Pittsburgh

Really! My bet was I'd be on a plane Friday just possibly going home but, alas, it didn't happen.

I'm here in Pittsburgh (Bridgeville), Pennsylvania for a while. This is my first weekend here and got out a while this morning to check out Pittsburgh. I stopped off at Fort Pitt Museum and while there and shot a few shots of the bridge over the Ohio River as well as a stainless steel park bench.

I know, it's silly but I found it very interesting and it doesn't take much to keep me entertained. This area is rich in Revolutionary War history but that was then and this is now.

Somehow the geometrics combined with the reflections gave me pause to click a few.

In almost every city you go to, someone you know has already been or lived there and occasionally will give helpful advice on places to go, things to do or something to eat. In Cincinnati, it was Skyline Chili, Chicago, it's one of the Chicago style pizza joints, Hawaii it was Poi and in Tuscaloosa, it's Dreamland Barbeque. So in the case of Pittsburgh, a colleague (yes, Mac, you) summarily prodded, if not conned, me into looking up Primanti Brothers Restaurant, a little dive down in the warehouse district or "the strip district". Umpteen years ago, they started making sandwiches supposedly for truckers that included meats, cheese, french fries and coleslaw all jammed together between two slices of Italian bread. Slices, not a bun.

I'm always open to the local flavor so I trotted down to the original location in the Strip District on 18th Street. Primanti Bros. is a cash only place with stainless steel counters, a caricature mural of famous people who've eaten there and a half dozen waitresses with the charm and warmth of an IRS agent.

The waitress mumbled, "Whattayahavin'?" and I replied, "Whatever is your number one sandwich." Tinkerbell snapped, "They're all number one" and walked off to intimidate another patron. When she returned, I took the cue to order something quickly, so I blurted out, "The steak sandwich and iced tea!"

Well, when she eventually plopped that thing down all wrapped in butcher paper, I opened it to find a sandwich about 4 or 5 inches tall cut in two. I realize presentation can be subjective in some cases.

It must be a local thing (see the reference to poi in Hawaii and chili in Cincinnati) because I couldn't see what the big deal was. First of all, I had to mash it down so I could take a bite and in doing so, the vinegar based coleslaw caused the bread to be soggy, hence the thing to fell apart. That with the combination of tasteless french fries in between the steak slices and slaw just made it, well.....a revolting experience. Like I said, I guess it must be a local thing. If I admitted that to the locals, I'd be run out on a rail.

All that for eight dollahs and thirty-two cents.

I just can't seem to help myself !

I'm not a particular fan of Memphis, Tennessee, simply because of an ongoing war with one of the carriers, but if you fly to or from any airport in Louisiana other than New Orleans, you're only selections are Atlanta, Houston, Dallas or Memphis.

Memphis, like Atlanta, is one of those places that seems inevitable that you're going to arrive at the end of one terminal and re-plane in the far end of another. I think that must be a law or something. Anyway, I've digressed so back to the tale.

Even though I pretty much dread putting up with the Pinnacle carrier for Delta/Northwest in Memphis, one of the joys there is Jim Neely's Interstate Bar-B-que found on either wing of the "Y" shaped B terminal. My favorite is the Chopped Brisket Smoked Barbeque sandwich. Actually, it really isn't a "favorite", it's the ONLY thing I order there. "What's the big deal?", you might ask. Well, now that you've asked, it's a wonderful piece of culinary decadence, guaranteed to make you stop. It will set you back 8 bucks but what the heck, I'm on the company ticket and it's not like turning in a receipt from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and they shrug it off.

That mouth watering hunk o' burnin' love probably is a half pound of low fat beef brisket permeated with a deep smoke flavor and makes your lip curl back and gives you twitch like Elvis. It's served up with a tangy sweet sauce that you will drink if you don't open up that sandwich and drown your meat with it. Oh, there's sides available and quite sure there has to be a couple of other items on the menu but for me, it's the barbequed brisket sandwich. I can smell it just as soon as I see my itinerary say, "MEMPHIS."

I thought that if I ever had an hour or two on the ground, I'd make a pass by either the 3rd street location or the one in Southaven , MS but from the reviews I read about, the service is third degree lousy. So, I guess that means I'll forever be stopping in at Terminal B when I'm there.

Travel Arrangements

When I've been on an assignment for a while, I'm always speculating where and when the next one will be. For the past few days, there has been banter between me and home office on whether to get a round trip ticket back to Detroit for my next visit at home. The last conversation pretty much insinuated I'd be there until Friday but no decision had been made whether a return flight was in the picture.

I was surprised this afternoon when I got a call from the office telling me I needed to be in Bridgeville, PA, just out of Pittsburgh, immediately.

My mind jerked trying to snap myself into travel mode, calculating how much time it would take to get back to the hotel, pack my bags, check out and hook it to Detroit International Airport. There were several things needing my attention on the computer, paperwork needing to be sorted and clutter on the desk needed to be cleaned up before I left. All that and be able to catch the flight. I had even planned to wash my clothes Thursday night before I traveled.

After I settled down a bit, I realized how this exactly reflects life. Pardon me if this gets a tad morbid but here's how I reason it out. When we are supposedly healthy and not too long in the tooth, we calculate mentally, "Oh, I've got another 20 years left before I kick the bucket." Plenty of time. Well, life is no guarantee and it's much like my experience when I got the travel call today telling me to go now and not wait until the weekend.

When that time comes, many of us will not have our bags packed, no travel arrangements, no hotel reservations and no time to call everyone you know to let them in on your new destination. It may come as a complete surprise.

With this in mind, hopefully my bags will be packed, not too much clutter on the desk and no dirty laundry when the time comes.

I hope it's that way for you too.

Everybody has a hobby

I had wanted to ride up to the Mackinac (Mackinaw) Bridge and Island where the upper peninsula connects with the southern part of Michigan but that would be a 12 hour round trip not counting wandering around time. Plan "B" turned out doing a little flea market shopping which yielded nothing.

On my way back to the hotel, I took the scenic view along the Detroit River through the suburbs of Trenton and Wyandotte. They are the older but cleaner and neater areas full of auto plant retirees. The streets are home townish with active shops and little parks along the river.

Getting out at one park, I walked up on a fishing pier where not too serious about fishing families gathered and young sweethearts wrote messages on the rails. One guy caught my eye. He was throwing something into the water and dragging it back in with a ski rope. As I got closer, I could see it was a piece of pipe with hooks fashioned out of coat hangers. He would throw it out, let it sink then slowly drag it in again. It seems he spent his Saturdays doing that, sometimes dragging in lost fishing lures and other objects thrown or lost in the water. Frankly, he was having as much luck as the others.

I guess there's something for everyone.

Air Travel Ain't What It Used To Be

Air travel just isn't what it used to be. Boarding a 757 in Houston, I found an older Asian guy in my seat who insisted I should take his seat in 8E (a window seat) so that he could sit next to his wife. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal but the night before, when I checked in, I specifically worked on getting an aisle seat to accommodate my ever increasing frame and would be able to occasionally stretch my leg into the aisle. Aggravated that he wouldn't get up but kept pointing to his seat and giving me a sheepish grin saying, "You take my seat, okay?" I looked around at other passengers who appeared to sympathize with him. Let's face it, there was no way I was going to win a public relations battle over it so I made my way to his seat where I sat squeezed between the window and a very large Amazonian female for the next 2½ hours. I felt like a pressed ham.

I can remember when flying was a big deal. The first time for me, included getting all dressed up in a suit, buying a cigar and having my picture made at the airport. Boarding a Delta Douglas DC 3 tail dragger at Selman Field in Monroe, Louisiana for a very long ride eventually arriving in Hartford Connecticut, I was ever eager give the appearance of an experienced traveler. That was in 1967.

As the twin engine plane belched fire, let out a puff of smoke and became airborne, you could see the wings bending under pressure as it rose to a cruising altitude. Sitting in the rear, with no one beside me, I lit a cigarette when the seatbelt and no smoking signs went off. By the time we were in the seven to eight thousand feet range, my cigarette had developed quite a long ash. Looking around for an ashtray, I found what looked like on on the side of the plane. Holding the cigarette with my right hand, I attempted to pull on the ashtray with my left but found it somewhat stubborn in it's release. Getting a firmer grip, I gave it a mighty tug a the same moment I swallowed.

Never having been at that altitude, I didn't realize that your hearing was slightly impaired and I would have to swallow to clear my ears. So at that very precise moment that I did so and pulled on the ashtray, all the noise from those twin engines must have tripled in my head. Just in that brief nanosecond, the synapses in my brain began to compile all kinds of tragedies and I briefly imagined I had pulled a hole in the side of the plane and could see myself being sucked through it.

Those were truly the golden days of air travel.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day 2010, Gonzales, LA

Lafayette Car Show

My riding podnuh called me just as I had gotten in from Dearborn Friday night asking what I thought about a ride over to Scott, LA (Lafayette) to an auto show held in the parking lot of Cajun Harley Davidson. "But of course!", was my response. "Where do you want to meet?" was the next question. We mutually agreed on a place so at 9:00, Saturday morning we met for our ride over to the car show.

Before I left this morning, I found my front tire was nearly flat, so I aired it up and when we got to the Harley shop in Scott, I talked to the service people and they convinced me it would better to have a new tube installed. So, for 3 hours we wandered around a somewhat small car show with temperatures at 92° in the shade and can only imagine what it was out on the concrete.

This wasn't necessarily a restored car show for many were fiberglass replicas of custom cars. There was the abundance of 60s Chevys and Fords with a few Rat Rods thrown in for good measure. There was even a motorcycle drawn hearse, compliments of Pellerin Funeral Home.

While we waited on the tire, we sauntered next door to Fezzo's, a local restaurant for lunch. I'm telling you, their version of a loaded baked potato was outstanding. It consisted of a large pomme de terre laden with crawfish etouffe on top. Tres bon! Slap yo mama!

After the tube was finally installed on Boudreaux, we headed south out of Lafayette, cruising through Abbeville, Delcambre and New Iberia. Approaching Breaux Bridge, the bottom decided to fall out of the sky and we found ourselves seeking shelter under the cover of an abandoned service station. I'm not opposed to riding in a little rain but when it's lightening, blowing rain and hail, it's time to draw the line. Besides, riding in that kind of weather brought back haunting images of the Harley drawn hearse back at the car show.

After holding up there for an hour or so, we decided to take our chances getting home. We hadn't traveled 10 miles before the skies opened up again and we found ourselves parked at local grocery store on Hwy 31, just north of Breaux Bridge. At this point, we figured putting on rain suits might not be a bad idea.

Anyway, with a few items of clothing on the damp side we eventually made to Highway 190 where everything had dried out. Even though spots were a bit disagreeable, we both counted it as a great Saturday ride with 300+ miles on our bikes.

Hoedown Detroit

hoe·down :
-noun

1.

a community dancing party typically featuring folk and square dances accompanied by lively hillbilly tunes played on the fiddle.

2.

the hillbilly or country music typical of a hoedown.

A local radio station put's on a "hoedown" every May here in Detroit. Now, a "hoedown" isn't necessarily the same in all places but the folks in the frozen tundra look for any excuse to get out when the weather warms and the sun shines.

Detroit's hoedown is held downtown on the St Claire River right beside the tunnel that scoots daily travelers under the river to Windsor, Ontario. It's a free event with several country bands on various stages.

Participants dig through the bottom of closets and under beds to pull out old hats and boots to look somewhat southern, country or western. I'm telling you, Nashville denizens would lay on the ground and have a big ole belly laugh at some of the costumes that appeared. But bless their hearts, they really try and enjoy the heck out of themselves.

The music is constant and loud, the vendors sell cheap western hats and T-shirts and the food is plentiful and palatable.

Not bad for a Sunday afternoon in a city.

The Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village

Years ago, Henry and Clara Ford set up the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Although they initially funded it, they left no provisions for the upkeep of it. At one point, a few years ago, the area fell into disrepair so badly it appeared it would have to be demolished. So, a foundation of volunteers and benefactors raised funds and have restored it to a magnificent reflection of not only Ford's history but 19th and 20th century America itself.

Greenfield Village provides a walking history tour of everything from railroads, aviation and automobiles to glass blowers, printing presses and farming. One impressive demonstration was the vintage Jacquard loom that was capable of weaving any image directly into the fabric. What's so impressive about that? Well, it was a programmable loom, invented in 1801 that took it's cues from cards with holes in them. In other words, it was the first punch card system which ultimately, led to IBM developing the first computer. Bill Gates, Michael Dell and Steve Jobs wouldn't be who they are today were it not for Joseph Marie Jacquard.

The Henry Ford Museum is not necessarily a pat on it's back to the Ford Motor Company. Sure it has a slew of old cars but also tells the story of American ingenuity in steam engines, electricity, farming, aeronautics and culture.

By the end of the day, my feet felt flatter than the streets I walked on for most of the day so I hobbled off to the car and checked into the Marriott Courtyard.

Dearbornistan

Ack ! !............Update:

Just when I thought I'd never have to deal with Detroit again, I find myself headed for Dearborn, Michigan. Oh well, like I told my wife, there's got to be a blessing laying around in there somewhere. So, within a few days, I was able to share my faith with someone who had a very different idea of what an independent protestant Christian was.

After a couple of weeks here, I've had some pretty positive experiences. Before arriving, my perception of Dearborn was pretty grim, simply because it, like many places I've been to, were for the most part a sum of rumors and fear or reluctance of the unknown.

Dearborn is where Ford Motor Company is headquartered and streets reflect the city's dedication to the company. Streets and roads such as Ford Road, Fairlane and Mercury Drives are only a few examples. Had Henry Ford been born in Amarillo, Texas, Detroit would be a defunct fur trading outpost.

Part of my reluctance for coming here was knowing this was one of, if not the biggest centers of Arab/Muslim culture in the United States. Yes, the place is running over with ladies (and sometimes gentlemen) dressed in Arab garb and restaurants, stores and signs on cars are first hand evidence that make it the norm here. That being said, no one has held me down and forced a felafel into my mouth or have been discourteous to me at all. I've even heard Arabs calling into talk radio (yes, I'm one of those listeners) with American views to the right of Karl Rove. After all, many families have been here for 4 and 5 generations who came here to work on Henry Ford's moving assembly line. I've met a few people here and in many respects, they're just like me, trying to hack out a living and pursue wealth and happiness and grow old around their grand-kids.

Do I necessarily find Dearborn charming and have thoughts of moving here? Absolutely not but Arabs and Muslims are here and not going away. Like the Jews, Irish, Italians and Asians before them, they too will eventually place an indelible mark on the culture of the USA. It is what it is.

Ironically, Rima Fakih of Dearborn is the new Miss USA in Las Vegas, May 15. Fakih, 24, formerly from New York was raised in Dearborn, Michigan. She beat out 50 other contestants, including runner-up Miss Oklahoma, for the grand prize. It is said that the local Muslims are divided on her winning Miss USA, particularly the swimsuit division.

Probably the pole dancing video doesn't help either.

Irony indeed.