in parking lots, trying to figure out which white rental car is yours, obsolete.

Well, it’s time to email this off to my editor now. It takes forever because I haven’t upgraded to high-speed internet yet.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:37 PM

April 9, 2007

Spring Fun 2007

It’s time to go see some Spring Training baseball, or as they in the movies…“take two” since my first attempt resulted in my misreading the schedule and showing up at the Astros ballpark in Kissimmee, only to find out that there was no game there.

Mar. 12---After picking up fellow baseball friend and junkie Rick at the airport, we head to Clearwater, where the Phillies are hosting the Astros. I guess if I can’t see the Astros in Kissimmee, I can see them elsewhere.

Just standing in the ticket line, I can feel the hot Florida sun singing the flesh on the back of my neck. It seems like that’s part of what you go to Florida for, but I’m practical enough to know I must put some sun block on; the strong stuff, too. As it turns out our seats are on the third base side and in the shade, so the sun block seems unnecessary.

The ballpark is a nice new facility with a thatched-roof tiki bar in left field and a kids playground in the corner nearby. The Astros take a 6-0 lead and while I stand behind at the left field concession stand waiting to buy an ice cream sandwich, the guy in front of me attempts to purchase two beers with a credit card. This seems to be a tough task for the elderly woman behind the counter. As I watch her slide the card through the machine repeatedly, the Phillies erupt for a four-run rally, including a three-run homer. It sure sounded exciting, judging by the cheers.

Late in the game, we notice an increasing swarm of small black flies. It’s a minor nuisance but better than New England rain or snow. As we leave the ballpark, I notice that Rick, who did not put on sunblock, has gotten a burn, despite sitting in the shade. Go figure.

The only night game is the Sox-Yankees game in Ft. Myers. That’s too far of a drive, especially if you don’t already have tickets. Sox tickets in ST are tough enough, but a Sox-Yanks game is nearly impossible to get. So we wind up at a sports bar near the Yankees ST ballpark. It’s a grungy place, but they have a NESN feed of the game.

Mar. 13---The day game we opt for is the Blue Jays-Red Sox game at Dunedin. Seeing the Sox on the road, even in spring training, is a little easier than trying to get tickets for a home game…but not much. The traveling Sox circus is apparent early, when parking fees spike up to $10 and vendors hawk Red Sox, not Blue Jay gear outside the ballpark. Worse yet are the numerous scalpers who trying to sell $15 tickets for $30 to $40.

At least half of the crowd seems to made up of Red Sox fans, if not more. In the front row a kid wearing a Derek Jeter jersey gets 2-3 foul balls tossed over from coaches and umpires. The kid could be Tiny Tim from Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” and it wouldn’t save him from the merciless booing of Sox fans for wearing a Jeter shirt. The Sox lose 1-0 on an error by Wily Mo Pena.

We have two choices for a night game. We can try to get tickets to the Yankee game in Tampa, which we’re close to, or we can try Kissimmee which is a two hour drive, but probably an easier ticket. Since it’s a better venue, we decide to try the latter. We don’t take into account rush hour traffic so we get there a bit late. I also don’t take into account that I haven’t refueled with gas yet. It only occurs to me to look at the gas gauge as I pass a gas station and that’s when I notice it’s on empty. Since Route 192 is like Rt. 1 on steroids, it seems like a matter of time before I would find another gas station. Yet, as I pass restaurants, banks, motels and souvenir stores, my gas gauge mocks me, seemingly knowing that it’s miles to the next chance to fill up.

We get to the park and as we pull into the parking lot, I see for the second time on my trip that there are few cars. We find out that despite the local paper listing the game as being at Kissimmee, they’re actually playing the Braves at Disney World. This is my second time at Kissimmee and the second time there’s been no game there.

Disney World isn’t that far away, but by the time we get there and park, it’s the fourth inning but our standing room only tickets allow us to stand behind home plate for a pretty good view. Late in the game we take some open seats.

Mar. 14---The day game is again at Dunedin, but this time the Blue Jays are playing the Indians and ticket scalpers are asking just a few dollars over face value. What a difference a day makes. We ask for tickets in the shade, but it’s irrelevant since it is overcast.

We head to Sarasota for the night game. Next to us is a middle-aged couple and in front of us several young men. With each passing drink, the wife gets more flirtatious with the young guys in front of her. The husband says nothing, but we detect steam emanating from his ears.

Pitching for the Cincinnati is former Red Sox starter Bronson Arroyo. He gives up just two hits and no runs over five innings. It makes Wily Mo Pena’s game-losing error on Monday all the more glaring.

One of the challenges of Spring Training is finding a cheap motel at night. On this Wednesday, we succeed in doing just that. The Budget Inn didn’t find room in their budget for things such as paint, spackle or a dead bolt lock on my door. Having seen enough horror movies, I try the old “chair against the door” technique. This seems prudent after having chatted in the lobby with another guy checking in who was dressed in all black, had enormous bags under his eyes and most importantly, had filed his teeth into sharp points. I’m not making that up.

Mar. 15---A good breakfast makes us late getting to Kissimmee. This is my third attempt to see a game there, and I warn my friends that if there is no game again, I may take hostages. There is a game, and since we’re late, a guy working at the gate hands us some free standing room tickets which kind of makes up for being 0 for 2 here.

It’s a long drive to Port St. Lucie where the Mets are hosting the Red Sox at night. As noted earlier, Sox fans are everywhere and the only seats available are bleacher tickets. That would’ve been nice but there is no room in the bleachers, and we are forced to stand behind the grassy area in right field in foul territory. It’s without a doubt the furthest away from home plate I’ve ever been at a Spring Training game.

As I lean against the fence, I feel a tap on the shoulder. Noticing my Stoneham jacket is a Port St. Lucie police officer.

“Excuse me, where’d you get that jacket?” he says, before realizing that he recognizes me.
“Hey, I know you. Your dad is a teacher…”

I tell him who I am and he explains that he is Andy McPherson, a Stoneham High graduate, Class of 1986 and has been working for the PSLPD for 12 years. It seems that you can’t ever get away from the Red Sox or Stoneham.

Mar. 16---Once again, we follow the Sox on the road. This time it’s at Vero Beach, the oldest continuous ballpark and my favorite venue in Florida. The Dodgers have been at Vero since 1949 and in this stadium since 1953. So many legends have trained here including Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Roy Campanella and Sandy Koufax. Oh, and Tommy Lasorda trained here.

What’s special about it is that the stands are about 16 rows high and there are no dugouts, just benches with no covering. It’s like watching a high school game. Sitting down the right field line, we listen to a Yankees fan in front of us gloat as Sox newcomer Daisuke Matsuzaka gives up a first-pitch double.

“Good jawb, Epstein! Payin’ awl that money!” he says in New York-speak.

Later he gets silenced by a Jason Varitek three-run homer.

In the third inning a blazing sun gets obscured by clouds, which eventually turn into spotty rain drops. Then the rain gets a little heavier, forcing some people to leave while others use the free seat cushion that all fans received upon entering, as a shield. The rain gets perpetually stronger and then the skies open up to deliver a rain of Biblical proportions. The driving rain and ensuing lightening prompts the umpires to call the game and send the fans for cover. The problem is that as I noted earlier, it’s an old and small ballpark so there is little cover to be had.

People cram into the small concession area that is covered and others make it to the rest rooms, but most people are forced to stay in the open. Some take discarded vendor’s cardboard boxes and flatten them for cover. Heading for your car is not an option for some people because everyone scattered so fast, that they lost touch with whomever they were with, which might include the person with the car keys. Eventually I get a spot in the souvenir store and buy a Dodger’s glass out of guilt for taking up space there. The rain lets up eventually and we get to the car, where we can change into dry clothes.

There’s just one night game, so we take a long drive back for a third time to see the Braves at Disney World. As was the case previously, it’s sold out but we get SRO tickets and stand behind home plate. After the game we decide to have a bite at the All Star Café next to the ballpark where we figure to allow traffic to disperse from the parking lot. Our plans are foiled as the they are closed at 10:15 on a Friday night, so we’re forced to sit in traffic for a while.

Hunting for a motel room on a Saturday night near Disney World is a difficult task. If there are rooms available, they seem to be taken by the car that always seems to arrive just ahead of us. We actually pass up one where the night clerk resembles a prison gang leader from a “Law & Order” episode. The clincher is when he reaches through the night window to give the previous customer a remote for his room TV.

Mar. 17---Logistics on this St. Patrick’s Day make the most feasible game yet another trip to see the Braves at Disney World. It’s not that we like the place, but it’s centrally located. It’s a double-decked new building with all the bells and whistles that make Spring Training more of an amusement park than ballpark. Yet, it would’ve been a better place to endure a driving rain storm than Vero Beach.

Since it’s St. Patty’s Day, both teams are wearing green caps and several fans are wearing green felt top hats, much to the annoyance of the people sitting behind them. One man has gone all-out with the leprechaun costume, complete with vest, top hat and attachable red beard. He gladly obliges the many requests to be in photos.

Mar. 18---It’s time to make a rental car switch for my fellow travelers who will continue on after I depart. The week is winding down and I realize that I’ve been in the shade most of the time, so I take the opportunity to sit in the sun at the rental car agency and try to get a tan. One cannot go to Florida and come back more pale than when they left.

The last game of my trip is back at Kissimmee. For once, we actually get seats instead of SRO tickets. They’re on the third base side, but in the shade, making my tanning effort seem prophetic.

Mar. 19---Time to fly home so the boys drop me off at MCO Airport in Orlando. Everyone is advised to get to the airport two hours early these days, but as I discovered, if you get there more than four hours early they won’t check your bag. So, I’m forced to hoist my huge bag of clothes and souvenirs around for a while. Things are quiet at the gate until the arrival of a tour group, the Leominster High Blue Devil Marching Band shows up. That enlivens the place considerably.

The plane arrives at night in Manchester and it’s a shock to the system to wake up in the morning where it’s 73 degrees with green grass and end the day with a foot of snow on the ground. This is tempered by the knowledge that spring, and thus warm weather, are just around the corner…or so you would think.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:07 AM

March 26, 2007

Disney-Bound

Baseball season is upon us once again, so it was time for me to resume my annual trip to Spring Training. Annual, except for the fact that I didn’t go last year.

Flying out of Manchester Airport, I arrived in Orlando to the joy of warm weather, Okay, so it was 45 degrees when I left home but two days earlier it was 5 degrees. That’s New England for you.

Sun. Mar. 11---I printed out the daily games schedule before I left home, but have misplaced it. Fortunately, my trusty memory told me that the Astros were playing in Kissimmee and the Braves at their facility at Disney in Orlando. They’re both close but Braves tickets are always tougher to get and I like the Kissimmee ballpark better, so I head there. As I arrive, I notice that no attendants are collecting parking money and there are few cars. I see a man, clearly a fan, in an Astros T-shirt and cap and ask if there’s a game.

“No. I thought there was” he said with a Southern twang.

“I’ve been having problems with the Internet. I swore there was a game here. There was an intra-squad scrimmage with some of the regulars like Oswalt and Ausmus. Roger Clemens was throwing batting practice to the minor leaguers” he added.

He also told me that Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan was signing autographs but all of the excitement was over now. So, not only is there no game here, but I’ve missed all of that.

I figure that I’ve still got time to get to see the Braves game at Disney, but before I can mention it, he tells me that the Braves aren’t playing at home either. With a full day ahead of me and no other game nearby, I can only come to one conclusion…I’m going to Disney World!

I’d never been and my baseball aficionado friends Jim and Rick haven’t arrived yet, so it seems to be the best time to go.

There are four theme parks at Disney and I opt for the full package for $120, foolishly thinking that since I’ve got all day, I can get to all of them. I’ve heard so much about Epcot that it seems the logical place to start. Besides, I’ve always wanted to know what was inside that giant golf ball.

The first stop at Epcot is Spaceship Earth. Most people recognize the giant golf ball-like structure, which is in fact, a ride through the history of communication by man. Somewhere amongst the hunter-gatherer animatrons, the ride stops briefly, but soon resumes with the story of the development of language and writing, leading to movies, television and the Internet. It’s hard to believe that the caveman drawing on a cave wall eventually led to Viagra email spam and infomercials.

There are plenty of exhibits to see, but with the intention making it to all four parks, I skip any that involve video presentations because after a New England winter, I don’t want to spend 30-45 minutes in a darkened theater when it’s 80 degrees outside.

Feeling a bit hungry or “peckish” as the British say, I opt for cuisine somewhere in the World Pavilion. This is on the other side of a big pond for which you can either wait for a ferry to cross or walk around it.

Several countries are represented and the buildings are fashioned in the architectural style of the country represented. Walking through the Pavilion one can briefly imagine being in a foreign land if only every building in every country in the world just sold souvenirs.

Each land has a restaurant featuring the local cuisine and the employees all wear name tags which tell from what city in their country of origin they’re from. I first approach the French restaurant but before I can inquire about a table am told by the maitre‘d “I’m sorry. We only take reservations.”

I was almost tempted to help the German Pavilion take them over.

Not keen on sauerkraut or raw fish, I settle on the Italian restaurant where I get the best ziti and marinara sauce dinner I’ve ever had. I don’t know that I’d pay $120 plus the meal cost again for it, but it was damn good.

I thought it would be fun to call my sister from an authentic British phone booth, but like in the UK, the Florida ones aren’t air conditioned and the midday sun has made it a British sauna. The handicap-accessible phone is only a slight improvement as the hot Florida sun nearly caused the ear piece to melt the flesh off of my ear. Speaking of the British, the employees in each “country” wear clothing that is supposedly that of the natives. Yet I can’t help but point out to the British man wearing the collarless button up shirt and knickers, that I’ve been to the U.K. and that nobody wears that.

“I know” he says ruefully.

With time a pressing matter, I take the shuttle to the MGM Studio Park. The architecture of the buildings there is that of Hollywood of the 1920’s and 30’s. Old-fashioned restaurants featuring All-American type food (burgers, hot dogs, etc.), particularly 1950’s, seem to be a favorite.

The first stop is a large water tank where a partial PT boat sits among water cannons, flame throwers and pipes that recreate machine gun fire. Due to technical difficulties, nobody gets doused as a volunteer as would normally happen. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing on a hot day.

The Disney-MGM Backlot tour is a popular one which provides a tram ride past a stunt driver’s show where professionals are doing spin-outs in an enclosed track. It then proceeds past costume workshops, set designing workshops and artifacts from several movies, most of which I’ve never seen.

The last stop is a city street scene, mainly representing New York City, if the painted backdrop of the Empire State Building is to be believed. There are no mugging reenactments.

Then I decide to give the famous Tower of Terror a try. Seeing as we are currently fighting a war on terror, it almost seems unpatriotic to be paying money to experience it. A machine out front dispenses “fast pass” cards, allowing holders to get in a line that goes ahead of the other line. An employee out front says that at this time of day, it usually takes longer in the fast pass lane. At first glance, that appears to be true as the fast pass line is backed up quite a ways. Thinking I’ve made the smart move, the day slowly evolves into evening and at a certain point I realize that the fast pass holders are whizzing past me in the other line. I contemplate jumping out of line and getting a fast pass, but that seems like tempting fate. I know that as soon as I do, the other line will move much more quickly. As the line slowly progresses, I get some entertainment from the young brother and sister behind me as they beat the crap out each other. The parents do nothing, leading to believe that they’re either oblivious to it or getting as much enjoyment out of it as I am.

The Tower is built as an old, once grand hotel with cobwebs galore. Groups of about 10-12 get strapped into seats that rise about four floors. Doors open up to the outside and then suddenly, the elevator drops like a cable had been cut. The procedure gets repeated a few times and after a 50 minute wait, the three minute ride is done.

After getting the shuttle back to Epcot to get my car, the day ends as all Florida days end, searching for a motel room. Knowing that I have to pick up Rick in Tampa in the morning, I head that way and decide to stop in Haines City, where I have good memories from covering the Kansas City Royals and Stoneham native Joe Vitiello, once a member of the team. The team has moved their facilities to Arizona and the ballpark has been razed, however.

After getting a cheap room, I walk next door to the Bob Evans restaurant. It’s a little before 10:00 and as I enter I see that they close at 10:00. I ask if they’re still serving and the host says “Yes.” I contemplate leaving hungry rather then get a meal cooked by an unhappy chef who was ready to leave for the night and might contaminate a last-minute dinner with a foreign substance.

Then it’s time for a good night’s sleep. Spring Training starts for me tomorrow.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:33 AM

October 15, 2006

A Bear and His Cub Return to Chicago

Sure, I love New York------but as far as cities go, there’s no place like Chicago.

I had the opportunity to revisit my favorite city this past weekend, but under very special circumstances. I was accompanying my father, Bob Margarita, to the Chicago Bears Homecoming Weekend. They have one every year, and this marks the 60th anniversary on the 1946 team that won the NFL Championship and were marking the occasion with Dad and some of his former teammates.

The best way to get to Chicago, in my opinion, is by flying out of Manchester Airport which is a joy as far as airports go. Security at any airport is always a nightmare, however. With an arthritic 85-year-old, I found it best to use a wheelchair to speed up the trip through the airport. It’s the first time I’ve flown since liquids have been banned from flights and after my bag goes through screening, they pull out some old hotel shampoo bottles and a travel size can of shaving cream. and tell these should've been "declared" before I went through security. They also take issue with my father’s inhalers and tell me that technically, I’m supposed to go through security again and have my bag re-screened and act as though they’re letting me get away with something. Then I’m told to take my sneakers off as well as my father’s. They ask him if he can walk and he indicates that he can with some assistance, so he stands up and they give him a wooden cane and make him walk through the metal detector. In his socks, he navigates through, trying to avoid hitting the sides of the machine and on his second try succeeds, despite my fear that he’ll slip and fall. I know that security must be tight, but an 85-year-old doesn’t seem too much of a threat and I’m pretty angry about this. Yet, I keep quiet because if I gripe, I know that in two hours I’ll be sitting in shackles in Gitmo. After he finishes and gets back in his wheelchair, a Transportation Security Administration (TSA) woman suggests to me that next time he should be wheeled through and just have a “pat-down” which is what I was assuming was going to be done anyway. The most angry but controlled response I can come up with is “It wasn’t my call” in a terse manner.

Arriving in Chicago, we take a cab to the Hilton on S. Michigan Ave. and if there’s one thing all cities in America have in common, it’s the death-defying, James Bond car-chase, cab ride. Ironically, the Hilton is right next to the Essex where I stayed last year to see the Red Sox play the Cubs and is more in my price range then the Hilton would normally be. The Hilton may be one block north of the Essex, but it’s miles north in its level of comfort. A five-star hotel, it is also hosting the American College of Surgeons, whom I’m guessing doesn’t have much of a football team but recovers from their injuries pretty quickly.

Saturday night a dinner was held, preceeded by a reception in a room that featured a beautiful view of Lake Michigan and when it got dark, the lights of the city to our left. Guests began arriving at 6:00 p.m. and many of them are older guys, who were pretty large in their day, but would be small by the game’s current standards. Some of the guys are still pretty big, especially the younger ones. I introduce myself to George Blanda, whom many remember as the aging place-kicker for the Oakland Raiders, unaware that he started out as a quarterback for the Bears. I tell him that as a child, his was the first autograph that I ever got. I told him that I then sent for Detroit Tiger Willie Horton’s but the slugger never returned my bubble gum card signed or unsigned, thus discouraging me from ever sending for another autograph from anyone. That was about the time that Mr. Blanda thought it was a good time to get up and go mingle with other people. Two other members of the ‘46 Bears arrive, Ed Sprinkle and Jim Keane. Along with my father, there are six of them left but three of them were unable to attend. One can almost hear the sounds of bone-on-bone arthritis in the room. As one former player would note the next day, “I used to be able to run the 100 yard-dash in eleven/five (seconds) and now I can’t even walk the distance.”

Dinner followed in a ballroom downstairs. Brian McCaskey of the Bears kept his promise of keeping his speech to a minimum, but a presentation was made to the ‘46 Bears players. All were given a framed photo of the team, accompanied by a posed photo of each player. Kara Smith, an attractive young woman that handles alumni relations, said she would have our photo shipped, which I tell her was a good idea since I couldn’t get a travel-sized can of shaving cream on a plane, much less breakable glass. Then each player was presented with a beautiful dark leather jacket that had the orange Chicago Bears “C” embroidered on the left breast.

After the meal, former players and relatives of players got to mingle, with new friends being made and memories being shared. Sons, daughters, nieces and nephews heard stories of their fathers that perhaps they had not known. There was a tremendous sense of family in a manner that a new team, such as the Carolina Panthers, simply don’t know and couldn’t possibly know for decades.

On Sunday, two buses take all the alums and kin to Soldier Field, which was renovated a few years ago. The old Roman Colosseum-style columns remain on the outside, but inside is a space-age type of facility, making it look like The Jetson’s landed in Ancient Rome. Some of the alumni go onto the field before the game, but it seems too time-consuming and perhaps dangerous to the turf to attempt with Dad's wheelchair, though I had joked to my brother that I would emulate John Henry Williams, the late son of the late Ted Williams who had his dad wear a “hitters.net” cap when he was driven onto the Fenway Park field before the 1999 All-Star Game. I told my brother I would wheel my father out wearing a “danmargarita.com” baseball cap. We are led to a suite that holds about 25 people, with no obstructed views. It’s all encased in glass so nothing is missed at either end of the field. Free food is plentiful and many choices of cuisine are available. The ‘fridge is stocked with juice, soda, beer and wine. Then a dessert cart comes around which I gladly sample. I can understand why Ken Lay and his ilk unscrupulously pursue money. I don’t condone or admire it, but I can understand it. The high life is pretty sweet.

Oh yeah, there was a football game. The undefeated Bears roll over the Buffalo Bills 40-7 which only adds to the sense of fun. After the game we take the bus back to the hotel to wrap up the weekend.

Flying back from Midway Airport, a TSA security woman notes my father’s temporary ID and pulls us aside for an extra security check. My father, Osama bin Margarita seems to have put a scare into the TSA again. We go through a separate security line. While he is being patted down, I am asked to step into a glass booth and hold my hands out. I’m not sure if this is the one that allows people to see you naked, but I suppose if you’ve got it, flaunt it. A puff of air blows on me for about 17 seconds. Whatever it did, it didn’t catch me doing anything, and we proceed to the gate. Still, it’s not enough to spoil our weekend which was a first-class affair thanks to the Bears and the McCaskey family.

Now if I can just get dad’s name off of that terrorist “watch” list.

Posted by dmargarita at 8:44 PM

September 25, 2006

Ground Zero Remembered

Vacation time is for both fun and rest, but when your vacation falls on the fifth anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks and your destination is New York City, it’s also a time for remembrance.

I’ve always enjoyed train travel and that’s my plan to get to New York. I certainly can’t help but be aware of the date, but I don’t need to constantly hear that Amtrak trains are extremely vulnerable to a terrorist attack. Thank you, Anderson Cooper.

Sun. Sept. 10--- The train from the Rt. 128 stop seems like the most convenient to get to, but I would’ve been smart to remember that the Patriots are playing their first game. Despite the traffic, I get there on time and it doesn’t take long for a reminder of the date when two women wearing commemorative 9-11 T-shirts arrive on the platform.

After a pleasant ride down, we arrive at the nightmare that is Penn Station which is the polar opposite of the simple Rt. 128 stop. Emerging from the station, a member of the NYPD stops me to ask if I’ve just taken the train. After telling him that I have, he hands me a pamphlet and tells me to be alert and report anything or anyone suspicious. I ask him if he’s heard of my hotel, the Washington-Jefferson, and he says no, which I figure, if the local law enforcement hasn’t heard of it, is a good thing.

The hotel, named of course after our first President George Washington and Archie Bunker’s former neighbor George Jefferson, is not too far from Times Sq. and is reasonably priced for the area. It’s comfortable and clean, but small. How small? Standing at the foot of the bed, I rest the side of my leg against it and reach out (without leaning or stretching) with my other side hand and touch the opposing wall.

After getting settled I make my way to Times Sq. which always seems alive, any time of day, on any day of the week, and stop at B.B. King’s blues club. Funkmaster George Clinton is playing in the big room but I opt for the small room with the house band. There’s no cover charge, but it costs $7 for an O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer.

Mon. Sept. 11---- Times Sq. is busy with people going to work but the many, massive video screens are running footage of the ceremony going on at Ground Zero. Families of victims read off names of those lost and politicians make speeches but life is still going on here.

With the collapse of the World Trade Center Towers, the Empire State building is once again the highest building in the city, so I decide to make that my first stop. Security is tight and I’m forced to check my Swiss Army knife at security. It’s not a simple elevator ride to the top. One must constantly walk around several corridors and take two elevators to get to the top.

The observatory is open and very windy, at least on this particular day. But there are bars which prevent anyone from falling over or even climbing over if they try. It’s a clear sky so the visibility is 25 in every direction, meaning that you can even see New Jersey. Where’s the pollution when you need it?

The $6 audio guide is very helpful with the building’s history. The narrorator “Tony” tells us that when built in the early ‘30’s, it was done very quickly with sometimes a floor per day going up. Remarkably, only three deaths occurred during construction. Two were workers falling and one involved a worker who decided to look in the elevator shaft to see if the elevator was coming. It was.

Tony also tells us some useless info such as where he grew up and now lives. Unless he’s inviting us to his house for dinner, it seems irrelevant. The one disappointment is not finding any sign of a giant ape crawling up the side of the building.

Walking back through Times Sq. I see a man with a muslim cap and a long straggly beard, wearing a white T-shirt that has hand-written on the back “I Love Saudi Arabia.” The front reads “King of Terror” which doesn’t seem to be ironic. I don’t think I’m given to paranoia and in most circumstances I’d just write the guy off as a nut, but walking around NYC on the fifth anniversary of 9-11, seems foolish at best, dangerous at worst. I remembered what the cop with the pamphlet said, so as soon as I find a “security” officer, a non-armed officer that acts as another set of eyes for the police, I tell her about the guy. She doesn’t seem overly concerned and doesn’t seem to get on her walkie-talkie and do much about it.

Later I continue sightseeing and on 5th Avenue stumble upon The Museum of Sex. The featured exhibit is “The History of Pornographic Film” which is frankly, more informative and humorous than erotic. A clip of one silent film shows that it was so cheaply made, that between the action, instead of the traditional titles that have the dialogue, the actors hold up cards with the dialogue hand-written on them.

After more sightseeing and dinner, I stop at a small pub around the corner from the hotel. It is across the street from a NYFD Fire House, so many of the patrons are firefighters in dress uniform. It has clearly been a long and emotional day for them.

Tue. Sept. 12--- Looking for a Dunkin Donuts in Times Sq. takes some time, but Starbucks’ seem to have multiplied and eliminated the Dunkin Donuts’ like cancer cells killing off the healthy ones. I make my way to Rockefeller Center and take the NBC Studio tour. Known as “30 Rock” the GE building embodies the history of American network TV and it’s black marble lobby with gold trim and elaborate wall and ceiling murals, harkens back to an era when Milton Berle was the King of TV. One can almost feel his presence.

The first stop on the tour is the set of the “NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams” (or somebody else if he’s on vacation). It’s a cliché for sure, but the set is so much smaller than it appears on TV. Our guide Kat explains that the mob of people you see milling about in the background on TV are merely a video projection of people from 1999. For them, the 9-11 attacks haven’t happened yet.

The next stop is a mini mock studio where they demonstrate green screen technology to the tourists. Two “brave volunteers” are needed to pretend to be a news anchor and a weatherperson. Not willing to pass up this challenge to my manhood, I offer to read the news copy and a man named Paul agrees to do the weather. We put on a brief, phony broadcast and the rest of the tourists watch us make fools of ourselves.

Then we head to the studio of “Saturday Night Live” where we sit in the balcony in seats that have been there since the show’s inception in 1975.The yellow chairs are technically on loan from N.Y. Yankee owner George Steinbrenner, who let the show borrow them under the assumption that the show would soon fold, and the seats would be quickly returned. Once again, the set is so much smaller than you would guess from seeing it on TV. So many classic sketches from performers that have produced the bulk of American comedy were done on this tiny area, which features the stage for the opening monologue, a small area to the left for musical guests and a slightly bigger area where most of the comedy sketches are performed.

At the end of the tour some of us are given tickets to be on stand-by for the “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” show. I have to check-in at 3:30, so I can’t wander far. When I check-in, they tell me to come back again at 4:30. I show up and there are dozens of people waiting for a chance to fill in the empty seats that might be available. We’re asked to line up by number, so at 68 my chances of getting in don’t look too good.

After a long wait, they bring in several people, cutting the line at me. The woman running this says that a few more of us might get in, but people at the far end of the line give up and leave. After another 20 minutes, she comes back and says that she can take four people. I’m first in line, but behind me a group of three women who are together and are trying to decide if one of them won’t go or all three will pass. The show will start soon, so they’re being pressed for a decision. Everyone looks at me and I feel a bit guilty as though I should do the chivalrous thing and offer up my spot and let all three of them go, but I’ve been waiting quite a while and I want to see the show, and after listening to them chat for 45 minutes, I don’t really care for them. A last minute decision is made by someone inside to let us all in and the women sit together as I am given an office chair behind the last row, which is pretty comfortable.

I head back to the hotel at about 6:30 and walk in on the maid changing the sheets. It seems a bit late, but you get what you pay for.

Broadway is synonymous with theater and all the shows available, I opt to see Monty Python’s “Spamalot” at the Shubert Theater. Okay, I saw it in Boston but I liked it enough to want to see it again. I ask for the cheapest ticket possible and get a back-balcony seat for $36, which isn’t bad considering front-balcony seats are $76. You get what you pay for when you skimp.

Since I sat behind the last row for Conan, I guess sitting in the last row at the Shubert is an improvement. Except that this is a grand old theater and the last row is a long way away, not to mention that I’m positioned right in front of an air conditioning duct. How the elderly folks ever climbed all those stairs is anybody’s guess.

Wed. Sept. 13--- It’s kind of hokey, but one of the best ways to learn about a city is to take the sightseeing bus tour, which I do. The upper deck is uncovered and provides the best view but you do have to duck for the occasional traffic light.

Getting off at Battery Park (next to Assault Stadium?) I take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. A good portion of this country’s population can trace their roots through Ellis Island where many immigrants first stepped on American soil in hopes of a better life than the one they left behind. They were herded through long lines where they received a six second medical inspection by a doctor. If a possible illness was detected, they were marked and pulled aside for a more in-depth look. If they got past that, they were given a legal exam to make sure no anarchists or communists got through to U.S. soil. Unescorted women and children were kept on the island until a male relative could come and claim them.

The wonderful irony of the boat trip to and from the island is the amount of different languages I hear being spoken. Where once ships took non-English speaking people to the island in search of citizenship, boats now take them as tourists.

Returning to shore, I walk up to Ground Zero. It’s come a long way since my last visit when it was just a massive hole in the ground. Ramps enable construction crews and their vehicles access to the pit, but the viewing site seems further removed and harder to see from than before. Memorials are all over the place. Photos of lost loved ones with messages from their children, spouses and parents are heartbreaking to read. On one side there is a display and timeline of the events. Photos of dust-covered victims, crowds looking up in horror and disbelief and the towers collapsing become too much to look at after a while.

Heading back up Broadway, I stop and have my photo taken with the famous statue of the bull at Wall St. Many others do the same, but instead of the front of the bull, I opt for a more comical photo of me checking the anatomically correct animal for a hernia from behind.

It’s a long way back up town so I jump on the subway, which is where you get to see the real New York City. Three young men jump on the train with a conga drum and a fold-up stool each. It’s obvious what’s coming next and one man introduces them and wishes us well. While some people find their drumming entertaining, three people pull out their ipod’s and plug in their headphones. After they leave a couple of young men get on and admit they’re not selling candy “to start a basketball team” but to put money in their pocket. At least they’re honest about it.

I get off the train at Columbus Circle and several fire trucks are parked nearby. As I walk towards my hotel, several ambulances and fire trucks drive around with their sirens blasting. Yet, the people going about their business seem completely nonplussed. Wondering is something major is going on, I ask a shopkeeper and he seems to think it’s just some sort of drill.

After dinner I head to Greenwich Village to find some live music. I’m not even sure if I was in the right neighborhood, but eventually I found a small club with an 11-piece R&B band playing.

Thur. Sept. 14--- It’s a rainy day, so I get on the downstairs level of the tour bus uptown. Up along Central Park West live many of the rich and famous where a view overlooking the park command millions of dollars. Up into Harlem, past the legendary Apollo Theater, we’re detoured as the street is closed off due to the filming of a Denzel Washington movie. We continue on down Fifth Ave. on the Upper East Side, where many more legends past and present have lived and I decide to get off at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I would’ve gotten off anyway, but can no longer tolerate the bad jokes and puns of the tour guide.

“It’s raining cats and dogs, so be sure you don’t step in a poodle.”

That’s just one example and besides some NYC history, we learn that his mother-in-law is old, fat, loud and obnoxious, at least according to his jokes.

All of the guides mention that tips are welcomed and I’m tempted to give him just one tip---don't go into show business.

The Met is one of the great art museums of the world and is the home of the famous painting “George Washington Crossing the Delaware” which may be historically inaccurate, but still captures the spirit of one of America’s most significant moments. For those of you who have only seen it in a schoolbook, you would be surprised at the sheer immensity of it, standing 12 feet high and 21 feet long.

Back in Times Sq. I’ve learned of a ticket kiosk where you can buy discounted tickets for that evening’s shows. Rather than play to half-empty houses, the theaters sell tickets at 3 p.m. with large discounts. It’s a little chaotic, but the line moves quickly and I buy a ticket to see “Fame Becomes Me” a one-man show starring Martin Short…and five other people. My mezzanine seat is 50% off, but still costs $59.25. The show is Short’s musical-comedy story of his life and career, much of which he admits early on, is completely made up. Getting back to the hotel late, I discover that my bed is still not made.

Fri. Sept. 15--- It’s a rainy day, so a good place for a TV junkie like me is the Museum of TV and Radio. I finally get there after getting different directions and addresses from several people. Admission is $10 and you’re allowed an hour’s viewing, but there are plenty of open consoles so they really let you stay as long as you like.

I ask what the most viewed show is and one employee speculates that it’s “Seinfeld” which seems like kind of a waste. Why pay $10 to see that when the show is on some cable station every night of the week?

Just about any TV show that’s been broadcast and is still on tape, can be seen here. One only need research for a show in a computer and then hand the request to a librarian, who then gives you a slip to give to someone in the viewing room. They set you up and all you have to do is punch in the number of the show you’re looking for. After doing that, I find it’s even more fun to punch in random numbers. I get all sorts of bizarre and/or wonderful things.

An episode of “Dragnet” comes up. Not the campy late ‘60’s show, but the original black & white show with a young Jack Webb and a pre-Perry Mason Raymond Burr as his boss. Then, a bizarre voiceover film about a day in the life of the late actor George Reeves, seems a little creepy with a new movie about his mysterious demise currently in theaters.

It’s still raining when I leave, and New York commuters are prepared with umbrellas, but I am not. I can’t get a cab because those who also weren’t prepared took them all, so I get soaked on the way back to the hotel. It’s not a night for too much walking around, so I find a nice place for dinner and watch some baseball on TV.

Sat. Sept. 16 ---.The rain has passed and along 5th Avenue, there are blocks for a couple of miles with kiosks selling anything and everything. Then I take a train to the Bronx where the Red Sox are playing the Yankees. I know it’s a sellout, but with standings putting the Sox out of contention, I figure I might pick up a ticket. The Stadium area is packed and a ticket can be had for an expensive price or otherwise is a dubious-looking ticket. I could hang around and pick up something no doubt, but I want to see the game and opt for the next best thing, watching it in the bowling alley/bar across the street. I’m not the only Red Sox fan, but I’m the only one not making my presence known. I try not to cheer when the Sox do something positive (it doesn’t happen often these days). Yankees fans howl when the Sox screw up and I feel like a cat in a dog pound.

Later, I make my way up to Little Italy where the Feast of San Gennaro is going on. Mulberry St. is packed with people who make their way past many carnival-style booths with refreshments, food and games. Music is everywhere and one can hear Dean Martin one minute and then reggae music the next. After a great meal, I stop at the Dunk the Clown booth where the wise-ass clown challenges the mob of onlookers to take a stab at putting him in the drink. Foolishly I step forward and he notes my long, unkempt hair.

“This guy looks like ‘Shaggy’ from ‘Scooby Doo.’ Let’s see what ya’ got, Shaggy.”

My three throws miss their target and he stays above the pool of water. As I leave he continues.

“Where ya’ goin’, Shaggy?”

Then they play the theme song to “Scooby Doo” and I move on.

As I make my way to the end of Mulberry St. I look back to see between the old fashioned, one-time tenements, the Empire State building rising, seemingly to be watching over the festivities as some sort of defender of the city.

Sun. Sept. 17--- Time to go home, but getting on an Amtrak train in Penn Station is not as easy as it is on Rt. 128. The track we’re go to is an up escalator to let people arriving into the station. Dozens of us crowd around and the people getting off a train arrive at the top of the escalator and have to fight their way through us to get out. Once they’re done, an Amtrak employee reverses the stairs to go down, and we all push and shove to get to the stairs but it’s slowed as she must check our tickets first.

Back at the RT. 128 stop while I wait for my ride, an older guy keeps walking by and looking at me. It’s obvious he wants to talk to me. Finally, he gets up the courage and approaches me.

“Did you hear the Pope got bird flu?” he asks.

“No”

“He got it from a cardinal” he tells me.

I should’ve asked him if he ever drove a sightseeing bus in New York City.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:57 PM

June 18, 2005

A Massachusetts Sox Fan in Ernie Banks’ Court

Going to Wrigley Field in Chicago is a lot like going to Fenway Park, with just as much drinking, but a little less cursing. It was more like going to Fenway last weekend, when I, like thousands on Bostonians, traveled to Chicago to watch baseball’s two most historically inept teams play each other.

The last time the teams met in meaningful competition, the 1918 World Series, the Sox star player was a lean, left-handed pitcher-outfielder named Ruth. The Babe never actually played at Wrigley though, since the Cubs decided to play their home games at the more spacious Comiskey Park across town. Even in 1918 baseball club owners were intent on raking in every last buck.

For me, the Friday game could only be witnessed from afar, as my plane was delayed and I sat in the Manchester Airport while Sox pitchers were pulverized by Cub hitters, but Saturday was a hot, humid day (remember those?) designed for baseball.

Built in 1914, just two years after Fenway was erected, Wrigley is a double-decked version of our hometown ballpark without all of the garish signage. The only concession to modern commercialism is the rotating advertising sign behind home plate that can be seen from the centerfield TV camera.

Unlike Fenway, there seems to be no shortage legroom at Wrigley for patrons. Sox fans are fond of explaining that their discomfort is due to the fact that fans just weren’t as big in 1912, when Fenway Park was built. If this were true, there must have been some sort of government-induced genetic expansion of Americans between 1912 and 1914 for Wrigley’s opening.

The atmosphere at the ballpark was electric. With the stadium filled to capacity, there were seemingly almost as many Red Sox fans as Cubs fans. The arrival of Beantowners seemed to spark some antagonism from the locals, though as usual it was done with typical Midwestern politeness, not generally seen at Fenway.

One newly-scrawled men’s room graffiti message read “Cubs rule! Sox fans, go home and screw your mother, love, Drew Pesman.”

Sox fans certainly felt at home with the “Here we go Red Sox, here we go” chant, which drew boos from Cubs fans in response.

Unlike any modern ballpark, Wrigley has no giant video screen to watch replays, but the posts supporting the upper deck all have video monitors, and have since my first visit there in 1985. This was long before the Red Sox did the same thing.

One unfortunate throw-back to pre-World War I though, is the “trough” style men’s room, making peeing a communal experience. Even Fenway hasn’t had that in about 20 years.

Chicago is a pretty good drinking town, and the authorities seem to feel that Cubs fans are responsible enough that beer may be sold right from the can in the stands, notwithstanding the fan who stole a Dodger’s pitcher’s cap, causing a brawl with fans and players in 2000.

The Sox lost the game, but that didn’t stop hundreds of Boston fans from doing what Cubs fans do when their team loses, and what Sox fans do regardless of outcome---drink. Nestled in a neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side, the area is filled with bars and taverns and the neighborhood buzzes before and after games.

There are plenty of entertainment options in Chicago, which on this particular weekend is hosting the Chicago Blues Festival, which seems appropriate for any city containing the Cubs and their tortured history.

Having had my blues fix the night before at Buddy Guy’s Legends club, I headed to the ESPN Zone after the game. Sure, it’s an expensive tourist trap, but is has a multitude of TV’s to watch games from all over the country.

My next experience wasn’t something you’d find in any tourist guide book. Upon leaving the ESPN Zone, I approached Michigan Ave and saw several bicyclists peddling by. People were whooping cheering and taking photos of them. As I got closer I realized why. Many of the cyclists were scantily clad while the majority of them were completely unclad, except for helmets, which is ironic in that they would find that the most important part of the body to protect. Suddenly, I felt like I was in a bizarre version of the movie The Sixth Sense.

“I see nude people.”

Yup, naked people riding bikes down Michigan Ave (hopefully, on non-rented bikes). I later found out that the day was “World Naked Bike Ride Day” which was celebrated in several cities around the globe. The point was to protest cars, oil companies and quite possibly, clothing.

The Sunday game was at night for broadcast on ESPN. While the late starting time whittled away some Bostonians who had to be back for work on Monday, a surprising number stayed to cheer on their Beantown boys.

With their team holding a lead late in the game, some well-lubricated Sox fans began the “Yankees Suck” chant. As moronic as it is at Fenway, this mantra made less sense at a game in Chicago with the Yankees nowhere in sight.

The Sox were able to finally win a game against the Cubs before returning home and briefly brought that hot, summer weather with them.

Perhaps we should just think of our cold summer as “World Series” weather.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:37 PM

March 23, 2005

Hits, Mists and Errors

Like everybody else in New England, I had just about enough of snow and winter weather, so I decided to go someplace sunny and warm. Instead, I wound up in Florida.

Anybody who saw a newspaper or a TV a few months back may recall that Florida was devastated by a number of hurricanes. While it may no longer be hurricane season, Florida weather hasn't exactly been tropical lately. Still, rain is better than snow and as my sister Jean reminded me, you don?t have to shovel it.

Regular readers of this space know that every year I spend a week in March in the Sunshine State (This is where I add a sarcastic smirk) with my baseball-loving friends, Jim and Rick, psyching ourselves up for another summer of hardball.

Mon.--- I took my flight from Manchester Airport (Shhhh. Don't tell anyone, but it's WAY better than Logan!) to Philadelphia where I waited for my flight to Orlando. And waited. And waited some more.

My plane is late arriving and thus late departing and naturally, late arriving in Orlando. Rick meets me at the airport and we head to our first destination (Well, mine since Rick got there earlier but attended a game that wound up being rained out) Tampa, where the New York Yankees are scheduled to take on the Pittsburgh Pirates. Alas, we hit a tremendous stretch of traffic and when we finally get to the Yankee's Legend's Field, people are streaming out and the sound of Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York" can be heard over the loudspeakers. As always, this means the game is over and the Yankees have won. Still, the sight of green grass and even a grounds crew working on an infield is a delight to someone who has just left a foot of snow.

After some souvenir store browsing (for Yankee fan friends, of course), we grab a bite to eat at the Tampa Ale House, a Florida chain that has become a spring training trip must. Our belly's full, we look for lodging, which in usually plentiful in such a touristy area. At 12:30 a.m. though, options are more limited, especially at reasonable prices. Assuming that the further we go from the heart of town we'll find better rates, we stop at a Howard Johnson's and settle for a room, though it?s more than we had hoped or expected to pay. Especially for one located next to "Severino's Bail Bonds."

Tue.--- Off to Lakeland to see the Tigers play the Blue Jays. By the time we get there, the only seats left are down the right field line. Not great seats and it's overcast and cool, but 56 degrees is STILL better that what it is in Boston.

The night game we choose is in Kissimmee where the Houston Astros play. It's pronounced "Ki-SIM-ee," but most northerners like to pronounce it "KISS-i-MEE" so that the team can be referred to as the "KISS-i-MEE Astros."

It's a great little ballpark and the top 5 or 6 rows are covered, which is a plus since it begins to rain and most people watch from under cover.

Wed. --- The day game we're shooting for is the Dodgers-Orioles game at my favorite venue, Dodgertown in Vero Beach. Since 1948 the Dodgers have trained here, the longest association of any major league team. The team has played at tiny Holman Stadium since 1953 and it's everything that spring training once was and should be.

The only problem with Vero Beach is that's it's on the East Coast, a bit of a drive from most other facilities. If you don't mind the drive, getting to Dodgertown is a pleasant ride, past orange groves, through small towns. That's not what most people experience when making the trip to Disney World. Those that only know the Orlando area might think that Florida is just a warmer version of Route 1.

The stands at Holman Stadium are 17 rows high and with capacity at about 6,500 (though it seems smaller), there's not a bad seat in the place. In a nod to a by-gone era, the dugouts are open-air and it feels like you're watching a local high school game.

Many of the game's legend performed here. It's where Jackie Robinson trained, Duke Snyder trained and Tommy Lasorda ate.

There are signs of a modern spring training mentality beginning to creep in even here, though. The path to the team's old clubhouse, which left players and coaches to pass through fans to get to, now has a dividing rope to separate the two from mingling. A new facility has been built behind right-field that keeps the players away from the fans as well.

We?ve managed to get great seats, a few rows from the field just past the first base dugout and it's the first sunny day we've had. I know I should put on sun screen, but I've waited too damn long for warm enough weather to get a sunburn.

Speaking of Orlando, that's where we're headed for the night game. The Braves play in a fairly new facility, Cracker Jack Stadium (I'm not kidding), located at Disney World, and if Dodgertown is everything that spring training once was, the Braves facility is everything that spring training has become.

It is a large, double-decked stadium that seats about 10,000 people and you can find yourself sitting quite a ways from the field.

We get there just in time for the 7:00 game, but heavy rain has delayed the start of the game. One good thing about the facility is that it does provide plenty of cover from rain and has a wide variety of food choices. However, like all things Disney, you pay extensively for just about everything. Plenty of fans avail themselves of ponchos from the souvenir store. Some are clear and some are yellow all have Mickey Mouse on the back.

The rain stops at 8:00 and the tarp is removed from the field by the grounds crew who proceed to work on the diamond. At 8:30 the game starts. At 8:35, so does the rain once again. It comes down pretty hard, but the players and fans brave through it (sorry for the pun).

When in Orlando, do as the Orlandoans do...eat at the Orlando Ale House, and so we do.

Thurs.--- Jim arrives on the red-eye from L.A. and we head to Dunedin, home of the Toronto Blue Jays who will face the Cleveland Indians. As we arrive, people are streaming from the ballpark. We ask one of them why, though we have a pretty good idea. Though it is not raining hard, the game has been cancelled. The nearest option is Clearwater to watch the Phillies-Devil Rays game. We arrive late there, but manage to get good seats right behind home plate. It's drizzling, but not that much and we pay about $20 for tickets that would cost $85 at Fenway.

The only nearby night game is in Tampa, but as we arrive we see that the stadium lights are off and the electronic board outside says that the game has been rained-out. The next stop is once again the Tampa Ale house. It's St. Patrick's Day and the place is loaded and so are many of the patrons, dressed in green.

A fairly intoxicated young man approaches me and comments on my Red Sox sweat shirt (which I had planned to remove before going into the Yankees ballpark). He's from the Boston area, or his mother is, it was a little tough to tell. He also mentions that he doesn't know who his family is in one breath and then says that his grandfather is in the Witness Protection Program.

Somehow it comes up that he spent six months in Qatar in the military, spending twelve hours at a stretch crouched behind a machine gun. The only action he saw was when he was mistakenly shot at by a colleague.

I begin to tell him that I'm happy that he was out of harm's way, but he explains that he was disappointed that he wasn?'t "where the action was" and is eager to start his tour of duty soon in Iraq.

Over and over he says that "Muslims are the best (expletive) people anywhere. If they offer you something, you have to take it or they'll be offended."

He makes the distinction clear. Muslims are good people, but he wants to go to Iraq to kill insurgents. While his tolerance of another culture is admirable, somehow his bloodlust is a little disconcerting. Anyway, the last thing I want to do is argue politics with a 21-year-old drunk kid whose expressed desire is to kill people.

The motel situation seems settled as a call to an 800 number assures us that a room with a rollaway bed for the three of us at a Howard Johnson's. We arrive at the HoJo's just as karaoke night is ending and some of the cast of "Hee Haw" is roaming the parking lot with open beer bottles

The night clerks tells us that despite what we were assured, they have no rollaway beds which means one of us has to sleep on the floor. Jim has had little sleep from his red-eye flight, it?s Rick?s birthday as of midnight so I volunteer to take the floor, although Rick has offered.

To be continued.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:57 PM

December 6, 2004

Fun in the Sun in L.A., Pt. II

Tue. (cont'd.)--- From the Kodak Theatre it's just one stop on the subway to Universal Studios. Yes, Virginia, L.A. has a subway.

It's only four years old and as a result, is very clean. Tickets are bought from a vending machine and to my surprise, there are no booths or ticket takers. I could've just walked on without paying. I find out later that they do have someone come around periodically and check for tickets and if you've not paid you can be fined $300. My $3 all-day pass was worth it.

The subway stops across form the driveway of Universal where a shuttle picks you up and takes you to the studio. The studio tour starts on a hill that provides a breathtaking view of the mountains with what appears to be a small city in the valley below. That city however, is all part of Universal.

The ride takes you through movie sets that serve as Ancient Rome, the old west and Mexico as well as Amity Island, the setting for the movie "Jaws." They show you the magic of film with special effects such as a subway cave in (a pleasant thought for the subway ride back) and a flood that comes right up to the shuttle.

After the tour I browse some of the park's other attractions such as The Animal Planet's live show which features several trained animals, including that stalwart of animal humor, the chimpanzee in a diaper.

One regular show is ?Water World? based on Kevin Costner's multi-million dollar flop movie of the same name. The show involves pyrotechnics and stunts by several actors, one of whom might have been Kevin Costner attempting to resurrect his career after "Water World."

Many of the stores are small town America-type buildings, giving the place a movie set feel. While such Universal classics such as "Frankenstein" are given lip service, the focus is on more recent films such as the "Van Helsing: Fortress Dracula" which essentially involves walking through a dark hallway with the occasional person jumping out at you. I've seen children put on scarier haunted houses in their basement.

Wed.--- I head for the train depot at Glendale Station, a nice old building. Unfortunately, there's no ticket window and you must purchase your ticket from a vending machine. I put in a $20 bill and for a $5.75 all-day pass and wind up with $14 change in Sacagawea silver dollars.

I take the train to downtown L.A.'s beautiful Union Station, built at a time when train stations were the O'Hare Airport's of their day. From there I hop on a bus to a bustling section of L.A. where the sidewalks are jammed with shoppers patronizing the small stores whose signs are in Spanish as much, if not more than in English.

I get off to change busses and as I walk through the crowd I hear someone say "Hey, pal." I look to see a scruffy looking guy making his way through the crowd to me.

"I got a couple of things of weed, if you want 'em."

Just what it was about me that made him seek me out of a large crowd of people as a potential pot buyer is beyond me. I decline and hop on a bus that takes a pretty long drive down Wiltshire Blvd through some very depressed areas. The change in social status and property values when you enter Beverly Hills is dramatic.

It's lunch time and the beautiful people sit in outdoor cafes and perhaps broker TV and movies deals when they're not chatting on their cell phones.

My destination is The Museum of Television and Radio. Admission is free (my favorite price) and you can access their archives of TV and radio shows for two hours, although it's not crowded and they're letting people take as long as they want.

My first choice is the top choice of most visitors, The Beatles first appearance on "The Ed Sullivan Show." The black-and-white commercials are as entertaining as the show, which has the cast of the Broadway musical "Oliver," featuring future Monkee Davey Jones, doing a number. I also select their oldest radio show, a 1920 speech by Franklin D. Roosevelt which although scratchy, is in remarkably good condition.

The walls are adorned by several caricatures from the late, great Al Hirschfeld, America's preeminent caricaturist.

The museum also has two theaters, one of which is currently running a retrospective of the work of comedian Lenny Bruce. There are no narratives, just clips of Bruce's TV appearances from 1949 when he did standard impressions, through the '50's when he became a brilliant social commentator to 1964 when he was a drug-dependant mess.

Thu.--- At Glendale Station, the train is delayed, and though it's a beautiful ride along the coast, by the time I get to San Diego I'm left with little time to do more than browse the waterfront near the depot.

Seaport Village features several small stores by the water, somewhat reminiscent of Rockport. A nice art gallery is there and as I browse some magnificent figure sculptures encased in glass, a woman tries to hard-sell me.

"We ship to Boston" she declares, adding that they have a new payment plan where I wouldn?t have to make my first payment until February. I tell her I have no more room for artwork which is easier than saying that I'm no likely to have $10,000 to spend on art in February than I am now.

Sunset on the water is better than sunrise over the water for the simple reason that you don't have to wake up for it (unless you're Keith Richard), and is the biggest difference between the two coasts. The only downside is that with the darkness, there's little to see on the ride back to L.A.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:17 PM

November 29, 2004

Fun in the Sun in L.A

There's nothing like the change of seasons in New England. Snow falling; slipping and sliding. That's why I had to get away.

Off to sunny California, I left five inches of snow and arrived at LAX about 10:00 p.m. Despite the hour, there's traffic galore and if you think driving into Logan is bad, try LAX where traffic converges from three directions. There is the constant honking of horns, mostly by cab drivers who don't have time to wait.

Mon. --- The morning after leaving five inches of snow I find myself sitting outside in a T-shirt drinking coffee at 7:45 a.m. and wondering "What the hell am I doing living in New England?"

My first stop is Disneyland, "The Happiest Place on Earth." For $70 I ought to leave here damn ecstatic. There are essentially two parks, Disneyland Park and California Adventure. It's $50 for one park, $70 for two.

I start with Adventure Park and head to the animation center, where I see a show with a Disney Artist explaining the process of animation with the help of a pre-programmed video of a Disney character voiced by Eddie Murphy. It's billed as a "comedy" show. I've seen comedy shows and this wasn't one of them. There is however, an interesting film bio on Walt Disney.

After that it's the Muppet 3D show. I've never seen anything in 3D except for old Three Stooges shorts from the '50's where a bad guy throws a knife at Shemp and you see the knife wobbling towards the camera, but without the proper equipment it's useless.

Walt Disney was a big fan of Abraham Lincoln, so it's a pleasant show in what is supposed to be a replica of Matthew Brady's photography studio where an automatronic Lincoln rises from a chair and gives a stirring rendition of the Gettysburg Address. The show ends when and automatronic John Wilkes Booth shoots him (kidding).

Then a visit to the Star Wars virtual reality tour. You get strapped in seats of a supposed space ship that aren't as comfortable as Mathew Brady's 1865 studio, and are driven by a robot who sounds suspiciously like Pee Wee Herman. The virtual turbulence seems pretty tame after having experienced real turbulence on my flight into L.A.

Another 3D experience was an entertaining one based on the movie "Honey I Shrunk the Kids."

Later dinner at the Tam O' Shanter, which was built in 1922. Designed inside and out in the style of a medieval Scottish manner, it was a frequent lunch spot for Walt Disney and his staff as well as John Wayne, Mary Pickford and Rudolph Valentino. The waitresses are dressed in Scottish garb, and except for the fact that the bartender's name is Orlando, you'd swear you were in Scotland.

Mon. --- Today I'm off to the legendary street corner Hollywood and Vine. There are a couple of theaters there including The Pantages, on the corner, which are clearly well past their glory days. The Pantages once broadcast the Academy Awards but now features Cathy Rigby as Peter Pan.

This is where the Walk of Fame begins. The sidewalk has star after star of Hollywood legends, many of whom I've never heard of. A funny thing about L.A., it doesn't matter if all four lights at an intersection are red or if there's no traffic whatsoever, people stop and wait for the "walk" signal before crossing the street. These people would be road kill on Comm. Ave.

As you make your way up Hollywood Blvd. you see the influence of Scientology on Hollywood. There's a couple of stores they have plus members offering a free stress test. Just for fun I decide to mess with one of them.

The stress test involves holding two rods connected to a meter. Then they ask you to think of someone stressful and when you do, the meter jumps. I purposely think of the least stressful person I can think of, Santa Claus. Of course no matter who you think of, the meter will jump. When he asks why I find Santa stressful (I really don't), I tell him I imagine him stuck in a chimney. Eventually I turn the tables on him and pepper him with questions. I ask him what he thinks is the origin of life. He keeps trying to refer me to the L.Ron Hubbard book "Dianetics," their Bible if you will, but I insist on getting him to answer. Eventually he admits that he realizes that he's lived several lifetimes on different planets for tens of thousands of years. It could happen.

Next stop is the "Ripley's Believe it or Not!" museum. The usual stories of human oddities, the best part are the optical illusions.

I then make my way to Grauman's Chinese Theatre where many Hollywood legends have their hands and footprints enshrined in cement. Who knew John Wayne's feet were so small?

They are setting up for that evening?s premier of the film "Alexander" so not all the prints are accessible. Famous movie characters roam the streets such as Superman, Snow White and Supergirl. Suddenly I realize that there are two Spidermen. I ask why and one explains "I'm comic book, he's movie." I feign mock surprise and ask who is the real one to which he replies, "We're two actors who need the work. Would you be doing this if you were making $20 million a movie?"

I slink away.

Then I spot "The Erotic Museum." I've been to the MFA, the Chicago Art Institute and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg Russia. What's one more museum?

Then I head across the street to have lunch at the Pig 'N Whistle (making sure to wash my hands thoroughly after "The Erotic Museum") which opened in 1927 and was often the eatery for movie stars of yesteryear.

(To be continued)

Posted by dmargarita at 12:09 PM

April 5, 2004

Cooling Fans

You may or may not know that the word "fan" is derived from the word "fanatic." Regular readers of this space are aware that I'm a baseball "fan" who could be described as a "fanatic." Rest assured that my use of the word "fanatic" here reflects my passion for the game and not the word's connotation of someone who is a danger to himself or society. Thus being a fanatic, I found myself driving to Baltimore on Sunday to watch the Red Sox begin their 2004 season.

My fellow baseball enthusiast Rick and I had estimated the drive to be 6.5 to 7 hours long. We had grand ideas of leaving Stoneham around 10:00-10:30 and spending time in Baltimore checking out the Inner Harbor and The Babe Ruth Birthplace and Museum. I'd also planned on writing a novel by now. Planning and execution are two different things.

Circumstances kept us from leaving Stoneham until noon, our first stop being a trip to Dunkin' Donuts. We decided the best route was to take the Mass Pike to Route 84, which has been recommended by frequent travelers to N.Y. as the quickest route. However, men being men, neither of us thought to bring a road map. "We'll figure it out as we go" we reasoned. Thus we got a little lost on our "shortcut" which cost us some time.

You can't drive seven hours without a break, so we stopped in Brewster, N.Y. for a quick lunch at a place called "Norm's." Unfortunately, our waiter moved with less speed than George Wendt and our quick lunch turned out to take about thirty minutes.

It's a pretty straight shot down I-95 to Baltimore. You get to enjoy the celebrity rest stops on 95 and the New Jersey Turnpike. You pass the Vince Lombardi Service Area, where you aren't allowed any water, the Walt Whitman Service Area, where you stop to read poetry and the Thomas Edison Service Area, which ironically, runs on coal.

Cruising along pretty good, we hit a toll that's backed up a couple of miles and takes about thirty minutes to get through. We realize that our hopes of getting there early have long since faded.

As we approach Baltimore, the pre-game introductions are announced on the radio. We've convinced ourselves that because it's an ESPN game, the first pitch won't be 'till 8:15-8:20, but the game starts as promised at 8:07 and we're still driving there.

There's one final parking spot at a lot next to Baltimore's football stadium, at least when the security guards move their car there's a spot, and as I get out of the car, a gust of bitter wind proves a good reminder to put on the extra pair of socks, boots, hooded sweatshirt, jacket, winter gloves and stocking cap that I brought. I realize that I'm more warmly dressed than I was the last time I shoveled my driveway.

Boston weather forecasters predict that the game time starting temperature will be 39 degrees and the game ending temperature will be 35 degrees. That feels like wishful thinking.

On my way to Camden Yards I genuflect to the statue of the late, great John Unitas out in front of the football stadium.

As we rush to get to the stadium we hear the hometown fans cheer and then hear the announcement that Javy Lopez has just hit his first home run as a Baltimore Oriole. Going through the gates, I see Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez get slapped around for a couple more runs on the TV's at the concession stands.

Camden Yards is a fairly new ballpark that is designed in the style of the old ballparks but with all the modern amenities. The concourse under the stands is pretty wide, but on this evening amounts to a wind tunnel that NASA engineers would envy. Oddly enough, the concourse between the box seats and the grandstand seats is even more narrow than the one at Fenway Park.

In a nod to old-tyme baseball, the bleachers in right field are green wooden benches, bringing a touch of Rec Park to Baltimore.

Perhaps the best known feature is the brick warehouse beyond the right field bleachers. The first floor contains restaurants, pubs and a souvenir store. A pretty neat place to be---unless you've paid $40 to watch a ballgame.

Our seats are box seats down the third base line and seem a bit crowded, but that's probably because we're all wearing three layers of clothes.

The Sox get a run to close the gap to 3-1 as Pedro Martinez settles down, but he later gives way to Mike Timlin (six months too late) who let's the Orioles blow the game open and the Sox lose 7-2.

The next day Rick drops me off at Penn Station. Unlike it's modern counterpart in New York, this is a small, simple and classically styled old train station, whereas N.Y.'s Penn Station is big, ugly and confusing.

While reading my paper I look up and make eye contact with a tall, well-dressed balding man that I immediately recognize as Baltimore Oriole great Cal Ripken Jr., who is traveling with his younger, shorter, but equally well-dressed brother Bill and couple of others.

Ripken is a baseball God in Baltimore, but other than one woman who runs up and takes his picture, nobody bothers him.

The train ride home is long, but relaxing and allows me to catch up on some reading. Meanwhile Rick has continued driving on to Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates open their season.

And you thought I was a "fanatic."

Posted by dmargarita at 2:41 PM

March 15, 2004

Spring Training Daze

Once again as we stand on the precipice of spring, I have found my way to Florida to watch the boys of summer go through their spring training rituals during what is officially still winter. Here are some notes from my trip:

Mar. 7---I fly into Orlando by way of New York. The captain introduces himself and his crew for reasons I cannot fathom.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. This is your captain, Frank Doherty. I want to welcome you aboard American Airlines flight 1640. I'll be joined by my Co-pilot Tom Langton and Navigator Evan Wainright."

I'm tempted to stand up and yell "Oh my God! Not Wainright! You mean they let him fly again?!"

I don't care if Ronald McDonald is flying the plane, if he can land it safely.

I get to the airport and there's some confusion about getting a ride. Namely, where and when. You know, small details like that. I'm ready for some dinner but the only real restaurant is a Chilli's Too. The staff is working hard there, which I gather from not only their fast-paced strolls, but the fact that the place reeks of perspiration. I try to hold my breath through dinner.

Mar. 8---We get up a little late, so there's no time for breakfast. It's a long drive to Ft. Myers to see the Red Sox. We get there in the second inning and the Sox are losing to the Twins 1-0. To add further insult to injury, former Red Sox Jose Offerman blasts a home run over the right field fence. To think, the Red Sox signed him to replace Mo Vaughn's on-base percentage.

Our seats are down the left field line, in the shade which makes it a little cool. Nevertheless, a big cheer arises when they announce that the temperature in Ft. Myers is 75 degrees while in Boston it's 30 degrees and snowing. This makes me feel better since it had been mild the week before I left, when I had been hoping for 5 degree weather to rub into the faces of friends and family.

Thanks to a late inning Twins pitching implosion, the Sox come back to win. There is no night game, so we head for dinner at Nino's, an Italian restaurant of which Sox broadcaster Jerry Remy has often spoken fondly of on telecasts.

Mar. 9---We do get up in time for a delicious Bob Evans breakfast...which causes us to be late for the Pirates game in Bradenton.

We have three extra seats to unload. The first guy I approach is very suspicious. He looks at the tickets and asks why they don't have the Pirates logo on them. I try to explain to him that it's because they came through Ticketmaster, but his suspicion gets the best of him and he passes. The next three guys I meet buy the tickets, which are pretty good seats...not nearly as good as ours, though. We sit a few rows behind the backstop, literally right next to the Pirates coaches who sit on chairs outside of the dugout.

Bill McKechnie Field is an old stadium that has been remodeled but has maintained that old-time stadium feel. The concession workers are retirees, who are very pleasant and are sure to let you know that tips are donated to help crippled children. God, that's nauseating. After years of dealing with surly, uncooperative concession workers at Fenway Park, this politeness is a shock to my system.

Then it's back down to Ft. Myers. A nine-piece choir sings the national anthem. Remarkably, they all manage to be off-key, but in harmony.

Our seats are down the right field line, near the field and like seats similarly located at Fenway Park, you have to crane your head to your left to see the action. Unfortunately, someone further down the row to my left has chosen to lean forward which means that the person next to them has to lean forward to see and the person next to them has to lean forward to see, etc., etc.

There is an open seat to my right, though. I assume I have some extra cushion, so when a foul ball bounces off of the warning track and into the stands over my head, I lunge for the ball. Unfortunately, I don't have as much room as I thought and I sort of land on an older guy to my right.

Mar. 10---We have to get up early for a three hour drive across the state, so there's no time for breakfast. A Dunkin Donuts coffee and donut will have to suffice.

The middle of Florida is quite unlike what most people see of the state. Instead of the Route 1-like strips of highway with gas stations and strip malls that most Disney travelers are familiar with, you pass orange groves and cattle grazing peacefully. On the horizon a few fires burn in the distance. They could be from the occasional brush fires, since the state gets little rain, or they could be intentional fires to clear away brush. You can tell when you're getting near civilization because the radio stations go from religious shows and country music to rock.

Though we have bleacher seats we upgrade to grandstand seats from a guy out front. I look at the tickets which say "complimentary" and when he asks how much I want to pay, I'm tempted to say nothing, since he obviously didn't pay for them. Instead I buy them for $20 which is about what they'd cost.

It's the Red Sox vs. the Cardinals, but the Sox have only brought a couple of regulars for the long trip and early noon time game. It's windy and chilly, but you can feel the sun beating down on you're neck

After the game, while milling about in the souvenir store, I notice a man flipping through clothes on the rack next to me and realize it's St. Patrick's own Father Schmidt. An avid baseball fan, he too has followed his home town team across the state.

For the night game we head to Kissimmee in what proves to be the chilliest night yet. The longest concession line all night is not the beer or food line, but the espresso/cappuccino line.

It was always one of my favorite ballparks because you could usually walk right up and get good seats from the ticket window before the game. They've since refurbished the ballpark, removing the metal bench grandstands and replacing them with comfortable seats with cup holders. They'e also signed Roger Clemens and Andy Pettite, meaning that all factors considered make tickets a little harder to get.

Mar. 11---Reds vs. the Blue Jays at Dunedin. Great seats on the third base side in the sun. A good day to get some color, but I'e loaded up on sun block. Not much color, but it means I won't agonize in the shower tomorrow.

For the night game we head to Tampa to see the Yankees take on the Tigers, who were the worst team in baseball last season. Still, when it involves the Yankees you've got to try to get tickets ahead of time. We have three, but we manage to scrounge a fourth.

Mar. 12---I' just about to get into the shower when I hear a knock on my motel room door. I ask "Who is it?" and get a response of "I need to talk to you" from a woman on the other side of the door. Clad in a towel, I open the door and the woman says her name is Delores. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to let you know that you're staying in a toxic room." She goes on to explain that the mold spots on the wall are more than just an aesthetic nuisance.

"We stayed in here last night my son got really sick because of the mold. I'm a nurse and I had to use his nebulizer all night so that he could breathe. They shouldn't be renting this room out. You need to get out of here right NOW!"

Well, I'm not about leave without my shower, but I manage to switch rooms without having to resort to the threats I was prepared to make if they give me a hard time.

A new experience for all of us in the Phillies new ballpark in Clearwater. It's the first beautiful day, the kind I'd expected in Florida. The ballpark set up is a great situation with all possible conveniences for fans. There's a "moonwalk" bouncing thing for the little kids. In left field, a thatched roof, full-fledged bar. There's a grassy hill that goes around the outfield for people to spread out blankets to relax on. You can stand behind left field and watch minor leaguers practice on adjacent fields. After the game, a live band plays music by the bar for two hours.

The only downside is that they follow the unfortunate trend of a constant noise barrage during the game. Every time a foul ball is hit out of play, the sound of glass breaking, a "boing" or some other wacky sound effect is blasted through the stadium. It's like reading a script from the "Batman" TV show. Between innings, when someone's not ready to pitch or hit, some music HAS to played.

There is only one Friday night game. It involves the Astros in Yankees in Tampa. As previously mentioned, the Yankees are always a tough ticket, but with the Astros signing Pettite and Clemens and it being a Friday night game, the only night game at that, this has long been sold out. We thought we had tickets coming in the mail before the trip, but one of our party was stiffed for $100.

We get there early, about 5:30 for a 7:00 game. There's already a long line at the ticket window for the late released tickets, and someone from the Yankees announces that there'll only be 70 tickets available. A quick glance at the line in front of us tells us that there are more than 70 people ahead of us. Sure enough, they sell out long before our place in line. The ticket scramble is on.

When I first began the sojourns down south, one could almost always walk up and get tickets at the window. On rare occasions when a game was sold out, you could usually find someone looking to get rid of extra tickets. Now professional scalpers roam the grounds and ask outrageous prices.

One guy offers me a $20 box seat for $50. I'm not willing to pay a lot more over cost for a meaningless exhibition game. Two scalpers get into a fight in the parking lot when they approach someone looking to get rid of extra tickets. Our patience pays off as we all manage to find folks with an extra ticket around face value.

As a result we are all sitting apart, and being a Red Sox fan in a Yankee crowd, I feel like Winston Churchill at a Hitler Nuremberg rally.

Mar. 13---My last game finds me at Dunedin to watch the Sox play the Blue Jays. Again, the Sox brought few regulars. We have good seats behind home plate which turn out to be just below Sox broadcasters Jerry Remy and Sean McDonough, who sign autographs after the game for some of the many Sox fans in attendance.

After the game ends, I sit and enjoy the sunshine and warmth and realize that it will be months before I get to sit at a ballpark in a T-shirt again.

Mar. 14---The flight home is bumpy but not as depressing as realizing that I started the day in a short sleeve shirt and am ending it bundled up in a sweatshirt and jacket.

Back to reality.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:28 PM

July 14, 2003

Summer in the City

It was America’s birthday and I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate than to travel to the Big Apple to watch a classic confrontation between the Red Sox and the Yankees in their annual tug of war in a contest of the national pastime.

Unable to get away until Saturday afternoon, I hopped aboard an Amtrak train at South Station, as usual with five minutes to spare. It wouldn’t have been that close but for the gentleman at the ticket window trying to determine all of his options for buying a ticket for some destination.

Getting off at Penn. Station, I make my way to the Sheraton on 7th Avenue. There the man at the reservation desk tells me that I want the Sheraton Towers across the street. My friends, already down for the first two games of the series, have left a room key for me. After checking in I walk to Times Square.

Looking for a place to eat, I wade through the mass of humanity on this hot, humid holiday weekend. The bright lights of the neon signs and giant TV screens illuminate the square to the point of almost being daylight.

The streets seem to have almost as many vendors and sidewalk artists as tourists. I find a nice little Italian restaurant off Broadway. When one thinks of American theater, “Broadway” immediately comes to mind. The second thing that comes to mind is probably “off-Broadway, ” which not only indicates a location but a style of theater, usually avant-garde. As I walk to the restaurant I see an example of this when I notice “The Urine Theater.”

After a nice meal, I head back to hotel and meet up with my friends who’ve just a seen a version of Eugene O’Neil’s “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” and from there we find a small pub and chat the night away.

On Sunday we have breakfast at Maxie’s in which the pleasure of my open window seat is negated by the fact that I’m crammed into a corner. At one point I drop my napkin, but it stays on the floor since can‘t even move to pick it up. Then we head to Yankee Stadium where the Sox have taken the first two games from the Yankees. I’m excited about the idea of a possible sweep of the Yankees. Naturally, the Sox lose 7-1.

After the game it seems like a good idea to let the subway crowd thin out by stopping for a drink at a bar next to the stadium, beneath the train tracks. On this hot day, the air conditioning in another draw. We might have stayed longer if it didn’t cost $6.25 for a small draught beer.

Back to the hotel to freshen up, than on to the ESPN Zone for dinner. Things are expensive there, but they’re expensive everywhere in N.Y. City. It might be “the city that never sleeps,” but apparently the employees of the ESPN Zone do sleep, as the plug is pulled out of our video golf game in order to toss us out so they can close the place. No matter, there are plenty of other places to close out the evening.

On Monday I head to Leo Lindy’s, next to the hotel for breakfast. This is a legendary New York eatery as evidenced by the celebrity photos on the wall. There numerous quotations and celebrity favorite meals listed on the menu. Apparently Harpo Marx enjoyed cooked asparagus with a scoop of ice cream on top.

The next destiny is a return trip to Yankee Stadium for the final game between the Sox and Yanks. After some confusion about which train to take, we arrive to watch a painful Sox 2-1 loss to the Bronx Bombers in the bottom of the ninth.

New York is known for it’s great restaurants so we decide to check out Rosie O’Grady’s which is right across from the hotel. It’s on the expensive side (even by New York standards), but we figure what the heck, we’re on vacation. It turns out to be worth every penny.

Today we’ve decided to make it a doubleheader and take the subway to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets take on the Atlanta Braves. My only previous experience at Shea Stadium was game in 1987 in which our seats were in the last row of the upper deck. If you’re not familiar with Shea, let me explain that it is right next to LaGuardia Airport. When your sitting in the last row of the upper deck, you can almost grab a bag of peanuts off the table of one of the jets passing right over your head. Through connections, we wind up with pretty good seats. The Braves make three errors but still managed to defeat the hapless Mets.

On Tuesday I’m on my own. My train doesn’t leave ‘till 7 pm so I have all day to tour the city. Again it’s hot and humid, but I suck it up and walk to Grand Central Station to check it out. Unlike Penn. Station, Grand Central survived the ‘60’s & ‘70’s upheaval that was determined to get rid of anything old and rebuild. As a result the magnificent structure is much more simple to navigate than it’s cross-town brethren.

Then I make my way to the Chrysler Building. Completed in 1931 this Art Deco architectural masterpiece remains a tribute to the era great skyscrapers. The interior sports marble walls and a ceiling mural that depicts workmen of the day laboring to build the edifice. The elaborate elevator doors are carved using several different types of wood, far above what anyone could’ve accomplished in Mr. Begin’s 7th grade wood-shop class.

Then it’s on to Rockefeller Center. More specifically “30 Rock” as it’s known, the home to NBC Studios as well as the famous Rainbow Room. One can easily imagine the couples in their wide lapel, baggy pants suits and chiffon dresses making their way in to see “Your Show of Shows” starring Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca. Since fashions always return you may see that couple going in to see “Late Night with Conan O’Brien.”

As much as I’ve enjoyed the sightseeing, I decide that in this hot weather some indoor activities might be more appropriate so I hop on the train to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or “The Met” as it’s commonly known. Unfortunately one section is closed off, but it’s air conditioned and there’s still plenty to see.

Still, I want to view things that I didn’t get to see on my previous trip to N.Y. so I get back on the subway and head to The Museum of Modern Art. The train looks like something that Ralph Kramden might have ridden on, in other words, old.

The trip to Queens is a trip through the “real” or non-tourist parts of New York. Imagine taking a train up the McGrath Highway in Somerville. I’m not nearly as dismayed to find out that the museum is closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays as the woman standing out front who drove up from Philadelphia.

“The New York Times didn’t say anything about it being closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays” she fumed while choking back tears.

It seems like a good idea to get a good meal before I get back on the train so I make my way to Little Italy. Of the numerous empty restaurants (it’s still sort of early) I choose Paesano’s, largely due to the sign that reads “all pasta $7.95.” My warm glass of water doesn’t concern me, but after I’ve ordered my meal, a trip to the men’s room worries me about the hygiene of this place when I discover there’s no soap. None the less, my ravioli turns out to be quite delicious.

After checking out a few galleries I make my way back to the hotel to grab my stuff. It’s not far from Penn. Station and the subway stop is right around the corner. Only when I get there I realize that it’s the entrance for the “downtown” train and I have to have someone direct me to where I can pick up the “uptown” train.

My delay is compounded by the fact that when I get to Penn. Station the setup is a little confusing. Normally I seem to make the train with five minutes to spare, but this time I make it with about 30 seconds to spare. I chose to take the Acela back to Boston which costs more, but is supposed to take three and a half hours. A delay means that it winds up taking four hours, which eventually prompts an angry email to Amtrak.

It dawned on me that as I watched the people of New York go about their daily lives, their daily lives were my vacation. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in different places and periods of American history, but as I walked the streets of New York on the Fourth of July weekend I realized that everyday we are living history.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:51 PM

March 18, 2003

No Blarney

It’s good to be home, folks. As regular readers of this column the past few years know, this time of the year normally finds me in Florida watching spring training with my pals. I decided that I wanted to do something different this year. So on the advice of family and friends I chose a new destination, the land of my ancestors (on my mother’s side), Ireland.

I’d been to the U.K. a number of times, but never to the Emerald Isle. I’ve never been particularly interested in my ancestry, but since I was heading there I figured I’d do what I could to trace my roots. I wasn’t expecting some sort of Alex Haley “Kunta Kinte I have found you” moment like in his novel-turned-miniseries “Roots,” but was warming to the idea of seeing the land from where my roots came.

The furthest I’d managed to go as far back was my great, great grandfather Dennis McGillicuddy, born somewhere in Ireland in 1830. That was as much as I could determine with free sources available on the internet. It seemed like every supposedly “free” website led you to the pay service Ancestry.com.

I kept a running account of my trip and will spend the next few weeks sharing it with you.

Day 1---As he often has, my friend John pick me up to give me a lift to the Logan Express in Woburn to help me save $15 on a cab ride. We pull up at 2:29 trying to catch the 2:30 shuttle. As I get out of the car the bus pulls away. Now I have to wait for the 3:00. John and I have a cup of coffee and chat for a while and then he heads to work. After he leaves I realize that I still have my car keys with me, which in itself isn’t a problem, but they’re attached to my Swiss Army knife which I know will never get past security at Logan.

I inquire at the desk if they can “check” items like a bus station, but am told they cannot. I don’t want to throw this away, as it was a present for being in a friend’s wedding and is a very useful tool. Looking for a place to hide it, I stick it in the base of a potted plant at the Logan Express terminal.

After checking in at Logan Airport, I’m directed to the security line, which turns out to be the longest security line I’ve ever seen. It stretches from the x-ray machines across the terminal, down the hall until coming to an end at the next terminal.

The guy behind me, who looks like a cross between actors Bill Pullman and David Duchovny, wants to chat incessantly with me in between cell phone calls. All things considered the line moves pretty quickly until we get to the x-ray machines where it splits into three lanes.

At this point cell phone guy gets in the left lane while I stay in the center lane. Fifteen minutes later he’s thirty feet in front of me smiling and waving to me---while chatting on his cell phone.

When we get to the gate the ticket agent has some fun with the kid in front of me. Looking at his passport, he tells him “You can’t go.”

After letting the kid’s face turn a tad pale, he informs that he didn’t sign his passport. Not wanting to torment the young man for too long he tells him to sign it on the plane and let’s him go.

All systems are go and now it’s off to Ireland.

No Blarney, Pt.II

Day 2---I arrive at Shannon Airport and as I get off the plane and clear customs, my first destination in Ireland is a men’s room. They don’t call it a men’s room, bathroom or restroom over there, but instead refer to it as a “toilet” which sounds a bit crude to American ears. If you ask most Americans where the “toilet” is, they’ll tell you it’s in the bathroom.

Next I make my way to the Thrifty car rental agency, where I’ve booked a car. The man and woman working the counter are very friendly and polite. Perhaps that’s why I let the woman talk me into buying tons of insurance, which makes the bill jump 150 percent. Well, that and the fact that I know driving on the left side of the road might be hazardous. The guy gives me directions and draws a map emphasizing to the dumb American that when I come to a rotary or “roundabout” that I go clockwise.

Making my way to my car I don’t mind the steady rain considering the previous two days in Boston it was either snowing or in single digit temperatures, and it’s good to actually see grass again, greener than I’ve ever seen it.

I look for a breakfast place near the airport that’s been recommended to me, but can’t find it as I’m more concerned with not freaking out while trying to drive on the left side of the road. Having missed it, I pull into a hotel for breakfast and the waitress asks if I want a “traditional Irish breakfast.”

I ask what that is and she says “bacon, eggs and sausage.”

I’m tempted to tell her that she might do well to include “angioplasty.”

Unsure whether to tip, which they don’t do in the U.K., I ask the hotel clerk if they tip in Ireland and she says “yes.” That’s probably the wrong person to ask, like asking a child if he wants ice cream. They’re not likely to say “no.”

Americans don’t enjoy the best reputation overseas, so I make sure to tip anyway to leave a good impression.

My first destination (excluding the men’s room and a breakfast place) recommended in my Fodor’s travel book is Bunratty Castle, which Fodor’s describes as a “must.” Unfortunately it’s closed so I “must” come back another time.

I then make my way to the nearest major town, Limerick City, which according to Fodor’s has nothing to do with the form of rhyme. None the less, since I’m going to Limerick City, I feel I should write some limericks, so here goes:

There once was a man from Stoneham
who vowed that no woman would own him
He never got married, now he’s single and harried
‘cause he can’t get a woman to phone him

Of course some limericks are known to be risque and I wrote one of those too, but I know I could never get it in this paper.

There doesn’t seem to be much on street parking so I opt for a garage and walk down to a pedestrian area where there’s a small outdoor boutique amongst the shops. One table features knit stocking caps in various colors with the New York Yankee “NY” on them. There’s also one Chicago White Sox hat.

I go into a church and see a man with a Michigan State Wolverine jacket and a woman with a Miami Dolphins hat.

There are apparently no leash laws in Ireland as numerous wet stray dogs roam the streets. I know that my coat has a hood tucked into it, but I’ve never had occasion to use it, but tired of getting wet I finally figure out how to get the hood out. Hey, I’ve only owned the coat for a year. I figure no one in Ireland knows me, so I don’t care if I look like a geek.

I pop into a used book and record store and strike up a conversation with the owner who, when I ask where there might be galleries and museums not only writes down a list for me, but lists the order of the easiest route for me.

After checking out the galleries I stop into St. Mary’s church where I’m admitted after a two euro donation. Whether or not they’ll let me in without the donation, I don’t try to find out. The next stop is King John’s Castle. Built originally in the 12th century by King John (hence the name) who never actually set foot it, and in fact only set foot twice in Ireland, it provides an incredible view overlooking the town and the Shannon River.

King John was not very popular among his subjects and was eventually forced to sign the Magna Charta, probably at sword point.

Looking for something to eat and wanting Irish cuisine, I decide to pass up the McDonald’s and ask a local to recommend someplace and he directs me to a Texas steakhouse. Instead I stop into a cafe for a cup o’ tea and some cheesecake.

Leaving the garage I don’t realize that your supposed to pay before you put your ticket in the machine that lifts the gate. The attendant comes over and explains it to me and looks at my ticket and figures I owe about 7 euros. I give him a five and pull out a handful of change, both U.S. and Euro. The one and two euro are coins, not paper. He sees a U.S. quarter and excitedly asks “What’s that?”

I explain what 25 cents is and stating that he is a coin collector, he offers a deal. If I give him the quarter along with the five euro, I’ll be settled up. I gladly accept and give him a nickel, dime and penny for good measure.

Looking for lodging, I figure it’s cheaper out of town and find a bed & breakfast near Bunratty Castle called the Cratloe Lodge. Run by a sweet elderly couple Maura and Tom, it’s not fancy but it’s clean and reasonably priced.

I’m intrigued that the room key is an old fashioned skeleton key, the kind where you can look through the keyhole like in the old movies. Also, the sink like all the sinks I’ve seen is a two-faucet sink. You can’t get warm water. It’s either cold or hot, and that’s not always guaranteed.

After a much needed nap, I walk over to the pub next door to get something to eat, but the dining room isn’t open and the small pub is filled with cigarette smoke. Not wanting to offend anyone, I pretend to look at pictures around the room as I discreetly make my escape.

Then I hop into my car and drive down the road to Thady (Pronounced TAD-EE) O’Neill’s restaurant. The first thing I notice is that the people at the three tables around me are all Americans.

I didn’t know what to expect for Irish cuisine other than corned beef and cabbage, so I’m surprised to have a chicken stir-fry in a delicious curry sauce.

After dinner a waiter gives me direction to a club for some live music in Limerick. I’m hoping to hear some traditional Irish folk music, but find a rock band. Nonetheless, they’re pretty good. They play for an hour and then I call it a night.

No Blarney, Pt. III

Day 3---I wake up at 8:30 in Maura and Tom’s B&B. I don’t like to sleep late on vacation because I feel I should be exploring instead of sleeping, but I’m still exhausted from my transatlantic journey and I figure I’ll roll over and get a few more minutes of shut eye. The next thing I hear is the sound of vacuuming and instinctively recognize it as a not so subtle hint that I’ve overslept. I look at my watch which reads “10:30” and jump out of bed and into the shower.

I emerge and apologize profusely to Maura for oversleeping. She’s very gracious about it and still offers to give me breakfast which was supposed to be from 7:00-9:00 am. During breakfast Tom asks me where I’m headed and I tell him the Cliffs of Moher. He mentions that he and Maura were headed towards there but have canceled their plans. I take it as a dig at my oversleeping.

Getting in my car I put on the radio for the first time and the song playing is Ray Stevens’ 1974 hit “The Streak.”

After driving through the countryside I come into the town of Ennis. Pub’s abound everywhere, even in the smallest villages. For that matter, one can be driving in the middle of nowhere and come upon a roadside pub. The Irish don’t seem to take the problem of alcoholism that seriously, judging by the name of one liquor or “off license” store, “Tipsy McStagger’s.”

The Cliffs of Moher are far from any populated areas and a surprising number of people are out walking. To or from where I can’t imagine.

I park in the lot and make my way to the cliffs and notice that it’s a near gale force wind. If the idea of going up on the roof of my single story house to watch Fourth of July fireworks makes me uneasy, the notion of standing at the edge of a 700 foot cliff during extreme winds is not overly enticing.

Nevertheless, I summon up the courage to crawl out to the edge, which has no railing or barrier of any sort, along with others and peer down into the abyss, which at that point is approximately 500-600 feet.

The cliffs provide an astonishing view of the Atlantic Ocean, and the waves crashing into the rocks below make you realize the awesome power of nature.

Then I walk along the cliff up a muddy path that is very slippery and also has no railing. Between the precarious footing and the high winds it’s not inconceivable that you could go tumbling over the edge and truly become a part of the Irish landscape.

After the cliffs I drive south and hop a ferry and continue driving. The weather alternates between sunny and rainy. At one point it’s both sunny and rainy.

It starts to get dark and the narrow roads are harrowing enough in the daylight, so I decide that it’s probably best not to be negotiating them in the dark of the country night and head for the next town to look for lodging before nightfall.

I pull into Tralee, famous as the inspiration of the song “Rose of Tralee.” OK, most of us under 60 have never heard of it, but it seems to be a point of pride for the locals.

I check out a few B&B’s, one over a pub not being “en suite” with a private bathroom and looking like a seedy motel room is not to my liking. Finally I settle on a more expensive one which seems nicer, run by an elderly couple, as most of the B&B’s seem to be.

The pub is the center of social life in Ireland and it’s the best place to meet people. The only problem is that many of them are small and smoke filled.

I have dinner at The Brogue and then stop into their pub. It’s big and there are no customers and thus no smoke. The bartender is a young man named Gerry, in his second year at the university. He thinks that non smoking pubs will be mandatory in a few years and mentions that a couple of the bigger pubs in Dublin have gone to no smoking nights on Tuesdays and Wednesday resulting in their most successful nights of the week. We talk about football (soccer), rugby and Gaelic football.

Then an absolute must watch that’s riveting the nation is the TV show “Your a Star” which pits finalists Mickey Joe Harte and Sean Casey battling for the Irish championship. Mickey Joe’s pop tunes win over Sean’s syrupy ballads and Mickey Joe will go on to face the European champions.

Looking to meet more locals I find another pub which isn’t overly smoky. I manage to strike up a conversation with Tom by asking him about the poster of Michael Collins on the wall. Unfortunately Tom doesn’t know history that well and can’t tell me much other than that Collins was a freedom fighter (or terrorist depending on your point of view) who fought against British rule in the late teens and early twenties. I already knew that, but it leads to him asking others about Collins and I wind up talking to a variety of people who all tell me different places I must see in Ireland.

Day 4---I wake up to the sound of thunder. How far off I sit and wonder. Started humming a song...sorry, just a brief Bob Seger flashback.

I go into the small bathroom for a shower and discover that the shower has two temperatures.---ice cold and not quite ice cold.

After breakfast I drive to Dingle, a popular seaside resort in the summer that is an off-season favorite of such celebrities as Julia Roberts and Dolly Parton. There’s surprisingly few art galleries and I contemplate going to see the local tourist attraction “Fungie,” a dolphin who resides just offshore. Since it continues to alternate between rain and sunshine, I don’t want to go out on a boat and get soaked just to see a dolphin.

An older woman at one gallery agrees, saying “I tell people on a day like today to go to a pub, have a pint and turn your back to the window.”

With little to do in Dingle I decide to drive down to Killarney, a lively little college town. I book a B&B that’s a two-minute walk to the center of town and head there right away. As I walk down the main street thunder and lightening erupt and I decide that the doorway that I’m in front of is as good as any to enter, so I do and figure I’ll have dinner there since it’s an Italian restaurant. The service is good, but it ought to be since I’m the only customer.

Then I continue my quest for live Irish music and stop into a pub to see if they can point me in the right direction.

An American guy ordering at the bar is asking the bartender all the questions as to where there’s live music that I was planning to ask. The bartender, an Australian woman, tells him of a place around the corner that might have music. He sits down with the three other people from Chicago that he’s with, and I learn that of the other two people in the bar, one is from Toronto and her companion’s nationality I’m not able to discern. There wasn’t an Irishman in sight.

I walk to the club that the bartender has recommended but it’s not open yet. The band is rehearsing, but they’re playing American rock songs, not Irish folk music. Then I have the bright idea of taking a nap and going back later to see the band, but I never make it.

No Blarney, Pt. IV

Day 5---When I reach the parlor for Breakfast at my B&B in Killarney, there is a couple speaking a language that I, thinking myself as having a discerning ear for dialects, believe to be German. Fans of the classic British TV sitcom “Fawlty Towers” will know what I mean when I say I kept thinking “Don’t mention the war!”

It turns out I’m wrong as I’m later informed by one of the two American women who later join us that the couple is from the Netherlands. Eerie organ music, sounding like it belongs from Phantom of the Opera plays in the kitchen giving the scene a surreal quality.

I stop at the Killarney library to check my email and discover that the keyboard is just a little bit different. Most of it is the same but the quotation marks key is different and I have trouble quoting anyone in my messages.

Next it’s onto the highly recommended Ring of Kerry, a road which encircles the Iveragh Peninsula in the southwest of Ireland.

The rocky hills and mountains fit well with the ocean views that they oppose. There are numerous sheep on these hills and how they don’t go tumbling down the steep hillside is a mystery to me. A few of them may have, since there are a smattering of sheep wandering around unescorted on the road.

The economy is supposed to be booming in the Irish countryside and that is evident by the new townhouses dotting the landscape by the sea.

I can’t resist stopping in the upper class seaside resort of Waterville, and taking a picture of myself giving an “arse kick” to the statue of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character which resides on the side of the road along the beach. Apparently the film legend spent much time here and thus was honored by the locals.

I decide to get off of the ring of Kerry to drive closer to the MacGillycuddy Reeks (perhaps named after my ancestors?) despite the name sounding like an insult.

I can’t drive all the way through it because that’ll take me back to where I was and away from where I want to go. The back road is even narrower than the regular roads. At one point a young man in a red car comes barreling around a curve. I hit the brakes and have to back up to where I have the most room possible to let him by. I can only go so far over though, or I’ll slide down the hill into a small creek.

I eventually get back on the Ring of Kerry and pull into Kenmare at 5 pm. I stop for an ice cream and ask where I might find live music in town. She points out “The Square Pint” and a walk there turns into a let down when the manager tells me there’s no live music tonight.

I make my way to Foley’s nearby for a delicious salmon dinner. There’s yet another table of Americans sitting next to me and the mom, son and daughter are all smoking. Later, a man wearing a Bruins hat walks in.

An elderly Irishman wanders in and it’s clearly not his first stop at a pub this evening. He asks the bartender for one of those “red drinks” and the barkeep deciphers that he means a Bloody Mary. After a while the man decides to chat with the smoking family by walking over and telling him that he’s going to a play that evening. They feign interest for a while before the father suggests that the man come back after they’ve finished eating. His pride wounded, the Irishman walks out of the place without saying a word.

After dinner I take a stroll to another pub where a polite young man keeps calling me “sir.” Though most of Ireland is carpeted with rich, green grass, I’ve noticed that in some places there is brown grass and ask him if they’ve had some sort of drought. He laughs and explains that the brown grass is old grass, which is brown from the trampling of livestock, and that droughts are not very common in Ireland. He is soon replaced behind the bar by an Australian woman, the second to serve me on this trip so far.

I then find a lively spot where everyone is engrossed in the Arsenal-Roma football match and the bartender asks me if I’m an Arsenal fan. I tell her no and am impressed that she’s heard of the N.Y. Yankees, which she mentions in our conversation.

Unable to strike up a conversation with other locals there, I find a quiet spot with just two customers at the bar. The woman tending bar is British. I jokingly suggest that she’s much easier to understand than the Irish before realizing that I’ve probably offended the two locals at the bar and have likely ruined any chance to strike up a conversation.

Day 6---After breakfast, in which the only other diner is British, I grab a cup of coffee and the only edition of the USA Today that has arrived in town.

There’s a bookstore, which I’m hoping can provide some insight into my research of my roots. Indeed, one book gives the history behind various Irish names, but I can’t find “McGillicuddy” in it. Instead I find a spelling for “MacGillycuddy” and figure that the name changed in the New World. It also tells me that the name first appeared in County Kerry in the 16th century and came out of the O’Sullivan clan. I then find other books with spellings of “MacGillacuddy” and “MacGillicuddy.”

Someone has recommended driving the ring of Beara, which circles the Beara Peninsula. The ring of Kerry is very touristy and is becoming more developed but the ring of Beara is very remote. There are houses every now and then but a surprising number of pedestrians.

People are so friendly here and everyone waves as you drive by them. It’s a beautiful day, the first great day I’ve had, and I see an elderly man with a cane wearing a tweed jacket, a tweed scally cap and thick glasses standing with his hand out.

I don’t know if he’s waving or needs help. Just in case I stop and ask if I can assist him.

“Would ya mind giving me a lift up the road” he says with his classic Irish brogue.

“Sure, hop in.”

I introduce myself and he tells me his name is John O’Sullivan.

“It’s just about a hundreds yards up the road” he tells me.

We arrive at his home and he asks “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Why not?” I figure. I’m looking to meet the natives and I’m not on any time schedule.

I tell him that coffee, tea or soda will suffice.

He disappears into the other room where I see numerous bottles on the dining room table. He emerges with a bottle of Sprite, a glass and a bottle of Whiskey.

“Help yourself” he tells me, placing them in front of me. He’s not drinking due to a medical condition.

I find out that he lived in N.Y. City from 1947-60 where he worked for AT&T. His siblings had already moved there to find work which was in short supply in Ireland in the ‘40’s & ‘50’s.

I summon the courage to ask him how old he is.

“Oh, near 80 now.”

We chat for a while but when he tells me that N.Y.C. was safer back then because they didn’t have the “coloreds” I decide that it’s time to make my exit.

I tell him that I have to go and he replies “Oh, fine Dan, fine. Run on, then. Run on.”

As I continue to make my exit he wishes me a “safe journey to you, now.”

He then hits me with a question that I don’t expect and frankly throws me off balance.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he enquires.

“Uh..no. I’ve really got to get going.”

“Oh, fine Dan, fine. Run on, then. Run on.”

As I drive away I ask myself “Was he hitting on me?”

I can’t help but laugh hysterically at what had a occurred. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt in that he was obviously very lonely, particularly being in the middle of nowhere, and perhaps just wanted to give me a tour of his place. My only regret was that I didn’t think to get a photo of him.

As I continue my drive I’m starting to get hungry. The towns are few and far between and although even the smallest town has at least three pubs, there’s no place to have a good meal. Somehow I get eventually get turned around and wind up heading back in the direction I came. The ring of Beara is a long drive and if I turn around to continue on it I’ll starve before I circle back towards Kenmare where I know I can get a good meal.

As I pass John O’Sullivan’s place I know that if I don’t stop to get a photo of him I’ll regret it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of my life. If he was in fact hitting on me, I’m not too concerned, figuring that I can handle the unwanted advances of an eighty year old man if need be.

I knock on the door and as he opens it I announce “I’m back.”

“Oh, Dan. Cup o’ tea?”

I decline and ask him if he’d mind posing for a photo in the outfit I first saw him wearing. He agrees and as he puts on his jacket, my suspicions seem to be proven correct.

“Were ya ever married, Dan?”

“No.”

“Oh, single. Got a girlfriend, then?”

“No. I was seeing a woman, but that ended” I informed him, adding “I’m sure I’ll be dating another woman soon” in an attempt to emphasize just which side of the plate I bat from.

He posed for the photos and he bid me adieu again, noting that was “a glorious day, glorious day.”

After lunch at the upscale Mickey Ned’s in Kenmare I hit the road and pick up the N22, one of the few major highways in Ireland. Mind you, a major highway in Ireland seems to have a maximum of three lanes total at occasional points.

Getting on the N22 I notice two teenage girls sitting on a railing chatting, while across the road a boy walks with his book bag in his hand. You wouldn’t dream of letting your kids to this in the U.S.

The N22 moves past some upscale suburbs into Cork City. It is Ireland’s second largest city behind Dublin, but pales in size by comparison. After checking into a B&B I make my way to an Italian restaurant, Ciao Ciao’s. The food is good, but the portions are small especially considering the price.

After dinner I decide to take in a movie, the Jack Nicholson film “About Schmidt,” which I give a thumbs up.

On my walk back towards my B&B I hear live music coming from a club and figure I’ll check it out. Before I can ask what the cover charge is, the doorman points to my sneakers and says “Sorry sir, no trainer’s.”

“No, problem” I respond and continue down the street where I hear the sound of a guy with a guitar emanating from a pub.

I enter and find a guy singing a blues tune to a room of about six people. There are more patrons in the back drinking and playing pool.

At some point an inebriated young man staggers up to the singer and asks to sing a song. The singer, a man named Paul who hails from New York, tells him no and puts down his guitar and stands at the bar until the kid exits.

After the drunk kid’s friends get him out of the place, the singer resumes for a while before another drunk comes up and stands in front of him while he plays. The drunk then turns around and heads back toward the pool table before feigning a kick in my direction. He’s not that close and can barely stand up and poses no real threat. That seems as good a time as any to call it a night.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:40 PM

October 2, 2002

Notes From Le Trip

The last weekend of baseball's regular season. Over the years, I've often made one last trip to Fenway on this weekend before packing my allegiance away for the winter and start following the Patriots. However, this year I decided that since the Montreal Expos franchise maybe playing it's last game ever, I ought to get up there to see a game while the opportunity still exists. The Red Sox games were meaningless at this point and if you want to see meaningless baseball, there's no more meaningless baseball games to watch than those of the Montreal Expos.

9/28/02---Leave work in Medford at 12:37. I expect it to be a five hour trip which should give me enough time to get something to eat along the way, get to Montreal and deal with any unexpected circumstances, get to the ballpark, pick up my tickets and see the game.

Soon into my trip I realize that I've forgotten to bring some tapes to listen to, save for one Randy Newman tape already in my car, and that I'm at the mercy of what radio stations I can pick up. Sure enough, right at the junction of Rt. 89 the radio fades in and out and I get a cross between Bruce Springsteen's Badlands and a local high school football game.

It's beautiful sunny afternoon and the drive up Rt. 89 is pleasant, making me wish it were a few weeks later when the foliage will be in full bloom.

Just outside of St. Albans Vt., I stop at a Subway for a bite to eat. The line isn't that long, but the boys behind the counter aren't the fastest workers I've ever seen. This costs me twenty minutes.

As I get close to the Canadian Border I start to get a little nervous. I don't know why. I haven't done anything wrong, and I'm not carrying anything illegal. Still, being questioned by the authorities is a little unsettling and I fear that my nervousness will arouse suspicion. I have images of myself handcuffed behind my back, sitting in a 4x4 chicken wire cage for four months on Guantanamo Bay.

There is no wait and I don't have to even show an I.D.

The young woman asks me a few questions and I head on my way. It's still an hour from the border to Montreal and the drive is very rural, with numerous cornfields, silos, and occasional small town buildings along the way.

I expect the signs to be in both French and English, but they are only in French. It's pretty easy to figure out, though. North is "Nord," west is "Ouest" and Montreal is "Montreal."

Many of the radio stations broadcast in French and you truly haven't heard Rock and Roll until you've heard Doo Wah Diddy performed in French.

I hit a lot of traffic at the Champlain Bridge. This is a concern because I'm starting to get a little low on gas. Traffic continues to be slow through Montreal perhaps due to the construction, a sort of "Le Petite Dig" if you will.

I get to the stadium and see a sign for parking across the street. There is no one collecting money, which is terrific. Then I realize that the people getting out of their cars aren?t going to the ballpark, but the "Insectarium," which this lot is designated for. I'm wondering if I park here whether I'll get towed, ticketed, or locked into the Insectarium parking lot. Finally I see a father and son heading to the ballgame, which eases my mind. I figure the've done this before and probably and know that it's OK to park here.

I've never seen a baseball game played in a dome. I've learned that your opinion of a ballpark can depend on how good your seats are. I had heard that Olympic Park is a pit, but I've managed to get great seats ten rows behind the first base dugouts, so it doesn't seem too bad. Looking at Astroturf however, is like looking at a giant baseball board game from Milton Bradley.

Built for the 1976 Olympics, it was originally an open-air stadium that the city is still paying for (which proponents of a Boston Olympics might want to keep in mind).

Normally I'd prefer to sit outside for a game, but it is in Montreal in late September, so I don't mind being indoors too much. It's a pleasant surprise to see that a game can be played in 2 1/2 hours.

After the game I head to my car, which is still there, without a ticket, and head for my motel. At this point I'm on empty and desperately need to find a gas station. I miss a couple of opportunities and get on the highway. I finally decide to get off at the first exit to see if there?s a station there, but no luck.

Finally I find one at the next exit. Normally I can fill up my car for about $14-$15. I pay $20 (Canadian) and am a little surprised to get a little over half a tank.

I make my way to a Comfort Inn near the airport that I found for a good price. It's a nice place, the only negative aspect being the fire alarm that keeps accidentally going off.

9/29/02---After finding a place to have breakfast on St. Catherine St., I decide to make my way to Old Montreal. The problem is that the map is a little confusing. There are many streets with the same name, but I don't understand the abbreviations in parenthesis on the map, so I can?t distinguish one from the other.

I finally get my bearings and get to Old Montreal. It's much different from New Montreal in that it's a lot older.

With its narrow, brick streets and stone buildings, one definitely has the feeling of being in a European city. Their are lots of souvenir stores, galleries and restaurants. It?s a tourist trap, but a pretty nice one.

The next stop planned is the Museum of Fine Arts. Like Boston, or I suppose any major city, it?s difficult to find on-street parking. I find a spot at a meter, which has a hood over it with a no parking "P" on it. That's not a good sign, but I figure that since it's Sunday, I'm safe.

The museum seems small and somewhat of a disappointment until someone explains to me that the rest of the museum is across the street. To reach it, you have to go to the basement and walk under the street. There's some nice work there, but it doesn't compare to our own MFA, or the Metropolitan Museum in N.Y.

Time for lunch, but most of the restaurants around the museum are closed on this Sunday. I finally discover a cafe, where the girl behind the counter seems to take advantage of my lack of understanding of French and gives me more than I wanted. The food was pretty good, so I don't mind.

I know that I have a long drive ahead of me and I don't want to be getting back too late, so I decide to head home around 2 pm. The only problem is figuring out how to go back the way I came. The map is tough to read and there's a lot of traffic, both auto and pedestrian on St. Catherine St.

It takes about fifty minutes for me to get out of the city, but once I do it's smooth sailing. The next snag is U.S. Customs. Whereas I was able to breeze through easily going into Canada, there's quite a back up heading into the states. This takes me another fifty minutes.

On the way up I had noticed sign warning of the dangers of moose crossing. This is another reason I've chosen to leave early. I was once hit by a moose or dear in upstate N.Y. in total darkness and I'm not keen to re-live the experience. Beside the damage it can do to me and my car, I can't bear the thought of Bullwinkle lying on the highway with his guts splattered all over the road.

The drive home is relaxing and I finally manage to catch the end of the Patriots game on the radio. They've lost their first game in 11 months, but I discover that the Red Sox have won.

Wait 'till next year.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:50 PM

September 4, 2002

New York Story, Parts I & II

Part I

I needed to get away. I hadn?t spent any quality time in New York City, so it seemed like a good place to go. With a place to stay secured with my sister in law?s nephew, Shawn, a New York City cop stationed in Harlem who was kind enough to put me up for a few days, it was time to go. Here?s a running account of my journey.

Sat. Aug. 24----My friend John is nice enough to drive me to the Rt. 128 Amtrak station in Westwood. Leaving ourselves with what we think is plenty of time, we encounter traffic on Rt. 128. I sit panicking in the car knowing that unlike MBTA trains, they do not come along every few minutes and I can?t just hop on the next one. We get to the station with five minutes to spare. Uncertain as to what kind of security measures I'll be faced with after Sept. 11, I leave my Swiss Army knife key chain at home. I don't know if security personnel would take it from me fearing that I might commandeer the train and drive it into the fiftieth floor of the Hancock Tower. Other than showing my ID to get my ticket, there is absolutely no security and I jump right on the train and begin my journey. I sit in a car that is next to the dining car. After getting a pizza I go back and buy a chocolate chip cookie that is wrapped in plastic. The woman asks me if I want her to open it for me. I politely decline. After a few seconds of banter she asks again if I want her to unwrap the plastic from the cookie for me. I'm tempted to ask "What, do look like a Special Needs student?"

Instead, I politely decline again. As I head back to my seat, I try to unwrap the cookie and discover why she thought I might need help. The cookie has been entombed in shrink-wrapped plastic that soldiers could use as a protective shield. Unfortunately I don't have my knife to open it, so I resort to stabbing my cookie with a pen to break through the plastic.

Four hours later I arrive at the 110th St. station where Shawn lives on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I walk to his apartment building and we shoot the breeze for a while before heading around the corner for a bite to eat. Over dinner Shawn tells me about some of the gruesome tales of his work. Coming upon murder scenes, finding D.O.A.'s and some sad tales of the domestic situations that he is primarily called upon to investigate. After dinner we head down the street to an Irish pub where he tells me more about "the job."

Sun. Aug. 25--Shawn goes to work and I stop for breakfast at Tom's Restaurant, which is a couple of blocks from where Shawn lives. This eating establishment is best known to viewers of the TV show Seinfeld as the facade of the coffee shop that Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer hang out in. After breakfast I go for a walk in Central Park. It is a beautiful Sunday morning and there is a road race going on as well other runners, bikers, softballers, rollerbladers and a host of people enjoying the greenery amidst the municipality.

A woman laying on a blanket reading says "Excuse me. Are you from around here?"

I tell her I'm not, but thinking she may be a tourist looking for something, I reply, "No. What are you looking for?"

She clarifies that she just wanted to inform me that her church was having a service there in a while and wanted to invite me, assuring me that it was a Christian church. I don't bother to tell her that I already have plans for later in the day that will take me to that baseball cathedral known as Yankee Stadium.

Growing up I always heard stories and jokes about people being mugged in Central Park, but on this day with so many people around, I never feel unsafe. Even if one were to go off the slightly beaten path and get accosted by someone, help would be no more than a muffled scream away. I make my way through the park to the Jacquelin Kennedy Onasis Reservoir, where across the water is a magnificent view of the New York City skyline. Yet, it seems somewhat incomplete. One can?t help but wonder where on the horizon the World Trade Center towers stood. I come out of the park at 86th St. and walk back to Shawn's apartment. Conveniently the subway line is right outside of Shawn's apartment building, so I hop on the train and make my way to the Bronx. The subway stations are done with beautiful mosaics depicting each stop name on the walls. These were clearly done in an earlier time when cost didn't necessarily outweigh aesthetics in city planning. As the train gets further into the Bronx however, the mosaics get grimier and grimier. By the 149th St. station, they're barely recognizable as mosaics.

At the Stadium I pick up my ticket at the "Will Call" window and head to my seat. My ticket is for Section 469, Row C, Seat 4. When I get to Section 469, I discover that Row C only has seats 5-6-7-8. After a while I realize that there are two rows for every letter, such as Row A Seats 1-2-3-4 and another Row A seats 5-6-7-8, etc. Yankee fans at Red Sox games can be pretty obnoxious, (and somehow I suspect that Red Sox fans in Yankee Stadium probably don't put Bostonians in the best light) but the fans here seem pleasant enough, judging by their overall tone. It's hard to tell exactly though, because no one around me speaks English.

If you think beer prices at Fenway are high, try shelling out $6.25 for a draft beer at the Stadium. A 24 oz. beer out of the can is over $7.

After the game I stop at a bar outside the stadium for a drink to let the crowd thin out before hopping back on the train. The bars around Yankee Stadium are only open on game days, and not for too long after games.

Back to Shawn's, and I ask him how his day on the job was. He tells me that his first order of business was to respond to a domestic call where two drunken brothers had been arguing, and one had stabbed the other. He?s had worse days though, having been shot at twice, although on one occasion he wasn't the intended target.

Next, Shawn takes me on a tour of his precinct in Harlem. The perception of Harlem to many outsiders is that it is a dangerous place, and not many white people from out of town that I know of dare venture into Harlem, so I'm privileged to have a personal escort who is packing. Bill Clinton has moved into Harlem and the popular notion is that the borough is becoming gentrified, a politically correct way of saying that white people are moving in. Though this is somewhat true of Bubba's new digs, Shawn?s area is predominantly Dominican with the rest of the demographic make-up being black.

As we drive we drive up Broadway the area is alive with activity. Parents with children sit on the benches that are on the median strip that divides the road. Men sit on car hoods eating dinner. Others sit on stoops and play cards or dominoes, and some just hang out.

Then we take a right onto 144th Street. Bags of trash line each side of the street. Most of the houses are nice on the outside, though Shawn says that many are a nightmare on the inside. One can only imagine the glory of these buildings in an earlier time.

We pass an occasional boarded up house. Some of the buildings have "No Trespassing" signs on them. Shawn explains that while some of the less reputable landlords have agreements with drug dealers, giving them keys to the buildings in exchange for kickbacks, some honest landlords participate in a "No Trespassing" program with police. Residents will call and individuals that police find in the buildings who don't live there, know anybody living there or have any legitimate business there can be arrested for trespassing. This is designed to give families a place to live where one doesn?t have to fear walking out of one's apartment and into the hallway.

Per my request, we drive by the famous Cotton Club, but I don't think it's the original one. It's surprisingly small, and I imagine that if Duke Ellington's orchestra were in there, there wouldn't be much room for anyone else. We also take a drive past the Apollo Theater, which seems to be under renovation, and the tenements that used to be the site of The Polo Grounds, once home to the New York Giants who would later move to San Francisco.

After my Harlem tour, we head back to Shawn's. He has to work an extra long day tomorrow and has some errands to run, so Im on my own tonight. I jump on the subway and get off at Rockerfeller Center, but perhaps due to it being a Sunday night there doesn't seem to be much going on there, so I walk up to Times Square where the electricity is not limited to the massive electronic advertisements. Aside from the hordes of tourists, there are sidewalk vendors galore. There must be two dozen artists doing portraits or caricatures, or at least waiting to. One man offers to sell me a Rolex watch for $25. Perhaps the most original entrepreneur is a man holding a sign that says "Tell me off for $2." In some parts of the country you can do that for free.

I'm pretty hungry and looking for a nice sit down restaurant, but there seems to be mostly fast food places in Times Sq. Finally I ask a doorman who sends me around the corner to a place called "Carmine's."

When I tell the woman at the front desk that I'm a party of one, she explains that this is a "family style" restaurant meaning that they serve extra large portions designed for 2-3 people, which explains why a plate of ravioli is $21. Upon my request she recommends a rib place down the street, but before I reach there I find a Mexican restaurant, Viva Pancho?s which is more to my taste.

After dinner I stop at B.B. King's blues club where the marquee reads "Live Music--No Cover Charge." Well, I guess you don't need a cover charge when you charge $6 a beer. The band is terrific and during an instrumental, a small elderly black woman near the stage begins dancing suggestively during the song, much to the delight of the crowd and the guitarist, who begins to tailor his licks to her moves. After a while, I call it a night.

Part II

Mon. Aug. 26---Shawn and I get on the train, he's headed to work and I?m headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I catch a bus to the corner of 86th and 5th Ave. where the ?Met? can?t be missed. As I walk towards it, I can?t help but admire it?s large classical Greek columns. I also can?t help but notice the large sign out front that says ?Closed on Mondays.?

Fortunately the sign has listings of other places that are open, so I walk a few blocks down to The Guggenheim Museum. Whenever I hear the name ?Guggenheim? I automatically associate it with ?Crazy Guggenheim,? a character created by the late Frank Fontaine and portrayed on the old Jackie Gleason Show. The character, in today?s terms was ?mentally challenged,? yet people thought nothing of having a few laughs at his expense back then. One can only imagine the appropriate uproar that would be initiated today if some actor, say Martin Short, tried to introduce a character like that called ?Mentally Retarded Bob.?

(I must note here that there is some question as to whether or not Fontaine?s character was merely drunk. That?s not my childhood recollection, and in researching it I came across the liner notes for Tom Lehrer?s musical-comedy album That Was The Year That Was. The first track is ?National Brotherhood Week? and in the notes Lehrer makes a joke about a TV special for ?National Make-Fun-of-the-Handicapped Week? as starring Jerry Lewis and Frank Fontaine.)

Though the Guggenheim has some traditional works, much of what they feature is avant-garde. Some of it I can?t explain to you, and some of it I could, but I?d rather not. The most important part of the trip here is that I pick up a city guide which has a subway and bus map.

After the Guggenheim I jump on the subway and head downtown. Getting off at City Hall, I decide that my first order of business is to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. When it was built it was without a doubt one of mankind?s greatest technological and architectural feats, and is still an impressive sight to behold. There is a walkway in the center, above the traffic which has been there since it?s completion so that people of the day could enjoy a walk above the horse and buggies on a pleasant day.

As I cross over the East River towards Brooklyn, the hours glued to my television set come into play as I can?t get the theme from the show Welcome Back, Kotter out of my head. Once over the bridge I realize that I would like to have some record of this trip, so I scout around until I find a store where I purchase one of those disposable cameras for $14.

Heading back towards Manhattan, I ask a few people to take some photos of me on the bridge and everyone is more than happy to oblige. I usually instruct them what to get in the background, but I can tell that some of them aren?t paying close attention to my instructions. I can only wonder what I?ll see when these photos are developed.

Back in downtown Manhattan it?s now lunchtime and I stop in at a Houlihan?s for a bite. While eating my salad, I notice something scooting across the floor near my right foot. Being in New York, my first inclination is to think that it?s a cockroach, but upon closer inspection I see that it is a small mouse who has just run under my seat.

I burst out with an Ed MacMahon-esque ?Hey-oooo!? which draws a couple of looks. Uncertain as to what to do about it, other than hope he doesn?t crawl up my leg, I consider my options while he apparently was doing the same under my chair.

I finally decide that they probably deal with this all the time and that food items are kept safe, at least that what I force myself to believe. I?ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn?t make a big deal out of it and finish my meal and he runs off into a corner.

My next stop is one that I don?t eagerly anticipate. So far I?ve looked forward to each destination with glee, but now I?m heading one block over to Ground Zero and it something I don?t want to see, yet I do, or rather feel that I must.

Three sides of the site are blocked off to the viewing public, with a viewing stand set up for the vast numbers of people who?ve come to witness the devastation. People seem to have come from all over the world to the WTC site, as there are numerous languages that can be heard.

Perhaps it is just in my head, but the specter of the towers are everywhere my whole time in this city. Never has two non-existent, or should I say no longer existing structures cast such an immense shadow.

A woman who is a native New Yorker seems to revel in her status as someone who once worked there and can point out where things once were. On one side you can see several levels of a parking garage, it?s sides sheared off. You can also see the curvature of a tunnel where a train once brought people, now gone, to work.

It?s been a humbling experience and I head further south down Broadway. I pop into Trinity Church, a beautiful structure just down the street. I?m not a deeply religious person, but after viewing the WTC site, my time of quiet contemplation in here seems appropriate and is somewhat moving.

After a while I walk down to Battery Park where I get tickets for the ferry to Ellis Island. Security to get onto the ferry is tougher than at the airport as I am forced to empty my pockets, remove my watch and my belt. I didn?t have to go that far at either of the two airports I was at the last time I flew in March.

The boat stops first at Liberty Island where you can get off and walk around the Statue of Liberty, but it?s getting late in the day and since 9-11 tourists are no longer permitted into the statue, so I opt to stay on the ferry and go right to Ellis Island.

The restoration of Ellis Island is impressive and I get to see much of it before they close down, but there are so many photo captions to read and interactive items that one could spend all day there. Like some 100 million Americans, my ancestors likely came to this country through Ellis Island, unless of course they were stowaways. Thus, I figure to go back some day if I ever get the chance.

The tour is over and I?m dying for some Italian food in Little Italy. On my way there I stop at Federal Memorial Hall on Wall St. where the nations first capitol stood. I have my picture taken with George Washington, a statue of him that is (I?m told that the real one?s been dead for some time), on the spot where he was inaugurated as our first president.

I walk to an area that my map says is Little Italy, which is right next to Chinatown. The problem is that streets that are labeled ?Little Italy? on my map are still lined with Chinese restaurants. Finally I come upon the Mulberry St. which has the Italian Restaurants that I?m looking for.

Not knowing one eatery from another I stop at the first one I see. It?s a nice place and the service is fine, but the ravioli is frankly, just OK. There are pizza places in Stoneham that serve ravioli that?s twice as good, but half the price. Yet, when that ask ?How is everything?? I sheepishly say ?Fine.?

After dinner I decide to head back to Times Square so I get on the subway, as does a man with a guitar. When the doors close he announces ?This one?s for all the music lovers? and begins singing a ballad. I don?t recall anyone making a request. He departs at the first stop getting a dollar from one rider.

I get off at 42nd St. and mistakenly go through a turnstile that has a gate locked on the other side, preventing departure through that exit. Left with no alternative I try to jump back over the turnstile, but wind up kicking it so that it spins around and smashes into my shin. The people who are also heading to this exit are kind enough not to laugh, but I know they saw this gaffe. I try to act like it didn?t hurt, and tell them that this exit is locked and walk away trying not to limp, or for that matter, cry.

In Times Square I head to the ESPN Zone. If you?re in a different city and you want to catch your team?s game on TV, your best bet is an ESPN Zone. They have numerous TV?s carrying games from all over the country, and I get to watch the Red Sox marvelous comeback which is capped by a Johnny Damon home run in the bottom of the ninth.

Tue. Aug. 27---After breakfast at Tom?s, I head off to the Met which is open today. It?s a vast museum, and I know that even a full day there won?t allow me to see everything, so I don?t even bother with sections that don?t interest me.
There is both a restaurant and a cafeteria in the same space so I get in line for the restaurant, see the prices on the menu, and then move to the line for the cafeteria.

After lunch I pay $6 for headphones for the Thomas Eakins exhibit, which is very impressive. At 4:00 I decide that it?s time to leave the museum and head back to Shawn?s to retrieve my things and hop on the subway. The trip back to Shawn?s takes a little longer than I expect, and I leave Shawn?s at 5:00 to get on the subway, which I hope will get me to Penn. Station in time for my 5:20 train back to Massachusetts.

There are more stops between 110th St. and Penn. Station than I recall having been on my trip in. I continuously look at my watch as though doing so will somehow speed up time. The subway gets to Penn. Station at 5:20 exactly. Naturally, there is a massive crowd of people at this time of day getting off the subway, and I have to fight my way through the crowd. Inside the terminal, all I see are signs for local trains. I figure I missed my train anyway, so I dig my ticket out of my bag and look at it and realize that it is a 5:40 train, so I can still make it. I ask someone where the Amtrak platform is and make my way there.

Unlike the Westwood station where I walked in the station and right to the platform with no problem, here they have a woman at the top of the escalator checking tickets for anyone trying to get down to the train platform.

As a result, there is a bottle-neck of travelers. Time is running short, and people?s patients are getting thin. I squeeze through the crowd and board the train, once again with a few minutes to spare.

The four hour train ride home proves to be relaxing and allows me time to digest the events of the past few days.

The long running perception of New Yorkers has been that of people who are rude, uncaring, or will rip you off at the drop of a hat. (See the original The Out of Towners.)

Yet, I found everybody to be friendly and courteous and helpful, with the exception of a couple of subway token vendors who always seem to have more important things to do than deal with customers. Most of these things seem to involve adjusting their radio.

Perhaps it?s been an unfair stereotype. Perhaps New Yorkers have changed somewhat since Sept. 11., or perhaps I was just in the right places at the right time.

I had a great time, but I?m still not going to root for the Yankees.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:33 PM

March 29, 2002

Spring Training '02, Part II

Tue., Mar. 19---We drive up to Clearwater where the Phillies are taking on the Tigers at Jack Russell Stadium, named for a former pitcher, not the breed of terrier dog. Two guys sitting in front of us are drinking heavily and getting a little more obnoxious as the game wears on, though due more to volume than content.

An older gentleman several rows in front of us, apparently tired of their razzing of the home Phillies, eventually turns around and says "They say you're allowed to make a fool of yourself once a day. You're over your limit." Naturally this only encourages them to be even louder, and direct a few of their barbs at him. Even a few of the older folks sitting behind us tell the old guy to "lighten up." It's a long game featuring thirty-five hits, and the Tigers win 15-8.

Next we drive to Tampa where the Yankees are hosting the Cincinnati Reds. Despite having the largest spring training ballpark in Florida (10,000 capacity), many of these seats are held by season ticket holders. The fact that it is the only night game, and superstar Ken Griffey Jr. is playing, means that this is a tough ticket to get. They are sold out and we spread out in search of tickets and as it gets close to game time it looks like for the first time in my tenure that we'll be denied tickets. I finally come across with a ticket but the others are shut out. Eventually we all wind up with a ticket, in fact one too many, which we wind up selling. Had we been able to buy tickets in advance, we likely would've wound up in the far reaches of the ballpark, but our hunt has led us to great (albeit separate) lower box seats.

Britt, who has brought his video camera to tape the trip for his cable TV show Static Attic is told by security that he can't bring his camera bag into the ballpark. His camera is no problem, just the bag which he winds up hiding in the bushes.

Wed., Mar 20---We arrive late to Al Lang Stadium, spring home of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, who are taking on the Red Sox. Throughout the trip I have managed to acquire press credentials for Britt and myself. Because we are late, the person in charge of media relations, Carmen Molina is nowhere to be found. We wait while they search for her, and eventually they bring us up through the press box and give us seats next to it and we're told that Carmen will be along shortly with press passes. An inning later we are still waiting and both desperately have to go to the bathroom, and are hoping to use the press box men's room which tends to be cleaner than the ones for the general public. Our heads constantly pan back and forth from the game to the press box door as we are "Waiting for Carmen" who never shows. Finally we take turns making are way into the press box without hassle. The Red Sox win 4-1.

For the night game we go back to the Yankees Legend's Field, since we'd been able to get tickets the night before. On my first trip here a few years ago, a beer vendor shorted me $1, and tried again a second time. This time a beer vendor twice tries to over charge me for a non-alcoholic beer, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt that it was an accident. We have good seats about seven rows behind home plate on the Yankees side. In the first row two very attractive young ladies are sitting in the first row and one has a camera and tries to take a photo of Derek Jeter who stands right in front of her while awaiting his turn to bat. Jeter teases her, refusing to look in her direction when asked, but giving a couple of quick glances when he knows she isn't ready to take a photo. After the game I notice a ball boy bring the ladies two baseballs, presumably autographed by Derek Jeter. After the game we are treated to fireworks, then rudely hustled out of the ballpark in typical New York (south) fashion.

Thurs., Mar. 21---We drive to Bradenton where the Pittsburgh Pirates host the Phillies. It's a nice old ballpark, but the only seats available are bleacher seats down the right field line. They are metal benches with no backs and get uncomfortable after a while. The Pirates win 5-4.

We hit the highway just in time for a driving rain storm and head for Haines City to watch the K.C. Royals host the Yankees. Fortunately it stops raining after a few minutes, but unfortunately it starts again as we make our way from the car to the ballpark. I get in before Britt, pick up my press pass and for laughs decide to make my first stop the Yankees clubhouse. The first person I see is Yankee coach and former Red Sox manager Don Zimmer. I'm tempted to ask him why the hell he didn't reinsert Bill Lee into the starting rotation when the first place Sox began crumbling in '78, but I figure that the man has suffered enough at the hands of Boston sports writers. Next I pop into the media hospitality suite where the Royals have put on the best spread yet. Britt eventually joins me and as I wait for him to finish his meal, the room empties when it's close to game time. We find ourselves alone in the room with Hall-of-Famer Reggie Jackson, who asks where I got my bottle of water. I tell him, and then get him one since he is still eating, and he thanks me and asks my name and what paper I'm from. I tell him and then his cell phone, which is in his hat, on my table, rings. I hand it to him and he says, "I better not answer it. It's probably George (Steinbrenner)."

I ask if he's avoiding the boss, and he replies "He's crazy. He's f@#*^G crazy!"

Posted by dmargarita at 8:46 PM

March 22, 2002

Spring Training '02, Part I

Tampa, Fla.---Hello from sunny, warm Florida where I'm on the annual spring training trip with Jim, Rick and first-timer, Britt.

Fri., Mar. 15---My first post Sept. 11 plane trip leaves me with some trepidation as to what I can expect for security at the airport. I arrive at Logan the prerequisite two hours ahead of flight time and find two U.S. Army MP's checking ID's at the x-ray machine. I don't know that because someone is wearing camouflage and a pistol that it makes him any more capable of discerning a terrorist from a non-terrorist than a civilian could. I guess if it makes people feel more secure, than all the better. It's a connecting flight to Tampa by way of Detroit. As we are about to land, the guy sitting next to me holds out his hands in front of him, and then begins moving his right hand from right to left, as if playing an imaginary "triangle."

After landing we sit on the tarmac a while when the pilot announces there's a delay and it will be a while before we can get to the gate. Triangle guy makes a smart remark Detroit's airport. Upon de-planing (is that a word?) I find that my connecting flight to Tampa has been pushed back an hour, leaving me with a four hour layover in Detroit. I consider going into the city to kill some time, but then I remember that the city is Detroit.

My flight gets pushed back five, then ten, then fifteen minutes. I finally board the plane at about 10:40 pm, but we sit for twenty minutes because they've overbooked the flight and they have to find volunteers willing to be "bumped."

We take off at 11:05, land in Tampa at 1:20, and get off the plane at 1:30. After getting my bag I pick up my rental car at 2:00 am. I get to the Howard Johnson's Motel at 2:30. As I pull up, a boisterous group of male patrons are leaving the club across the street. I can?t see the name of the club. All I can see are the words "Live Nude Show."

Sat., Mar 16---Jim is supposed to arrive at the motel via shuttle, but never shows. I call his cell phone number and find that his 6:20 am arrival has been changed to 7:00 pm, as he has been bumped. On my own, I head to Bradenton, spring home of the Pittsburgh Pirates, to see them take on the Cincinnati Reds. Waiting in the ticket line, a woman approaches me and asks me if I just need one ticket. I say "yes" and she tells me that she has one behind the Reds dugout. I get out of line and start to follow her when she sees her husband selling the ticket to someone else. I sheepishly jump back in line and mutter something about being back in "the right spot."

I don't make eye contact with the couple that I've cut in front of, and though they say nothing, I can tell out of the corner of my eye that they're not too happy about it. The only single seat available is a lower box seat down the right field line, and I get my first sunburn of the year. The Pirates win 3-2 in the ninth and I drive back to Tampa and find a nice Italian restaurant just a few hundred yards down the street from the "Live Nude Show" club.

Security at the Tampa airport is tight. Upon entering the parking garage, a security officer asks me to pop the trunk for inspection. I hadn't opened the trunk yet, and for all I know, someone at the rental car agency could've left a dead body and ten kilos of heroine in the trunk.

I get to the airport to meet Jim's 7:00 pm flight and find that it's been delayed until 10:20 pm. I decide to do what any young (well, not old), single (lonely), handsome (OK, cute) man would do...take a nap.

Posted by dmargarita at 8:48 PM

August 21, 2001

Chicago '01

I received perhaps the best birthday present that I've ever gotten this past weekend, from my girlfriend, Sharon. The gift in question was a trip to Chicago, my favorite city in the U.S.A. (with the possible exception of Malden).

Fri. Aug. 24---It's cost us $15 to take a cab from my house to the Logan Express shuttle in Woburn. Considering that if I leave my backyard, I am in Woburn, or that I could probably take a cab from one end of Comm. Ave. to the other for half of that, it seems a bit excessive. We arrive at our airline, America Trans Airway (ATA). I see you've never heard of them either. It's always a little unsettling to fly on a previously unheard of airline. You imagine the pilot sitting in an open cockpit, wearing goggles, with a white scarf flung over his shoulder.

The flight is fine and we take the train to State and Lake, and rather than take the $3 cab ride to the hotel, we opt to walk. Unfortunately, we end up going in circles for a half an hour, with our luggage in tow, but hey, we saved three bucks. After checking in at our hotel, we change and go to an Italian restaurant, Lino's, that our concierge has recommended. The food is terrific, as is the service. Our water glasses are kept filled at all times. Considering that our dinner for two is over $90, that isn't too much to ask.

Sat. Aug. 25---Rain today, so we elect to do the indoor thing, and head to the Art Institute of Chicago. There are many works from some of the history's greatest artists, as anyone who's ever seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off can attest to. Among the collection is Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. Sadly, most people are more familiar with the schlock version that features Humphrey Bogart, Marylin Monroe, James Dean and Elvis Presley as patrons/employees at a late night city diner.

The next stop is for dinner at The Big Bowl. The Chinese food is OK, but they have a brownie sundae that can't be beat! After dinner we walk across the street to the ESPN Zone to catch the rest of the Red Sox/Rangers came on one of their satellite TV's. The restaurant has a large screen TV that is surrounded by several smaller TV's, featuring different sporting events. At the top of the eighth inning I experience a moment of panic when the Sox game switches to a hunting show. Fortunately, before we are forced to watch some guy blow the head off a defenseless animal, they switch back to the ballgame. Unfortunately, they switch to a college football game when the Sox game moves into extra innings.

We step outside and hail a cab. After a $3.10 cab ride around the block to take what amounts to a right turn, our cab speeds off an a death defying trip, the likes of which haven't been seen since Starsky & Hutch went off the air. We arrive at our destination Buddy Guy's blues club, Legends.

When you think of the blues, you think of such great performers as B.B. King, Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, so it comes as a bit of a surprise to me upon entering the club to find that 99% of the patrons and most of the band members are white. This is a little like going to the Apollo Theater expecting to be sitting with members of the NAACP, and seeing the Temptations and finding yourself with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, watching the Osmonds. The band was pretty good though, and we stay for a little over an hour before calling it a night.

Sun. Aug 26---After breakfast, we hop on the train bound for Wrigley field. The Cardinals are in town to play the Cubs, and as usual, many Cards fans have made the five-hour drive up from St. Louis for the weekend. This is an especially tough ticket given that both teams are fighting for the division title. Standing behind a young couple at the "Game Day" ticket window, the young man turns away empty-handed. I ask him what was available, to which he replies, "Standing room only."

As I step up to the window, the attendant calls the young man back, and makes him another offer which is declined. The attendant then offers me two seats, ten rows behind home plate for $60. The price was apparently too steep for the young couple, but I, no stranger to Fenway Park's $110 per pair box seats, gladly accept.

It's a perfect day for baseball and we watch Sammy Sosa go 3 for 4 with two homers and four RBI's en route to a 6-1 Cubs victory. After the game we stop at Stanley's, run by former Boston native, Artie Moher, for a drink.

Thrown by the time difference, we are a little late getting to the ESPN Zone to watch Pedro Martinez' return vs. the Texas Rangers. We are seated down front in the comfortable high-backed, leather chairs that have speakers in the headrest, so you can listen to whichever satellite feed to choose to watch. Our waiter, whose name we do not catch, is quick witted, but slow footed. We watch the Sox go down in defeat, and though I make eye contact with our waiter three times when I want to pay the bill, he ignores me and continues to make himself scarce. Finally, I go to the server's station and ask him if I can have the check. To which he replies, "No."

While I found him moderately amusing earlier in the evening, his inattentive service has lessened the impact of his humor on me, as he will undoubtedly discover by my tip.

Mon. Aug. 27---Last year through no fault of our own, we missed our flight back to Boston from Chicago. This year, through totally our own fault, (well the subway signs were a little confusing) we end up on the wrong train while attempting to get to the airport, and we miss our plane again. We get booked on the next flight which not for almost seven hours later, but we cannot check our bags for another three hours. After doing so, we contemplate heading back to the city to kill some time, but our history of getting to the airport on time is not good, so we decide to hang around the airport until our flight leaves.

I love Chicago, and it must love me back because it never seems to want to let me go.

Thanks for a great trip, Shazzy.

Posted by dmargarita at 6:54 PM

September 15, 1999

Detroit

I just got back from my vacation in Detroit. That might be the least used sentence in the English language.

Why in the world would anyone take a vacation in Detroit? It's certainly a legitimate question.

Three friends, and myself who are also baseball fanatics, wanted to see Tiger Stadium before they close it down and move into a new ballpark next year. This was my first trip to Detroit, and I can only come away from it with a suggestion to the good people of Detroit:

Keep the ballpark, tear down Detroit.

Next season the Tigers will be playing at Comerica Park, keeping in line with the trend of new parks being partly financed and thus named after major corporations. This concerns me in that despite assurances from the Red Sox that their "New Fenway" will not have a corporate name, the team will one-day be playing in "Duracell Park" or "Kleenex Field."

Day 1: A $34 cab ride from the airport takes us past rundown suburban neighborhoods to a rundown downtown. After checking in at our hotel, we take advantage of the daylight hour to walk to Tiger Stadium, which is a mere ten minutes away.

Upon entering, I was immediately taken with the ballpark. It has Fenway's old-timey feel, although it also has Fenway's obstructed view poles for a few unlucky fans. The old-timeyness is made complete by the discovery of men's room "troughs."

Due to the nature and pace of the game the aesthetics of a ballpark matter more then the venues of other sports. Many parks are designed so that fans can enjoy a view of the surrounding neighborhood. Tiger Stadium is mercifully enclosed so that fans don't have to view the neighborhood. In fact, the ballpark is a good place to go to forget that you live in Detroit.

After the game, fans were treated to fireworks, which may have been a little disconcerting for neighbors to hear what sounded like a massive amount of automatic weapons being fired.

Being a guy's vacation, a cold post-game beverage at a nearby watering hole was a must (there was one tavern which looked like it might still have Ty Cobb's last empty beer bottle on the bar), followed by a cab ride back to the hotel, foregoing the ten minute walk.

Day 2: Two of the guys have made alternate plans so just Jim and I catch the late afternoon game. After the game it is dark so we try to hail a cab. Having no luck, we begin hoofing it down Trumbull Avenue.

Jim has been the main source of my paranoia about Detroit. He has been here twice before. His first time, on a bus heading to the ballpark, he watched a man get mugged. Two years ago, while leaving the game, he was robbed at gunpoint. The last place I want to be on a Saturday night is walking through the streets of Detroit with Jim. I hadn't run for a few days, but this trek was made at a pretty brisk pace and came very close to being a workout. Fortunately, Jim's bad luck streak seems to have ended as we arrive safely at the hotel.

Day 3: An unexpected surprise. The team is having a promotion allowing fans on a roped off portion of the outfield. A great photo op for John and Jane Q. Public to have their picture taken pretending to make a great catch over the fence (me included). Nobody seemed to want to reenact the not so great Tiger moment of Ty Cobb climbing into the stands to mercilessly beat a heckling fan that had the disadvantage of having no arms. When apprised of this fact, Cobb replied, "I don't care if he has no legs" and resumed beating him.

After the game it was another $34 cab ride back to the airport with a driver who insisted on showing us his resume, a three by two-foot rolled up paper.

I know I'm one of the few people in America considers Detroit a vacation spot. Perhaps next year I'll do something more traditional, like Milwaukee.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:57 PM