GOOFIN'

1.The Stranger on the full aural experience that is Tokyo.

2.The NYTimes on food markets.

3.NG takes you around the world in 80 books.

4.One of the greatest travel films ever (I know because I saw it) c/o Werner Herzog

More Food in LA

Foo Foo Tei (Hacienda Heights)
Foo Foo Tei is located on a cold palisade of concrete walls and sparse vegetation. It's one of the ugliest streets I've seen since my day stranded in Needles, CA. Somehow it just happens to contain two of my favorite restaurants in LA. If you get to Foo Foo Tei a bit early you might beat the crowds. If not, get ready to wait awhile. Inside, florescent lights and wooden paddles displaying the ramen selections function partially as ambiance, but the real aesthetic is provided by the parade of Japanese Americans-businesspeople and families on weekdays, baseball players, families, and couples on the weekends-huddled over giant steaming bowls of ramen. Aside from the noodles they come for simple dishes of grilled salmon, mackerel and squid, bowls of rice and eel, fried tofu, all waiting to be dressed with massive amounts of the chopped garlic that sits on each table.

Wa (Hollywood)
Started by Matsuhisa expats from what I’ve read, Wa seems to take inspiration from the same Tokyo/Lima pipeline. Wear black, bring an I-phone and acquire a few friends in the industry if you want to blend in. The sushi is fine, though nothing that really gets me excited for the price I paid. Of course, this likely says more about my bank account at the time than it does about the quality of the fish here. I really enjoyed the ceviche, soaked in a savory, cilantro touched pool, served in a martini glass.

Pinkberry (Everywhere)
Pinkberry encapsulates the experience of the sleek and pristine Tokyo healthy yogurt emporium—from the trademark scent that greets you to the minimalist design to the overpriced trinkets that line the shelves—as well as anything I’ve seen outside of Tokyo. Needless to say (I guess), they also seem intent on mimicking the prices. I’m one of those who buy into the scam completely.

Euro Pane (Pasadena)
I’m fairly confident I’ll never see a more effective horror film than The Exorcist. I doubt I’ll ever read a better book than Moby Dick. And I doubt I’ll ever see a better drummer than Hamid Drake. I’m also pretty sure I’ll never enjoy an order of French Toast more than the offering at Pasadena’s Euro Pane. It’s really hard to describe what it is that makes it what it is, although I think it comes down to its texture: grainy in a way and simultaneously delicate, moist but not at all damp. Each piece dissolves in your mouth. What else is there to eat? Flaky croissants with suitably strong coffee, frittata’s and the pear pastries that I order every once in awhile when the French Toast is sold out.

Palm Thai Restaurant (Hollywood)
Not the first place I would go to get Thai food but definitely the first I would go on a Friday night at 10ish to get papaya salad and steamed fish while being serenaded by a Thai Elvis.

Eating LA

Machos Tacos (Los Feliz)
A five minute walk from Machos Tacos takes you to Frank Lloyd Wright's warm, beige, brick ode to the West, the Hollyhock House, complete with a panning view of the LA metro valley. A thirty minute uphill climb takes you to Wright's Ennis Brown House, a toweringly dramatic behemoth of a fortress, built with immense stone bricks, that looks like it might fit in more in 1115 AD Guatemala, and offers an even more ridiculously entrancing view of LA. Both look more like temples than houses. On the way up to the latter you'll likely site innumerable multi-million dollar homes, from expensive haciendas with Spanish tiles, to charming little alpine wannabes with thatched roofs and fairy tale chimneys, to sleek, ultramodern creations of geometry possibly populated by androids. And if you still want more, there's a nice view of Griffith Observatory from the intersection of Los Feliz and Catalina.

Machos Tacos, on the other hand, is not much to look at, at first at least. Sitting on the corner of Vermont and Hollywood Boulevard in Los Feliz, the stand counts as its neighbors a car wash that's so close you suspect it's operated under joint ownership, a Starbucks across the street, and a wave of strip malls. You place your order after looking at what amounts to a relatively large menu, perched above the order window, that includes a long list of burritos, tacos and combination dinners (arriving with rice, beans, guacamole, and sour cream). At first glance, while taking money out of a caddy corner Bank of America, I thought I would have to grab my food and be on my way. A short twist around the counter, though, revealed a somehow tranquil courtyard submerged below a trellis of flowers. Somehow, with traffic whizzing by and a steady stream of noise from the car wash, I found a certain calm and enjoyed a dense, doughy burrito, stuffed to an extent that it easily ripped and spilled a well cooked stew of beans, cheese, carrots, chicken and onions onto my plate. Not that burritos are meant to be eaten with forks. But I made an exception for this one.

Nem Nuong Ninh Hoa (San Gabriel Valley)
Broken rice is such a scam. What functions as peasant food in Southeast Asia, tiny shards of rice discarded from the rest of the pack for their truncated qualities and sold at a lower premium, is actually more expensive than their fully formed counterparts in the USA. Kind of like paying more for health food. This being said, the chicken with broken rice dish at Nem Nuong Ninh Hoa is a moderately and appropriately oily, suitably spiced lunch or dinner option that I have paid extra for on at least two occasions. And I'll have no issues doing so again.

Zankou (Hollywood, Pasadena)
The mutabal at Zankou is in its own league among the adequate menu of wraps, plates and side items. It may be my favorite single item in LA, at least in the realm of things I would most want to have an endless bowl of as I watch a football game. There's a characteristic smokiness to the product that begs the question of why the owners don't offer a complimentary beer the same way a snooty pub might with good cheese. The chicken wraps, coated with just the right amount of a suitably potent garlic sauce are pretty good as well. As are the pickles. And the tabouli. But make sure you try the mutabal.

Ebisu (Little Tokyo)
Ebisu is a sub-city of Tokyo (or maybe Tokyo is a meta-city partially composed of Ebisu) in which, a short walk from the central train station, one finds a more than adequate collection of tastefully shy nightspots tucked in little streets that wrap like dragons, signaled by glowing lanterns and word of mouth, restaurants that hover when you walk by. Ebisu, the restaurant, is nothing like this. Gaudy fish adorn the walls. The centerpiece is a 12 foot ship replica that functions as a table setting for a rectangular table. And the food is...just ok: all too creamy California rolls seemingly devoid of avocado, cold and sterile steamed broccoli and carrots served as part of the dish, decent grilled salmon, and a monstrous, table-consuming sampler boat that was perhaps a good example of the lack of wisdom in trying to do too much...chicken, beef, tempura, salad, vegetables, and sushi. I was kind of puzzled by meal's end.

In n Out
In n Out, outside of California, holds the sort of reverence that is reserved for the Goo Goo clusters and the Olympia's of the world, cheap and convenient regional thrills that are essential parts of any visit to anywhere that you can get it. In an aspiring foodie mind, In n Out becomes a sensual fever dream of carnivorous delight, forever displacing any desires for the bourgeois McDonalds, Burger King, Checkers, or even Milo's, if you've ever spent any time in Birmingham, AL. At least that's how I felt in the years leading up to my first visit. In retrospect, I kinda wonder what all the fuss was about. I can see the appeal, in some ways: a clean and streamlined operation that produces a clean, streamlined burger with a grilled onion option, cholesterol free fries, and a cute little half open package for the burger. We eat with our eyes, or our brains, right? But is In n Out really any tastier than the triumph of minimalism found in the Wendy's Double Stack. The food is fine but, in a world without fat and cholesterol, it's very possible I'd take a Double Stack. And I would certainly rather Milo's.

La Huarachito (Lincoln Heights)
Mexican greasy spoon on Broadway. The kind of sunny, urban, well-trafficked spot that you're quite sure, upon the first look inside, local Mexican families approve of. Framed culturescapes of Mexico adorn the walls and they might be called tacky if they weren't so unbelievably right. Tacos arrive with the regular garnish of cilantro and tiny, diced onions on smog colored tortillas. Plates are pretty standard, but a nice lunch nonetheless.

HK

Just caught the Murakami exhibit at MOCA in LA. Completely worth it if you live here. This was particularly awesome.

AWESOME

Kaiseki. Coffin Hotels. Dirty panties in vending machines. Visitor Q. Robot Coke machines that walk the city. The Boredoms. And now...foiling thieves and urban bandits with mailbox, manhole and vending machine disguises. Only in...well, you know.

Somebody send me a plane ticket to NYC

Richard Prince is the Royal Trux of the art world, appropriating and devouring pulp and popular culture from muscle cars to cowboys in a way that the people that work at The Wire and Artforum drool over. The Guggenheim is holding a little Richard Prince retrospective (Spiritual America) until January. Hopefully it will move around a bit, maybe all the way to LA, after that.

In other kinda NYC news, the New York Times features an interesting article on the remote island of Faro (population 572, off the coast of Sweden) in today's issue. It sounds like the kind of place--dirt roads, no banks, no schools, lot's of old people, rain, desolate views-- that might be either extremely boring or the most amazing two or three days of your year. Ingmar Bergman used to live there and, apparently, was protected by locals who informed Bergman stalkers that they had no idea where he lived. All this being said, there's a more lengthy article somewhere in the NYTimes archive from an issue of the magazine from last summer. I'm adding Faro to my list somewhere between Bali and Oman.

PICS

Route 66. Flagstaff, AZ

CHEERS

Inventorspots, which I had never heard of, has two nice little lists, one on weird Japanese drinks, the other on the Japanese propensity for making things small. Mother's Milk? Classic.

EATING OUT

88 Tofu House
5490 Buford Hwy.
Doraville, Atlanta

If conventional Asian cuisine has a comfort food it might be Korean. The Japanese have yakitori, noodles and tempura (adopted from the Portuguese) alongside the aesthetic brilliance of their food. The Chinese have dumplings and pancakes to go against the banquets of Beijing. Vietnam has Pho, Malaysia roti. But there's something about the warmth and simplicity of a standard Korean meal--ponchon, deceptively complex soups, and beef that Argentians would salivate at--that, at least in my mind, puts Korean food on par with the food you might find at a roadside diner in Elberton, Georgia.
88 Tofu House looks like it could have fit right into the visions of daylight and late-night roadside LA diners in Pulp Fiction, or Swingers. Like numerous other Buford Highway restaurants, it exists in a charmingly
retro roadside building, stolen from the 70s, one you imagine probably sold burgers and/or country fried steak in a previous life. Booths are of the same molded wood model you find in an old Burger King. There’s a compact and succinct IN/OUT sign on the edge of the street. There’s even evidence of what was probably a drive through window—can you imagine drive-thru Korean on the way to a ponchon and tofu soup picnic?
For my money, though, 88 Tofu House is at its best in the late hours (it’s open for 24 of them), when the harsh afternoon natural lighting scheme gives way to the soothing shades of night, youthful experts on the way home from Happy Karoake, and bubbling cauldrons of comfort. If you’re looking for any of the standard Korean tofu soups, there’s a good chance you’ll find it here. Seafood tofu soup, mushroom tofu soup, beef tofu soup, beef honeycomb tofu soup, combination tofu soup (if you want some of all of the above)—they’re all here, along with 20 or so other varieties. The soups come to your table in black, iron bowls that look like they could be used to grind corn in if you wanted. Still alive when they arrive, you might have to wait a five to ten minutes to really try them. When you do, you’ll find a reasonably seasoned, not too salty, broth with slippery, delicate pieces of tofu and the accompanying meat or vegetable. The broth is flavorful and rich without overpowering the palate with salt.
While you’re waiting for the soup to cool, there are plenty of other options to occupy your time and stomach. As always, there’s ponchon, the Korean tapas that function as appetizers and/or complements to proper Korean meals. Kimchee is the staple, whether it be in the form of marinated cabbage, cucumbers or—my favorite—small, cubed pieces of daikon, where the vegetable absorbs just enough of the savory brilliance to salt
your tongue. Marinated sprouts are a clean palette cleanser for later in the meal. Rectangular, inch long, pieces of cream colored jello are mildly salty and topped with a slightly spicy chili sauce. Dried and salty sardines are far too salty, but I’m highly averse to sodium. You might feel differently.
The comfort factor of the soups continues with the other entrees, devoid of aesthetic style or novelty, but robust in flavor and mass. LA short ribs come on a sizzling oval platter, alongside grilled onions, richly caramelized if a little fatty. Bulgolgi arrives thinly shredded with a subtle sweetness, with a metal, circular container of steamed rice.
The combos featured on the inside of the menu pair any of the tofu soups with the above beef dishes or a bowl 88 Tofu’s rice hash. The hash comes in a bigger version of the bowls used for the soup and slowly cooks until you’re finished with it. Rice forms the bedrock and is topped with zuchini and carrots julienne, thinly sliced dried seaweed, a small serving of bulgogi, and a raw egg. By the time you reach the bottom, portions of the rice have cooked to the point that you have to scrape them off the bottom with a spoon, at which point you might be offered a cup of hot water to pour to aid in the task. It’s certainly worth your time as the rice attains a consistency enjoyable in itself. Maybe not the most practical thing for a picnic, but unbeatable when it comes to late night
searches for sustenance.

Rollin' Bones
77 Edgewood Ave.
Atlanta, GA
I am not one of those BBQ guys. Like self-proclaimed Civil War buffs who throw out references to Pickett’s Charge at Thanksgiving dinner or middle-aged, ruffled-shirt clad baseball enthusiasts who take any chance possible to inject Earl Weaver’s name into a cocktail party conversation, BBQ guys wear their ‘cue loving on their sleeve like an attractive tattoo and scour and crawl over North Carolina and Texas back roads with Pentecostal fervor. I’m not one of those guys. I just like BBQ.
What education I do have began at Ollie’s BBQ in Birmingham, AL. Ollie’s was located right off of Interstate-65, around downtown Birmingham, somewhere around the line where black people stopped living and white
people started living. Infamously (or famously depending on whom you ask), Ollie’s had a part in the desegregation of the South as the Interstate Commerce Commission used its jurisdiction to force Ollie’s to integrate by way of an ultimatum that shut down shipping of supplies via interstate to the restaurant until it agreed to integrate. My memory of the restaurant is tied to snapshots of exceedingly plump black waitresses, a large counterspace curved in several different spots that gave way to a semi-open kitchen, religious publications offered for sale by the cash register in the front, and the simple plates of BBQ sandwiches, garnished with a few pickles, with a light and clean, vinegar based sauce in squirt bottles on the side.
My dad was always a fan of Birmingham’s Golden Rule, and particular to the point that he refused to eat at the location near our house, on a stretch of strip malls that would fit it in Los Angeles, opting instead for the distant Irondale location. Sadly, I never made it to the Irondale spot.
Somewhere around college I made it to Dreamland, the Tuscaloosa spot regularly name-checked by Saturday afternoon sportscasters during Alabama football games, and found a sparse rectangular room with long family style tables adorned with paper towel rolls, and a similarly sparse, but rich in particulars, menu featuring sweet tea and ribs.
I moved to Georgia in the mid-1990s and visited Harold’s, a two room shack a few steps from the Federal Pen, that serves rich Brunswick stew and smoky, refreshingly non-uniform slices of pork atop Texas Toast, sauce on
the side, allowing you to taste the flavor of the meat and the process itself, before or apart from the sauce. Daddy Dz was next: heavy, thickly sauced ribs with more than competent side offerings of broccoli casserole, collards and the like. Outside Athens I found Paul’s (open on Saturdays and 4th of July), a non-descript space off the town square, full of camo and dry goods, a place that feels more like a Sunday church supper, with paper plates, table loafs of white bread, and deeply flavorful chopped barbecue. With some decent, but less impressive, stops in between, I figured I had just about done the Atlanta/Athens BBQ scene. And then I found Rollin’ Bones.
Rollin’ Bones does not look authentic. With large glass windows that visually-aerate and relax the setting, a patio decorated with IKEAesque furniture, a streamlined flat screen I would love to own and numerous reviews from stylish magazines adorning the wall, the restaurant looks more like a trendy local (Tacqueria del Sol) that woke up one day to find itself serving barbecue instead of burritos. You can’t really trust appearances.
The menu features hot links, ribs, barbecue plates, sandwiches and a host of side items (the collards were a bit too salty, but fine nonetheless).
When you order a chopped pork sandwich, make sure to grab a fork as well. Take your sandwich (via the to-go box they may provide you) to the patio, settle down in the downtown air and open the box. What you will find is a combination of toasted bread sprinkled with herbs, slowly fading into a bread goo as it sops up the rich, sauce saturated pork it shelters, sauce spilling out the sides into the container creating a bedrock of flavor just in case you want more. The sauce is thin enough, a little oily some might say, but in possession of a subtle spice that hits you right where you want it to. I finished mine in under-two minutes. I then used my fork for the collards, which I suppose is what it was meant for.

Trail's End Restaurant, Knab, Utah, August 10, 1973
From the book Uncommon Places: The Complete Works. Stephen Shore.

MORE DO'S AND DON'TS

1. 285N out of Dallas-Stretches of steadily moving two lane pleasantly interrupted by little towns like Clarendon with motels like the It'll Do Inn, Western Skies Motel and the L.A. Motel. Lot's of boot and hat shops. One town had a restaurant that served Thai, Chinese and Lao. There isn't even a Lao restaurant in Atlanta...
2. Horse Hotel (Amarillo, TX)-Free 72 oz. steak. If you can finish it. Free limo service too, whatever that means.
3. 25 N to Santa Fe-Nothing against I-40, which from Amarillo to Arizona runs through some amazing landscapes, but this little road, completely absent of billboards is everything you might have imagined this region of the country to be. Curving back and forth as you ascend, the road cuts through a stretch of sunflower colored fields decorated with sponge prints of dark green trees and bushes, punctuated by red rocks, boulders seemingly stacked atop each other, pink skies and those purple mountains you've heard about in that song you've heard a million times.
4. Santa Fe-My 45 minute stint in downtown Santa Fe was alright, just alright. I'm guessing the downtown historic district isn't built with dogs in mind, as there was nowhere to eat with a welcoming patio. Or maybe it was just because it was Sunday. I'm guessing Santa Fe is one of those old towns (oldest capital in the USA actually) that caters to well off guests who frequent the premium shops in its downtown. Not really my thing. Starving at 9 PM, we finally found the Blue Corn Cafe in a strip mall and feasted on a huge burrito filled with black beans cooked to the wonderful consistency of a paste, and chicken tacos in blue corn shells. More than satisfying.
5. Meteor Crater-Sadly, too tired to stop.
6. "Indian" Stores and Native Reservations-The not so great aspect of the drive, traveling past desolate settlement after desolate settlement and AUTHENTIC Indian Craft store after AUTHENTIC Indian Craft Store. I'm guessing that at least 50% of those working at the Love's Travel Stop, on a cozy 99 degree afternoon, halfway between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, would rather be hanging out in suburban Raleigh or Norfolk, where their Great Great Great Grandfather lived. But ultimately they got legal casinos, isolation and rampant alcoholism so I guess they're really happy with the way things turned out.
6. Flagstaff, AZ-Kind of like Athens, GA but in Arizona. We took Route 66 off I-40 into the downtown, which is a charming little grid of two to three story brick buildings, housing bars, clothing stores, record stores, restaurants and more bars. The busy train tracks run alongside Route 66 and past the downtown; the hotels offer their apologies for the noise upfront. A couple of good sized mountains tower over the town. And you can get to the Grand Canyon in an hour or so. Our hotel was actually on Route 66, which still features a nice array of seemingly vintage motels, like Motel El Dorado, and bars like Crazy Bill's.

DO'S AND DON'TS SO FAR

(For the next few days or so, I'll be driving from Atlanta to Los Angeles. Some highlights...)
1. Davenport's Pizza (Birmingham, AL)-I really never understood what it was that made Davenport's so good. The ingredients and methods of manufacture seem pretty standard, at first, and obvious when you watch the cooks. There are no sun dried tomatoes; no imported cheeses; no wood grilled chicken. And then recently I realized the secret: the tactic of lathering the pizza with sauce and ingredients before covering the top with deli size slices of mozzarella, creating, in effect, two separate and distinct layers of experience. The pies are cut into small rectangular pieces allowing you to eat some pieces in the whole, and others layer by layer.
2. Vicksburg Welcome Center-Sitting on the gateway to the West with a towering view of the Mississippi and an old bridge that looks like it could have taken cannon fire from Union ships.
3. Ft. Worth Weather-Driving into Ft. Worth around 7, with the city having just experienced a week straight of rain, we found a cloud that seemed 10 miles in length, stretching across the sky with a bottom layer defined by a gray-purple hue and a top layer that looked like snow spilling over a New England log house. Lightning flashed intermittently. I felt like something was lumbering above me about to engulf my car. Pretty soon it rained, a lot.
4. Route 66-I spent about 10 minutes on it. Satisfied. For now.
5. Rudy's BBQ (Denton, TX)-Dry rubbed, oak-fired, Texas barbecue. The spicy chopped sandwich, garnished with fresh onions and spicy, pickled peppers and carrots on the side, was a slightly charred, smoky, ode to everything you imagine good barbecue to be. The green beans salad was slightly frozen, and the corn cob perhaps a bit overcooked but, again, the sandwich is worth the trio alone.
6. Crow Collection of Asian Art-In downtown Dallas. Nice little museum with a great gift shop. The highlight was a temporary exhibit of female Buddhas via various media. The 1000 paper cranes that hung from the mezzanine were nice as well.
7. Dealey Plaza-Kind of eerie actually, even at 2 in the afternoon. The conspiracy guy that gave me a 10 minute, well-researched and evenly paced audio-visual sales pitch on the multiple killer theory only added to the mood. The major DON'T, though, arrived in the form of three, sun-dress attired sorority types who took turns preening and posing, smiles blaring, in a manner that might make even a Hilton sister frown, as their friend took photos of them standing on the X that marks the spot of the spot on the road where the first shot hit JFK. It was amazing.
8. Teppo-Yakitori/Sushi in a Dallas club/record store/restaurant neighborhood. Watch out for the spicy Japanese mustard that comes with the yakitori. Make sure you sit on the automated, Japanese style, toilets. And try the beef tongue.

WEEKLY NY TIMES UPDATE NO. 2

On one of our last nights in Tokyo our newfound friends led us up through the quiet hills and alleys of Ebisu, through the doors of an apartment building, up several flights of stairs, and into a living space that I would love to have called my apartment; only it wasn't an apartment, it was a bar. Apparently such places, found through word of mouth and in dark alleys rather through advertising and drink specials, have become evermore popular among Tokyoites tired of Rappongi techno-blaring bars like Gas Panic. At least The New York Times thinks so.

There's also a short article that I've yet to read on Bali, which is somewhere on the short end of my list for where to go next.

And if you're wondering what to do the next time you're in Atlanta, try this. They are right on with the Starlight Drive In recommendation, but I would recommend the Atlanta History Center over Cyclorama, and the downtown Hilton, owing to its proximity to Trader Vic's over any of the hotels they suggest.

PICTURES

Off the beaten path Shanghai, c/o The New York Times.
Where not to go to the beach, c/o Fodors.
What people are eating these days, all over the world, c/o Time.

CRESCENT CITY TEN

Have you ever walked through the French Quarter around 10 AM in the rain? If you haven't, maybe you should.

1. Faulkner House Books (Pirates Alley)-Pirates Alley has always been one of my favorite spots in New Orleans, situated right off Jackson Square with a view of the rear courtyard of the Cathedral, steeped in lore surrounding Pirate Jean Lafitte and former resident William Faulkner. Faulkner House Books is one of those tiny, dimly lit bookstores you always look for in historic districts but never really find, one of those places you feel like you should buy something in because...well...just because you should. When you're in the bookstore, looking at the copy of Coming Through Slaughter you know you should buy, you're actually standing in the what used to be be WF's bedroom, where he wrote his first novel, Soldiers' Pay. A middle aged woman directed me to the framed picture of Faulkner on the wall with a postcard he sent to a Greenville, MS friend: "Come on over. -Bill."
2. Cafe Du Monde-It's really kind of charming, in a weird way, to sit in Cafe Du Monde amidst the collection of trash and ephemera that saturates the floor during a 10:30 PM rush. Waiters move back and forth breathlessly, politely and diplomatically jostling drunk out of towners fulfilling their checklists. I'm sure that any longtime resident of the city will tell you that the beignets have suffered from the decades of attention, but in my relative ignorance I'll say that the combination of fried pastry, powdered sugar, and an iced Cafe Au Lait on a June night to follow an afternoon of drinking is as good as any trip to Krystal. I mean that as a compliment. Cafe Du Monde is a perfect example of a place that does one thing really well, and refuses to even try to do anything else.
3. New Orleans Pharmacy Museum-One of my new favorite mini-museums, alongside Ford's Theatre (and the Inn across the street) in DC. Five bucks gets you a tour through pharmaceutical history with counters and cabinets full of everything they used to think could cure you--cocaine, heroin, tonics, bleeding tools, stirrups, syringes that look like something out of Dead Ringers, and live leeches.
4. Hustler megastore-Obviously, this place can't really compete with that strip club on Bourbon with the mechanical legs that raise in and out with the obedience of a cuckoo clock. But the chocolate scent that greets you at the door and gives way to hardcore porn on flatscreens upstairs is a nice break from watching people throw up next to 14 year old Latino prostitutes.
6. The Mississippi-If you ever get a chance to just sit and watch the boats go by at dusk it's pretty awesome.
7. Carmelo's Italian Ristorante-I was kind of tired (after only two meals) of overpriced, semi-dimensional New Orleans Quarter cuisine when we wondered into this Decatur St. restaurant, recommended on Chowhound. The decor and staff commanded the respect of any semi-formal Midtown or Highlands restaurant but seemed perfectly content with the fact that 90% of the customers were wearing shorts. A display case in back of the restaurant held fresh vegetables, marinated olives, fruits, and various antipasti. When I asked the waiter if they had a fruit salad for dessert he offered to make me one from the fruit on display. I had the risotto, with porcini mushrooms and "hints of white truffle oil." I can be pretty bad about rushing through a meal I enjoy, a product of the conditioning I've received with short work lunch breaks and the fact that I just really love to eat, but the risotto forced me to slow down, alternating between my entree and pieces of perfectly toasted bread, enjoying the subtle rhythms, aromas and waves of the ingredients moving back and forth on my tongue. When I finished mine I sopped up my girlfriend's equally quality marinara sauce with the leftover bread.
8. The Quarter at night-One of those "duh" things. But you really can't overstate the ambiance of walking around one of the off-Bourbon streets (Burgundy, Royal, Chartres to name a few) after 10 o'clock, when the crowds are at Pat O'Brien's or Oz and the gas lamps are flickering. I know that sounds really lame and affected but it's true.
9. Central Grocery-Did I mention that I really admire it when restaurants do one thing really well? Central Grocery isn't really a restaurant, I guess. It's an Italian grocery that stocks imported pastas, antipasti, wines, tomato sauce, and lot's of other stuff I didn't have enough time to notice. In addition, they run a lunchtime assembly line that produces what everybody says is the best muffuletta in the city, and is undoubtedly the best I've ever had. Makes sense, as the sandwich was invented there by Salvatore Lupo, a Sicilian, in the early 1900s. Walk up to the counter and hand them $11 and they'll immediately hand you a 12" record sized sandwich packed in white paper and wax paper. Cut into quarters, the sandwich is a ridiculously enticing blend of properly thick, but chewy, sesame seed topped bread, capicola and salami laid out as a base for provolone, and an olive and cauliflower salad, that might also be called a salt and oil salad, that unites the entire experience. We split it.

YOUTH IN ASIA

Tour diary, with lot's of photos, here.

TRANSIT

Garry Winogrand was a mid-century photographer, in the tradition of William Eggleston, Alfred Stieglitz, and Stephen Shore, who used the street as his subject and, without manipulation or explicit commentary, hinted at both fact and truth in the ordinary and extraordinary. This photograph, of Los Angeles International Airport, is one of my favorites. Flying used to be exciting and novel, and maybe it still is for some (I still enjoy it). There's something weightless, airy, streamlined and soaring that the curves of the tower, the fading palms and the two female figures form, a feeling that may have faded in the era of limited access, no-liquids and general apprehension at airports around the world.

PICS

Phi Phi island, Thailand

ROAD TRIP

Pitchfork is reporting that on Sunday, June 10, Will Oldham will play I See A Darkness (roughly his 2nd or 3rd best all time album according to The Economist Pocket World in Figures), in its entirety, at the tenth anniversary of Wild and Wooly Video, which seems like an Oldham thing to do. I mean that as a compliment. I've always loved Oldham's willingness to play off the beaten path stuff. The guy seems to schedule whole tours as excuses/vehicles to take road trips through otherwise ignored California coast, deep South and European small towns. Blowfly will play as well. All for five bucks!

INFO

Highest Quality of Life
New York=100

1 Zurich, Switzerland 108.1
2 Geneva, Switzerland 108.0
3 Vancouver, Canada 107.7
4 Vienna, Austria 107.5
5 Auckland, New Zealand 107.3
6 Dusseldorf, Germany 107.2
7 Frankfurt, Germany 107.0
8 Munich, Germany 107.0
9 Bern, Switzerland 106.5
10 Sydney, Australia 106.5

Lowest Quality of Life
New York=100

1 Baghdad, Iraq 14.5
2 Brazzaville, Congo-Braz. 30.3
3 Bangui, Central African Republic 30.6
4 Khartoum, Sudan 31.7
5 Pointe Noire, Congo-Brazzaville 33.9
6 Ndjamena, Chad 37.2
7 Sana'a, Yemen 38.2
Port Harcourt, Nigeria 38.2
Nouakchott, Mauritania 38.2
10 Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso 40.5

(Stolen from The Economist Pocket World in Figures 2007 Edition)

FISH FOOD

Favorite Eating Experiences in Japan

1. Pocky-Candy biscuit sticks coated in chocolate at the top. One of the national candies of Japan, from what I could tell. I always loved the fact that when I spent a few dollars on a pack in a convenience store as big as a phone booth my change was returned, literally, on a silver platter.
2. Conveyor Belt Sushi-The industrial but cute alternative to traditional
sushi bars. Sit down and grab what you want as it wanders around the bar
like a model train. Plates are colored to indicate price. Some have machines that determine how long the fish has been on the belt and discard it accordingly.
3. Shiraume (Ryokan and Kaiseki, Kyoto)-Kaiseki refers to a multi-course, choreographed and stylized meal of largely local elements where presentation is well on par with taste. Each course, ideally, complements and accentuates the next. It’s particularly popular in the Kansai region around Kyoto and Nara. Shiraume is located in the middle of Gion, the pleasure district of Kyoto, amidst dimly quiet streets, with buildings whose windows glow like fireflies on early evenings, where Geishas occasionally glide by like ghosts, and red paper lanterns signal specialties of the house. To enter you cross a bubbling trout-filled brook. We were lucky enough to secure a room with one window to the creek and the other to a quiet Japanese garden. Our meal was served by the kimono-clad daughter of the proprietor who described each of our 14 courses in detail as they were presented. Each time she entered, she slid on her knees to our low, hovering, Japanese table, refusing to touch her feet on the ground. The meal was a ridiculous cascade of local meat, seafood, broth, fruit and vegetables, all dressed and shaped like ice sculptures.
4. Tsukemono-“Soaked things” or Japanese pickles. Pickled in salt or
brine, or sometimes soy sauce, miso or vinegar. As a friend of mine told
me before I went over, “the Japanese pickle everything.” Though not
necessarily conducive towards maintaining a low-sodium diet, the array of
pickled daikon, turnips, cucumbers, ume and Chinese cabbage is a nice
starter or side dish, or just something to munch on over a glass of beer.
5. Daiwa Sushi-Located in Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market, the largest fish
market in the world, where one dodges Bobcat crate moving vehicles and
tries not to step on escaped crabs crawling on the water soaked floor.
Daiwa is located outside of the main warehouse, amongst an open air market where you can find wet and dry goods as well as t-shirts. The bar seats around 12 people with wiggle room if you want to go to the restroom. On the sidewalk, the hostess organizes those waiting for a seat into crisp parallel lines for what can be an hour wait. Once inside, if you’re smart, you’ll choose the multi-course, prix fixe Omakase (chef’s choice) option, which runs around 60 bucks for around 12-15 servings of sushi. I’ve never tasted sushi the way I tasted it here and suspect I never will
until I make it back, sushi with a proximity to the sea that is in no way unpleasant. I tried to order sperm sac of cod but was told it was “out of season.”
6. Japanese sweets-Subtly sweet delicacies presented in elegant glass
counters and served with small shot glasses of cold tea. After we visited
a sweets store in Tokyo, having just been treated to service that would
fit in at a four start restaurant while only spending around $10 total,
the clerk chased us down the street to return the $2 tip we left. There
are as many types as you might find in a similar American store. Machaya-Youkan are jelly concoctions composed of bean paste and green tea. Kuri-Manju are stuffed with white bean paste and chestnuts and baked. The flavors are mild and delicate rather than rich and creamy, fleeting rather than cumbersome.
7. Udon-Udon are the thick, wheat based noodles, about as thick in
diameter as those chilled cheese sticks you can get in the dairy section,
that populate the broths of many Japanese soups, as well as cold dishes.
I’ve been consistently disappointed with all of the udon dishes I’ve had
over here since my experience one Sunday night in Rappongi at an udon
restaurant set into the ground like a cave right off of the train station.
Liberated from the distracting array of vegetables and additives that
might be include with the soup at a Western restaurant trying to cover its
ignorance, this bowl featured a simple and steaming broth with flaky pieces of green onion and egg that saturated the noodles towards Ameratsu. I’ll never look at a bowl of udon the same way.
8. Sembei-Kind of like sand dollar-shaped versions of those rice
crackers you find in Oriental snack mix at the airport. Made to order
over fire kettles as you watch.
9. Yakitori-Basically referring to grilled meats (and sometimes
vegetables) on skewers that function as bar food in Japan. On one of out
last nights in Tokyo we tracked down the Lonely Planet recommended Piss
Alley, a narrow Occupation Era alleyway of simple eateries that seems to
sweat history and ambience, and functions as a culinary way-station and
bar for thirsty, tired and hungry sararimen before they embark at Shinjuku station for the trip home. Orders are made to order on a grill a few feet in front of you by the owner and then served alongside tsukemono and beer as you rub elbows on the closely packed bar stools.
10. Vending machines-Vending machines are everywhere in Tokyo. Unlike
their American counterparts, though, rather than stocking them with
stomach eating purveyors of carbon, the Japanese opt for a diverse mix of
coffee drinks, green tea concoctions, beers and fruit drinks. I lived off
these things in the morning to afternoon hours as I toured the standard
tourist sites. And it was nice to be able to grab a beer at night in the
hall of my hotel.
11. Starbucks-Walk into a Tokyo Starbucks on with a hangover on a Monday morning and you’re immediately greeted with something that sounds like it starts with an S and probably means something like "good morning" and sounds like it came from a bird of paradise. Spending $6 for coffee and a bagel never felt so refreshing and esteem boosting.
12. Okonomiyaki-Translates to something along this lines of “whatever you like” and also called Japanese pizza, Japizza and the seemingly outdated and perhaps offensive Japcakes, Okonomiyaki is a pan-fried pancake/pizza/omeletteesque dish, cooked before your eyes, made with okonomiyaki sauce, egg and other ingredients including onion, mayonnaise, shrimp, squid, noodles, cheese, fish flakes, ginger, octopus and noodles. We stepped into two separate Tokyo restaurants, two nights in a row, and asked to be surprised with the chef’s choice and received Okonomiyaki both nights. I guess they thought we would want pizza, being from America.

(Obviously this is only the surface of what the Japanese have to offer. I’ll leave the rest to my next visit, or Anthony Bordain. For a much more informed view, go to www.bento.com.)

PRODUCT

If you've ever wondered what Air Mozambique serves for breakfast and dinner, or how the crew meals on Air France differ from the passenger meals, this somewhat exhaustive site might help. Pictures included. I'm assuming, without looking extensively, that the non-American airlines fare a bit better than the American ones.

SUMMER HEAT

ATL, GA

CINEMA STARS

One thing you might come out with after three hours in Into Great Silence is that it must be pretty fucking boring to be a monk. You might also wonder at times as to the point of it all, the isolation, the bread making, the legislated seclusion from "seculars." But observations like that really just belie the point. The documentary was shot, after a 16 year wait to get permission, at Grande Chartreuse, a monastery in the French Alps. Somewhat reminiscent of one of Werner Herzog's early documentaries in style (sans his priceless narration), Into Great Silence simply observes, concentrating on facts and life as it is, and completely avoiding comment (a departure from Herzog). Shots of monks carrying out chores, inducting new members and eating are interspersed with romantic shots of the landscape surrounding the monastery and expressionist shots of rain, snow and puddles that Stan Brakhage would love. The overall mood is stark and somber, which makes moments such as one in which the monks sled and ski down a snow saturated hill all the more amusing.

GRANADA, ESPANA. CHRISTMAS 2006.

The silence I found one late afternoon in Granada was layered with the arrhythmic sound of thinning crowds walking back to hotels, back to their homes, forward to tapas bars, atop the bubbly drone of the Darro as it ducked under the stone plaza in front of the Iglesia de Santa Ana. But overall, the sound was one of a collapsing quiet bearing down on me to suffocate the afternoon rush to see what more I could of the city before I left. Early evening, at least during my stay, as the sun crawled near the end of the sky, seemed to be the right time in the city. As I looked past the church, the hills of the Alhambra to the left, and the Sacromonte to the right, I spied a half formed moon hanging above them, set against one of those late afternoon Granada blue skies.

Lying contentedly in one of Spain’s numerous semi-independent regions, Andalucia, in the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula, Granada exists in its own world forged simultaneously with the memorable minarets of the east and the ubiquitous crosses of the west.

My interest in Granada found its seeds, a few years ago, when I read an article in The New York Times that suggested the Alhambra, Granada’s prized and treasured relic of Moorish brilliance, was basically more amazing than all of the other buildings you or I had seen in our lives combined.

The fortress has a long history beginning with its construction by a Jewish man, Samuel Ha-Nagid, under the direction of the Islamic rulers of Granada, in the 11th century. When the city was captured by the Christians in the 15^th century, so went the Alhambra, at which point it started to edge closer and closer away from its past glories, with at least one part destroyed and others later allowed to rot. The French made at least one attempt at “structural change” during the Peninsular Wars, somehow missing destroying it. Perhaps most famously, American author Washington Irving camped out there for a while in the 19^th century when it was basically Spain’s coolest homeless shelter.

Irving’s travelogue, Tales of the Alhambra, is as enchanting as the city in some ways, cataloguing whispery and fleetingly magical legends of old, alongside his personal adventures, centering around the grounds of the Alhambra and the city as a whole. Some of the most memorable prose involves former Muslim ruler Boapdil, who may be known, for one, as the leader under whom the city was lost to the Christian conquerors. Perhaps to some Boapdil is seen as the fall guy. Irving seems sympathetic, suggesting that Boapdil might be seen in a better light had he not been such a good guy. He trolls the grounds of the Alhambra for sights of the figure’s departure when the writing on the wall seemed most permanent:

From the summit of one of these the unfortunate Boapdil took his last look at Granada; it bears a name expressive of his sorrows, La Cuesta de las Lagrimas (the hill of tears). Beyond it, a sandy road winds across a rugged cheerless waste, doubly dismal to the unhappy monarch, as it led to exile…I spurred my horse to the summit of a rock, where Boapdil uttered his last sorrowful exclamation, as he turned his eyes from taking their farewell gaze: it is still denominated el ultimo suspiro del Moro (the last sigh of the Moor). Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled from such a kingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be yielding up all the honours of his line, and all the glories and delights of life.

When you visit the Alhambra you start to understand Boapdil’s sorrow and the utter lack of hyperbole in Irving’s lament.

The fortress sits perched atop a hill, opposite the Muslim quarter, above the central part of the city. Must see sites include the Palacios Nazaries, the Alcazaba and the Generalife gardens. That being said, an allotment of a few hours to visit the lesser known parts is rewarding.

A bus runs from Plaza Nueva in the center every ten minutes or so, but I choose to walk. Later on, on my last day in Granada, I venture up a less frequented street, Cuesta de los Chinos, to the edge of the palace, up a sometimes crumbling street, past old walls with foliage covered ruins, evoking visions of what came before. On my first visit, though, I choose the more frequented Cuesta de Gomerez.

As you approach the grounds the first thing you view is the Puerta de las Granada, a stone gate that brings you from the undeniably romantic world of Granada into the even more enchanted grounds of the Alhambra. Walking through, you immediately notice, on both sides of you, running water paths, bordered in winter with fallen orange leaves, both of which present you with an unforgettably minimal and powerful visual and auditory experience signaling the experience to come. Water is everywhere in the Alhambra, utilized brilliantly to signal successive stages and views, and to calm the senses visually and aurally.

Like a good album, the Alhambra is best experienced at least twice. The first time you go you are slave, inevitably, to that notion that you must see it, and see it all. You follow your own internal checklist. I try to slow down, but only to a small extent succeed, stopping in the Court of the Lions to lounge on a bench, enjoying a bocadillo on one of the overlooks, and wondering slowly around the hedges outside the Parador hotel. You don’t want to miss anything but, at the same time, you don’t want to be consumed by not missing anything.

It would take too long, and likely fall into tedium, to go into all of the noteworthy moments of my first trip to the Alhambra. I’ll keep my remembrances to a tasteful select: stunning views of the Albaizin from the lookouts (miradors) of the Palacio de Nazaries and the towers of the Alcazaba, sometimes reached through claustrophobic, medieval climbs; looking up, open-mouthed and drooling, in amazement at the ridiculous detail of the muquarnas vaulting of the ceiling of the Sala de los Abencerrajes; watching photo session after photo session in the virtual center of the fortress, the Court of the Myrtle Trees; and the sheer auditory impact of the sound of water as you enter the Court of the Water Channel in the Generalife, an experience that exceeds the first time you heard Back in Black, with water rather than guitars.

I schedule my return visit for a Friday night, a cold late December one in which I opt for the bus rather than the walk up the path. Arriving early I take a stroll around what I’ll call Alhambra village, a small collection of uninspiring shops and hotels just up the hill from the main ticketing office. Once inside the Alhambra, after banding with a group of French AARP tourists to horde off a rush of impatient ticket holders, I begin my walk, solo once again, in near total darkness, through the palisade of towering firs, over that narrow bridge that connects the Generalife to the palace grounds, past the thickly manicured hedges, and finally to the palace. I begin to think of Irving’s book, of lore describing nighttime walks into various chambers, of the many mysteries that inhabited its chambers and the then wild outer grounds.

At night there is a different ambiance, the crowds replaced with a select few, reminding me, as we walk in the dark, dimly lit receiving quarters of the Palacio of that classic scene in La Dolce Vita when Warhol starlet Nico leads a pack of late-nighters on a candlelit journey through an old Italian villa. The Palacio de Nazares is even more dreamlike at night, the view of the Albaizin and San Nicholas now stars puncturing black, the Court of the Lions even more entrancing in the silence. The section that holds me tightest, though, has to be the Patio of the Gilded Room, in some ways the simplest and most non-descript of spaces, a square court with 30 foot walls, an open ceiling and, in the center, a small circular fountain that bubbles as the moon looks down on it, and as I look up at the moon. In a way, it encapsulates everything great about the Alhambra and, indeed, Granada, and its marriage of the simple and the grand in the space of 300 cubic feet. On my way home, I take one final walk down Cuesta de Gomerez, watching the two creeks alongside and feel a fraction of Boapdil’s sentiment as I pass through the Puerta de las Granada and into the moonlit city below.

Wondering through the Albaizin, later on, is like a walk through the Alhambra in that it offers the visitor a circuitous and serpentine journey through varying temperatures, spaces and vistas, building a remarkable sense of anticipation from narrow alley to courtyard to square. The hill of the Albaizin was the site of Granada’s first inhabitants, in the 7^th century BC, as well as the site where the Islamic rulers dwelt in their primary years of inhabitance. The planners may have figured on some sort of natural air conditioning that the narrow paths, ceilinged by overhanging flower beds provided. Varieties of flowers hang in the windows as you walk by, here and there peering past the occasionally grated gates guarding the ubiquitous courtyards. The best way to view the Albaizin, indeed, may be to simply pick one of the narrow ways that abuts the Darro at a perpendicular point and start ascending the hill. Bring a map, but don’t let it distract you. I end up spending hours stacked on hours wondering from alley into square into alley, sitting down for a beer or two, moving on to find the next church on my list, following wondering dogs for simple photographs, peering into tiny bars and teaterias, all the while keeping a constant glance on that Granada sky that must have been what Webster envisioned when he wrote about the word in his dictionary. The sky is an unchanging blue, light in hue, with long, white clouds that cut the sky like the trees at the Alhambra. Cast against the bearable whiteness of the Albaizin, the sky is even more profound and pure.

My afternoon walk in the Albaizin begins at its base, alongside the Calle del Darro, around the riverside square that sits under the Alhambra. I walk up a tiny, narrow cobblestone street that snakes around for awhile until I find a nice restaurant and patio and another view of the Alhambra. From there I continue to wander up the hill, eventually arriving at the Colegiata del Salvador, a 16th century church with views of the Sacromonte to its eastern side. Further up the hill I settle upon a nearby square for a very late lunch of pork bocadillo. The square is alive with entertainers, young travelers and perhaps residents as well. I dive deeper into Tales of the Alhambra, and scan the photos I’ve just taken on my camera. Moving on via Calle Panaderos, I walk past a number of vibrant restaurants and bars that, an hour later, as I walk home, seem deserted to shadowy figures throwing early firecrackers, premature for a few hours on this New Years’ Eve. I walk through an old Islamic gateway, the Arco de las Pesas, through the defensive wall of the Albaizin, and back onto another cobblestone street, leading up to the Plaza San Nicolás. The square is packed with tourists, gypsy minstrels, wanderers, and venders selling jewelry and cider, all seemingly inconsequential in front of the site across the valley: the Alhambra, on equal elevation, and the sun as its slowly but determinedly makes its way to the western side of the sky. The Albambra glows and pulsates in the sun. A thousand colors fill the sky. I sit completely transfixed as the sun lowers to the edge of the horizon and somehow fail to notice the fact that everyone else does the same. The civilized applause that erupts when the sun offers its final wink for the day reminds me I’m not alone.

Walking down Camino Nuevo de San Nicholas, I find more tiny bars, packed with twenty-somethings, hunkered over tiny plates and small glasses. I take one last gaze over the city, the Cathedral below now the star, rather than the Alhambra, and then begin my descent, sans map, turning down alleys and back again, passing a somber church tower, descending stairs that lay on top of each other, and finally wonder onto Calle Caldereria Nueva, into the commercial district that most echoes the North African heritage of so much of the city’s identity, past inviting fragrances, into cave-like stores selling textiles, Arabesque décor, teas, and down past the teateria’s and pita shops, and onto Calle Elvira, where I take another early dinner/second lunch at one of the ubiquitous tapas bars.

Ultimately, much of the memory of the trip will be tied to meals: sitting off Plaza Nueva watching the parade of people roll past, 30 minutes into my arrival, coffee and morning pastry in hand, with the natural mural formed by the Iglesia de Santa Ana and the towering Sacromonte in the distance; elbowing up to the counter at Bodega Casteneda around six or seven, before the crowds, for jamon Serrano, queso Manchego, olives, perfectly crusty bread, salmon topped with cream cheese and caviar and a civilized portion of gold-toned beer; Arabic soup, babbagonoush, eggplant cous cous, and Arabic tea at a low-ceilinged, almost cave-like nook, found at the top of a narrow strip of steps in the Albaizin; my breakfasts and late lunches on the Darro, in the Paseo del Padre Manjón ; and the joys of stopping for a beer in the squares of the highlands or lowlands of Granada as public space becomes grounds for the tables and chairs of restaurants for those who would rather sit by a fountain and watch the parade of stray cats, dogs and people.

In the end, though, the greatest pleasure in Granada may lie in the bocadillo: a simple mix of perfectly dense bread, jamon Iberico or jamon Serrano, an occasional drizzle of olive oil and, for those with elaborate tastes, a slice of cheese. On the way out of Spain, at the Madrid airport, the bocadillo becomes the best meal, hands down, I’ve ever had at an airport. Whereas the tendency in America might be to flood the sandwich with all sorts of condiments and accessories to enhance the experience, the Spanish realize and practice the idea of letting the primary ingredients speak for themselves. Here is another metaphor for the city as a whole; Granada, aside from the grandeur and beauty of the Alhambra as well as the Cathedral, feels like a simple city. Sophisticated, aware of its place in history, cultured, but simple.

On a quiet Sunday morning I make my way up to the Sacromonte, a hilly settlement known for its gypsy population, to the east of the Albaizin. An overwhelming amount of the residents live in cave-houses, hollowed out and naturally cool abodes that only add to the mystery of the subculture. It’s very quiet, eerily so even in full daylight. Flamenco clubs compete for space with homes that seem in complete symbiosis with the earth. Frank Lloyd Wright would smile. At a lookout point, high up on the hill, on the grounds of a fairly interesting cave dwelling museum, I find two perspectives, one of the somewhat known angles and curves of the city below, another more mysterious one of the deep valley to the east.

In the afternoon, I make my way back towards my hotel, past Plaza Nueva, towards the famed Cathedral of Granada. A friend of mine, who’s actually much smarter than me, wrote a thesis in examination of a complex chicken and egg question. He made a vain attempt to decide if the deep faith and devotion of Medieval Christians led to the beauty of Cathedrals, and all the toil, blood, and struggle that it took to build them, or vice versa. A visit to the Cathedral suggests the strong possibility of the latter, but perhaps the former as well when you account for the fact that it took nearly 200 years to build it. You’ve seen plenty of European cathedrals in photo books whether you’ve been to the continent or not. Photo books, though, simply can never prepare you for the sheer sense of space and magnificence and reverence for something, that the interior of one of this stature exudes and demands, through breathlessly soaring arches, multiple naves, immense white columns like legs of giants, gold that makes you feel guilty, and numerous Flemish paintings and expertly cut statues. Like Fenway Park, I have to ignorantly assume, you have to have been there.

Following my visit to the Cathedral, walking around the narrow streets of Plaza Bib Rambla, on the edges of the Albaizin and the Realejo, I find a collection of smartly dressed, thinly manicured Andalucians, kids often in toe. Small bars, no bigger than an American bedroom, seem intimidating in their expected exclusivity. Chalkboards on the sidewalk, or perhaps in the window, casually list the tapas, wine and entrée offerings: jamon iberico, paella, oxtail stew among the most ubiquitous. It’s one of those places where a good portion of those walking seem to be walking to walk, without an intended destination, as if they themselves are travelers. At night the streets glow with Christmas lights and wandering families, many on their way to the numerous BELEN sites, miniature models of the birth city of Jesus.

My hotel, the Hotel Navas sits on Calle Navas, a noisy, pedestrian-only, street that runs perpendicular to Calle Reyes Catolicos, itself one of the biggest streets in Granada. For the two weeks I spend there the street is intermittently crowded from the mid-afternoon hours, in which parents fill the bars while their children play on the streets, to late in the evening, when the “dinner” crowd arrives. I wake up several nights around four A.M. as the last stragglers leave their marks.

The hotel is more than adequate, though lacking in romance. I do, though, enjoy the ambience as I sit in the lobby one afternoon, next to a family of three, and hear the ringtones of the father’s cell phone: the eerie, sinister grooves of the main song (penned by Germany’s Goblin) from Dario Argento’s Suspiria. I knew I was in Europe at that point.

It was also fairly amusing to watch the looks of amusement, or perhaps disgust, from the families enjoying dinner in the dining room across the alley from my second story room, when I opened my patio window and propped my bare feet on the rail, in the cold of December, with the idea of watching the people below. They, however, were enjoying a civilized and, I suspect, proper Andalucian meal, among family, on a week in which all concern for work seemed to disappear across the city in deference to the holiday. I was interrupting the meal.

Later that evening I wandered into neighboring Realejo, just as the sun had set, not really expecting anything marvelous. I grab a schwarma from one of the popular Middle Eastern fast food spots that seem to exist on every corner and, just when I’m starting to feel like heading back, happen upon the small square that abuts the Church of Santo Domingo, grey and possibly crumbling but captivating for this very reason. The church, and the square, is deserted at this hour. Alone with an ancient statue and the face of the church, I’m confronted with many of the reasons I came here, in complete solace, in an otherwise bustling mid sized city, looking at my latest trophy and, selfishly, refusing to take a picture of it.

Stay

Hotel Navas

958 22 59 59

Calle Navas 22

Hotel Zaugan del Darro

958 21 57 30

Carrera del Darro 23

Casa del Capitel Nazari

958 21 52 60

Cuesta Aceituneros

See

Alhambra

902 44 12 21

Cathedral

(off Gran Via de Colon)

Eat

Restaurante Arrayanes

958 22 84 01

Cuesta Maranas 4

Bodegas Castenada

Calle Almireceros

Antigua Bodega Castenada

Calle de Elvira

Al Andalus

958 22 67 30

Calle de Elvira

Mirador de Morayma

958 228 290
Pianista García Carrillo 2

(Sadly, I lost the list I kept during my visit in which I listed every meal I had and sketched a very rough map of the city with the locations and restaurant names as well. Trust me when I say that I ate well.)