TravelStream™ news feed for member bhendrickson on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/bhendrickson en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:36:13 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031240/tpod.html Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:36:13 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Tahoe City, California, United States

I watched the crystal shallows of Lake Tahoe this afternoon as we idled away sleepy hours on the pebbled shores of this picturesque lake. The waters, which seem to reflect myriad shades of blue in the distance are deceptively clear in the swimming area of the private beach. In fact, rather than gazing at the surface of the water, I found myself watching patches of sunlight highlighting reds, browns, and ambers of the pebbles on the bottom three feet beneath the surface. I watched, and I read, and I understood why Lake Tahoe is such a desirable vacation location.

Truly, what other venue offers multi-season fun, from the skiing and sledding of winter to the boating, swimming, and river-rafting of summer? The summer homes clustered around the shores must do something to deserve the $3 million-plus price tags, but in all honesty the view alone is worth paying for. As I type, I am sitting outdoors (blessing the modern marvel of wi-fi), sampling a $4 bottle of Napa Cabernet, looking out at the blue-drenched lake, distant mountains, and glints of sunshine reflecting from moored speedboats. The raucous calls of children at play echo around the grassy grove, and the sizzling of our barbecued dinner promises juicy rewards.

Our lodgings here carry all of the rustic charms of fairytale chalets. Cottage Inn of Tahoe City boasts seven or eight cedar-thatched cabins clustered in convivial repose under towering pines. The green lawns, cheery flowers spilling out of window boxes, swaying hammock, and whimsical Christmas lights contribute to the atmosphere of laid-back enchantment. In our drives around the lake, we have confirmed that we did indeed stumble across one of the more desirable (and affordable) accommodations in the area. For any future vacationers, take this B&B into consideration.

Those of you following along with our itinerary will note that we did not originally plan to spend a second night and day at Tahoe, and yes, for the second time in the trip, we had departed from our pre-laid, overly optimistic plans. Consulting with the atlas spread on the Indian bedspread last night, James and I came to the realization that we had planned two nights in Rapid City, South Dakota to explore the Badlands. Now, as older and wiser travelers, we realize that places like "Death Valley" and "The Badlands" have earned these ominous monikers for good reason, and we would be foolish to give up the comparative oasis of Lake Tahoe for a toastier desert landscape. That and the bone-wearying drive to our next destination dissuaded us from continuing on schedule. Had we decided to drive to Yellowstone this morning, we would still be driving right now. I think the delay, the naps, the reading, the stroll along the banks of Truckee River, and barbecue picnic will prove to be well worth the disruption. Tomorrow morning we have every intention of beating the sun to the road and hauling twelve hours to the Grand Tetons.

Next stop: Gros Ventre Campground, Grand Tetons National Park
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031180/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031180/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031180/tpod.html Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:33:55 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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San Francisco, California, United States

Entry coming soon...check back in a day or two.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031060/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031060/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1184031060/tpod.html Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:33:01 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Ridgecrest, California, United States

Entry coming soon...brought to you by James. Check back in a day or two.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183613940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183613940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183613940/tpod.html Thu, 05 Jul 2007 10:39:48 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Grand Canyon, Arizona, United States

Happy Fourth of July! We searched all over the Grand Canyon to bring you the one image that we felt best represented the spirit of America on this great celebration of our Nation's Independence. Please refer to the first picture featured on this entry and note carefully the selection of socks and sandals.

James is going to share his thoughts on today's discovery that has been cited as one of the seven natural wonders of the world since he's viewing the sight with fresh eyes. Mine our clouded by memories cherished from over twenty years ago (one of my most vivid memories being the soft, bleached snout of a mule pointed downward to the canyon, and at the time I was too young to make the descent.)

Beth and I both thought that the Grand Canyon would be completely packed on the 4th of July; full of giddy Americans come to celebrate the nation's independence at the country's most magnificant landmark. While it was busy it wasn't as crowded as we had expected and there did seem to be a lot of non-Americans there which was a nice touch. So the lesson we learn from this is that Americans stay home and watch Joey Chestnut beat defending champ Kobayashi in the Nathan's hot dog eating contest and stay far away from our national parks.

Some more lessons learned from this trip... Stay outside of the park (we stayed at the Holiday Inn Express...while I'm unlikely to perform surgeries or lead sky diving tours because of my good night's rest, it is a pleasant place to stay). The old hotels located on the rim of the canyon are nice, but you really don't need to be that close to the canyon (in fact, leaving at night is a nice break). Also, the national park is kind enough to offer free shuttle services (with Park Admission of course) throughout the park. During the day the shuttles run about 10mins apart and in the early morning or at night they run every 30mins or so. Our bus driver (in a natural gas powered bus...nice touch NPS!), informed us of the following about the tours run by the resorts:

* The resort's tour costs $18.50 per person and the NPS tour is free
* The resort's tour guides work for tips and are paid a lower hourly rate than the NPS bus driver (plus a tour guide working for tips is annoying)
* The resort's tour lasts a specified amount of time and you are always with the same group. The NPS tour lets you get on and off at will
* Many of the NPS buses are air conditioned (and run on Natural Gas) and the resort's buses don't have AC


So sometimes you get what you pay for, and sometimes you get what you don't pay for.

We had a nice dinner at The Arizona Room which kinda looked over the canyon. Food was good and not terribly over priced.

Oh, Beth and I both thought that there might be fireworks, but with the wildfire warning at EXTREME that was completely out of the question, so our fireworks were of the natural sort...watching the sunset over the Grand Canyon. It is amazing to me that something 93 million miles away that does the same thing everyday can still draw applause when it performs the feat over the Grand Canyon. The sunset really was beautiful, even if the Canyon was a bit hazy. I am amazed at what a difference the time of day makes. During the day, the Canyon looks almost flat, like a painting, but as the sun sets it takes on rich dimensions.

The Grand Canyon was definitely worth the visit; it is absolutely stunning in its enormity. Pictures of the canyon are a joke because you can't feel it take your breath away in a picture or hear the hot desert air blow through the canyon making slight whispering sounds.

Finally, my caring and beautiful wife is adorable to watch because she gets so nervous for all of the crazy people who walk all the way to the edge. Her hands sweat nervously as she wills them back from the edge, as I read the "Stay on the Path" sign that concludes by saying "Most people who die at the canyon die because they left the path." I wonder about those who die while on the path. Did a big wind gust pick them up and carry them over the edge? Did they trip and tumble over? Were they pushed? I suspect I won't find out the answer to this question, but it does make you wonder.

I'll let Beth continue the updates...I'm tired of writing and she is much better at this than I am.

p.s. To my parents who were wondering if the Great American West killed us because you haven't seen a blog entry since Nebraska...well there weren't a lot of Internet cafes 12 dirt road miles off the highway next to the Rio Grande where we stayed. In fact I only have cell coverage at the Grand Canyon if I stand in front of the hotel. Hopefully we've blogged enough today to let you know we are still going strong. Love, James

Next stop: Yosemite National Park, California
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591560/tpod.html Thu, 05 Jul 2007 00:38:15 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Creede, Colorado, United States

Our 2007 road atlas (thank you, Target and $5.99) marks certain roads with little green dots designating-in some cartographer's opinion-a scenic route. We followed the little green dots from Boulder to the Rio Grande National forest in southern Colorado, and we agree with this particular cartographer's opinion. While all of the roads we travelled were indeed scenic, noteworthy, and memorable, Highway 149 leading from forgettable South Fork, Colorado to an even more forgettable Creede, Colorado has to be one of the most spectacular drives of our lifetime. We had the good fortune of driving in around six o'clock in the evening-those final hours of honeyed, mellowed sunlight that drips over trees, mountains, and springs bringing colors to life in a pinch-me-to-be-sure-I'm-not-dreaming way. When we reached the turn-off for our twelve-mile drive into the Rio Grande National Forest, we knew we either needed to tell everyone we knew or no one at all about this spectacular and highly undiscovered place. Luckily for all of you, we decided to share the secret. So here it is: Thirty Mile Campground in Rio Grande National Forest is a lifetime must.

From fifty feet away, the muted rush of the Rio Grande river (fresh, young waters flowing from the resevoir 1/2 mile away) serenaded our campsite. Insert your mental soundtrack here--pick a track, any track, from the 'River Runs Through It' soundtrack and press play. Offering around 35 resevation-only campsites, Thirty Mile campground is secluded, rustic, and spectacularly beautiful. Our site offered a sheltering cove of lodgepole pines, a rusted firepit and well-weathered picnic table. Perfect. As we tested out the tent (thank you Matt and Heather!) the view from our pillows revealed the dying embers of light on the cliffs rising from the opposite bank of the Rio Grande. If God had sampled a box of Crayola's 64 colors, he would have used Sienna, Burnt Umber, and Brick Red for these cliffs. At night, the Big Dipper's pin pricks of light were framed by the pines and the mesh ceiling of our tent. Again, perfect.

Morning's light found us with some hours to kill before we had to tear ourselves away from this mountain paradise, and providence also provided two retired brothers who were volunteer campsite directors to point our way. If the Car Talk duo had decided that camping not cars was their thing, they would have been these brothers. Spry, eager, and zealous for this backwoods oasis, they encouraged us to tackle the continental rim before lunch. Mitch was especially helpful, leading us up the Fork Creek path and pointing us on our way with a map (National Geographic #140 - Weminuche WIlderness for those converts already planning a trip) and a garbage bag (makeshift rain gear for the almost inevitable rain squall around noon). And so began our 12-mile roundtrip trek to 11,000 feet (the last 2,000 feet accomplished in just one mile.) Yes, the altitude got to us, yes, the mosquitos were thrilled to feast on our blood, and yes, we gulped two gallons of water in the 19% humidity atmosphere, but we did it. We missed the snow patches by a few hundred yards, and we didn't get to see the newborn elk that Mitch had discovered on a hike the previous day, but we left with a sense of great accomplishment and a bone-deep yearning to be off of the mountain in breathable air--quickly!

While the english-teacher gods may strike me dead for writing this, I'm not convinced words can accurately convey the depth of beauty and serenity we found deep in the Weminuche wilderness and the Rio Grande National Forest. We hope the pictures can offer one final altar call to this serendipitous treasure. Just remember--this is our little secret.

Next stop: Grand Canyon, AZ
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183591140/tpod.html Wed, 04 Jul 2007 20:05:27 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Boulder, Colorado, United States

Boulder...Where alpacas shed their fur (hair?) for all imaginable clothing items, where crystals find ready believers, and where all good hippies come to die. Yes, granola is a guaranteed item on any menu in town, and more often than not you will see a pair of bare feet strolling down the street next to mud-crusted hiking boots. Dreadlocks are haute couture (especially when paired with an organic alpaca shirt) and the smell of patchouli wafts from one store to the next. We found that the laidback atmosphere ("sweet, man") of the hippie culture provided a refreshing counterpoint to the overeager outdoors enthusiasts ("so I biked, like, seventeen wicked trails today") that accounted for the other 50% of Boulder's indigenous and tourist populations.
We stayed at the Bradley Boulder Inn-highly recommended and a prime location for people-watching or shopping on Pearl Street. Our friendly (and of course laidback) hostess provided us with some excellent recommendations that were a perfect composition for a day in Boulder. We pass these on to you as tried and true adventures.
Adventure #1: If you're the adventurous type, hike along Canyon Avenue to Boulder Falls. For the not-quite-as-adventurous, drive along Canyon Avenue to Boulder Falls. Just a short hike off of the road, you'll find Boulder Creek dashing over a plummet of thirty feet to continue careening toward town. Two notes about this.
First note: I write "short hike", and really it could count as an easy walk. I did see an eighty-year-old grandmother being directed along the path by her tourguide son ("Step there, mom. The stone is level."). However, it's impossible to avoid reading the numerous warnings of death posted along the path. Rock climbers have died. Waders have died. People wandering ever so slightly off the path have died. In fact, to quote one sign, "Waders are rarely given a second chance." And if these doomsday admonitions weren't dire enough, someone felt the need to post actual newspaper articles detailing climbing deaths in recent months. While I gratefully eavesdropped on and followed the octogenarian tourist's path, I noticed a pack of Asian kids splashing (dare I say, wading?) in a pool just feet from the thundering rapids.
Second note: When I wrote that Boulder creek is "careening toward town" the word careening popped into my head the second I saw Boulder creek. The word was invented, I'm sure, by someone observing this creek. The water seems to be headstrong and purposeful-at once playfully picking its way among the boulders and then dashing itself suicidally against the rocks. Just watching the water is to experience the brutal force and beauty of nature. I would suggest experiencing the creek firsthand nearer to town where the water has exhausted some of its exuberant energy and consents to tamer swirls and smaller rapids. To find the spot, follow the throngs of half-clad people tugging enormous black intertubes toward the water. Note to self: when returning to Boulder in 90-degree heat, pack a swimsuit and the intertube.
Adventure #2: Chatauqua Park. One of the amazing things about Boulder is that it is a town built to enjoy the wild. Within minutes of walking, running, or driving out of the attractive main streets of town, the willing adventurist can find enjoyment to his or her heart's content. While we opted for the car-option of seeing the Flatiron peaks around Boulder (please note the 95-degree weather and forgive our un-adventurous decision), the park itself seems to offer breathtaking open hikes. Don't miss this area whether on foot or wheels.
Adventure #3: Stroll down Pearl Street as temperatures cool. This is where you will find the crystals, alpaca furs (hairs?), and natural perfume stores sharing space with the hiking, camping, and biking gear stores. Many great restaurants litter the blocks just off of the pedestrian-only area, so don't be afraid to keep wandering. Our favorite sight on Pearl Street? The grungy homeless man wearing an eye patch, a black three-cornered hat, and bearing a sign reading: "Ship Sunk".
Adventure #4: The Dushanbe Tea House. Boulder's sister city, Dushanbe, Tajikistan (bonus points for any geography buffs who can immediately point out that country) has erected a bona-fide tea house in the middle of Boulder. The intricately patterned and vibrantly colored walls inside the house are interesting enough, but when the slow-moving, speech-slurring ("sweet, man") waitress plops the tea menu in front of you, the really interesting part begins. Choosing a great wine from an extensive wine menu is difficult enough. Now translate those same descriptions (nutty, with a maple-finish) to loose leaves sitting in hot water. Not the easiest choice, but one worth forcing yourself to make. (James went for the, of course, Earl Grey. I can personally vouch for the House Green tea. Just don't sniff the loose leaves-boiled spinach.)
Next Stop: Rio Grande National Forest
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183258380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183258380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/roadtrip_2007/1183258380/tpod.html Sat, 30 Jun 2007 23:36:32 -0400 From the Fort Pitt Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge and back again--taking on America one mile of asphalt at a time.

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Chicago, Pennsylvania, United States

Above the blackboard in my classroom stretches a list of ten adjectives describing America. Given the prompt to list qualities defining "America" my inveterate American Literature students have brainstormed the expected terms of "freedom", "pride", "diversity", etc. Today, on our thirteen-hour drive from Chicago to North Platte, Nebraska, another of these adjectives kept coming to my mind: "Ambition."

Last night we strolled Chicago's bustling and swanky Michigan Ave dodging Midwestern tourists (calf-high bleached tube socks, Cubs hats, and 2.5 tow-headed children) alternating with Chicago natives (waif-like, black-clad, and clutching Prada bags containing mysterious treasures) as we waited for our table at Giordano's, a legendary pizza joint serving three-inch oozingly thick pies. In our reconnaissance mission to sample, not savor, our way across America, Chicago quickly landed a place on our "must revisit" list thanks to the laid-back yet confident air of the throngs enjoying a Friday happy hour or after-dinner cigar, the well-tended street gardens, and the momentary flashes of the placid Charles River and eclectic Millenium Park. Oprah sightings were not to be had, although it was easy to imagine her this morning dashing along a row of brownstones on a quick jog toward the limitless horizon defining the boundary between Chicago skyscrapers and the miles of Lake Michigan.

After an early morning stroll through a farmer's market just off of North State street and the handy purchase of pints of Michigan cherries and blueberries (yes, I was upsold from just the cherries by a hearty, pink-cheeked nineteen-year-old wearing a t-shirt advertising a college I had never heard of), we left Chicago for the drive across a time zone. Along the way, we noted the "world's largest truck stop", the brown slug of the Mississippi, the "friendly town" of Hillsdale, Iowa (don't be fooled-we investigated and found that the town had packed up years ago but had forgotten to take along the sign advertising its existence), and even the "Fun Valley Ski Resort" in the rolling hills of Iowa. I should note here that the existence of a ski resort aspiring to anything beyond a bunny slope is a laughable venture in Iowa, as their highest elevation equals the most un-noteworthy foothill in Pennsylvania.

Our culinary adventures today consisted of a Maid-Rite sandwich in sleepy Newton, Iowa (think sloppy joe, minus the "sloppy", plus pickles, mustard, and ketchup) and a swing through Des Moines, Iowa for Brader's Pharmacy where they dish up a creamy homemade dish of ice-cream (me-fresh strawberry, James-turtle sundae) and where, you may be interested to know, locals still keep running tabs. The lone customer seated at the counter when we arrived slurped down the last dregs of his chocolate soda and yelled back to the midwesternly-cheerful pharmacist to put the ice cream on his account. After the relatively brief traverse through Illinois and Iowa, the fields of Nebraska covered the final five hours of our journey in a hypnotic blanket of cornfield and relentless sun.

Now I sit somewhere in the middle of the American plains in a Nebraska Hampton Inn typing up these adventures in a conference room. Yes, you read correctly. Our "executive-suite" room boasts a conference room twice the size of the actual bedroom, and as I type, a broad expanse of table reflects the muted glow of the laptop monitor. I think we lost our real room to some Nebraskan high school girls' volleyball team being carted around in mini-vans proclaiming "Honk for #7" in green soap letters. This road trip has piqued my interest. As we drove over the Fort Pitt Bridge in Pittsburgh (was that really just two days ago?), James asked me what I was most excited for on this trip. My answer was "imagination and reality." I've been wondering: Can imagination equal reality? Can reality surpass imagination? For example, will my experience of the Golden Gate bridge be an elation or a disappointment in comparison to my mental image of the famed landmark?

In the past two days, I am learning that the answer to these questions would be that experience is at once both imagination and reality-the constant reevaluation and readjusting of expectations. No, America has not presented the hokey, Romantic vision I had conjured, and yet in unexpected ways, every leg of the journey has presented the idea of "Ambition." If Oprah can embody the American dream in Chicago, and the middle of Iowa can boast a ski resort, then perhaps I am experiencing first-hand the truth that my students elucidated so clearly: America embodies a hope for great things on the horizon. With that thought, I close this entry and leave the eight overstuffed leather chairs to their solitary meeting. Tomorrow's horizon holds another four-hour drive for us, and the bed in our shoe-box-sized room is whispering my name.

Next stop: Boulder, Colorado
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1154786280/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1154786280/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1154786280/tpod.html Mon, 14 Aug 2006 20:08:39 -0400 How to drink in Provencal sunshine, surf in Biarritz, and ask a French warehouse worker about life. Join an adventure of business and pleasure through Southern France.

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Edisto Island, South Carolina, United States

A vacation after the vacation. Isn't that what we always long for once we get home and the suitcases pile up in the foyer, the answering machine blinks frantically, and the pile of mail lurks like a deadly beast? 99.9% of the time, we make the wish for a post-vacation vacation and then proceed to slog our way through laundry, phone calls, and forgotten bills, all the while fighting back pangs of nostalgia for the recently departed vacation. Upon coming home from France James and I experienced the 0.1% chance of a lifetime: a real vacation after the vacation. Our bulging suitcases remained in the foyer, the answering machine got no respite, and despite the fact that the lurking pile of mail insisted on accompanying us to our next destination, we returned to Pittsburgh for one day before packing up and leaving again for another week. Destination: Edisto Island, South Carolina.

I know. This travelogue was supposed to be about our trip to France, right? Well, I'm including this entry because the smells of low country Southern cooking wafted across the Atlantic from Edisto Island to France and called us home. I would not willingly leave France for a pile of cash, a brand new Volvo S40, or a chance to see the Steelers play in the Super Bowl this year . . . but for a bite of 'Po Pig Bo-B-Q, I may be tempted.

Before I get into the culinary delights to be had on Edisto, just a quick note about the island itself. According to the Edisto Island Chamber of Commerce website, "Edisto Island's historical legacy began with the imprint of the Edistow Indians-its first known occupants. The Spanish arrived in the 1500's, followed by English settlers in the 1600's. The English remained, first living off the sea, then cultivating money crops of rice and indigo. By 1790, planters turned to a long staple cotton, known as Sea Island cotton-one of the finest cottons ever produced. It was this crop that brought the great wealth to Edisto Islanders. Many of the elegant houses and plantations remaining today are reminders of that affluent age." Edisto Island has been my family's summer destination of choice for the past fifteen years ever since my grandparents bought a timeshare condo when I was in my pre-teens. This gem of an island getaway has 1 Piggly Wiggly grocery store, 2 gas stations, 0 fast food restaurants (Buger King tried about ten years ago and failed), 0 hotels or motels, and endless acres of marsh, twisting creek inlets, dirt roads shaded by arching branches of live oak draped in stately Spanish moss, white sand beaches boasting a higher population of loggerhead turtle eggs than human bodies slathered in oily sunscreen, and a dizzying array of marine life. In short, if your idea of fun on a Friday night is a crazy round of bar hopping, do not come to Edisto. But if you want to experience a diverse saltwater ecosystem, Gullah cooking, leisurely bike rides serenaded by cicada melodies, and long walks on shell-strewn beaches, Edisto is your place.

Edisto also boasts two restaurants worth traveling hundreds of miles to visit: 'Po Pig Bo-B-Q and The Old Post Office Restaurant. While both offer mouth-watering delicacies, the two restaurants could not be more opposite in ambiance. 'Po Pig shares a building with a gas station while Old Post Office inhabits (you guessed it) a renovated historical post office. 'Po Pig's southern gourmet spreads across the classic "all you care to eat" buffet table - warming lamps, chafing dishes, and all. Old Post Office's fare comes individually prepared on delicately balanced white plates. A meal for four at 'Po Pig will set you back a whopping $40. Quadruple that (including wine) at The Old Post Office. Yet on the walls of both restaurants hang framed articles of acclaim from magazines like Food & Wine, Gourmet, and The New York Times--the culinary equivalent of a big red X on a treasure map.

The Old Post Office draws crowds from Charleston and Savannah (both about an hour away) on a nightly basis. People come for the grits and stay for the wine, desserts, low country oysters, and crackling duck. The grits--that staple of the Southern diet--are ground espcially for The Old Post Office and then slow cooked all day to arrive steaming at your table. In fact, one of the most popular dishes on the menu is steamed shrimp lounging on a bed of grits and mousseline sauce. The first mouthful of the thick, creamy grits is truly divine. May I suggest it is even addictive? Luckily, the grits are included as a staple side with any dish you may care to order off of the menu. Fortune also smiles on diners as a two-pound bag of grits (for sale) decorates each table, along with the requisite bud vase and candle. Shameless advertising? Perhaps. But also necessary to continue feeding the newly-gained addiction.

If the grits at Old Post Office constitute an addiction, then the food at 'Po Pig Bo-B-Q constitutes an epidemic. We can't get enough of their barbecue and buffet selections. In fact, we now plan our vacation around when 'Po Pig is open: Wednesday through Saturday. That means if we want to eat at any other restaurant on the island, we simply plan on visiting those establishments on Sunday through Tuesday. Easily overlooked among the other typical sea island restaurants, 'Po Pig Bo-B-Q seems like an afterthought addition to the Horizon gas station. Beside the convenient store flooded with antiseptic fluorescent light, the small dining room seems like a space typically occupied by a revolving door of renters: perhaps a nail salon, souvenir shop, take-out pizza joint, struggling insurance company, or island bike rental shop. Yet despite appearances, 'Po Pig seems here to stay. Weekday patrons tend to be locals or long-time island visitors who have discovered the culinary gem. Talking to other locals on the island about restaurant recommendations, they cry in unanimous praise "Oh, well. You just can't beat 'Po Pig!"

The menu at 'Po Pig allows for some variety of taste. You can order a ham barbecue or beef barbecue sandwich. Fries are an option. But really, the only menu item worth considering is the "All You Care to Eat" buffet. There it spreads before you: ten feet of my-sides-are-splitting-but-yes-I-will-go-back-for-one-more-helping-of-barbeque-and-hash heaven. A daily soup selection starts off the line, and unless you're a soup fanatic, we recommend skipping this course and saving all available stomach real estate for the dishes to come. Next on the buffet are the cold salads--potato, pasta, vegetable--followed by the crowning glory (worth a 1/4 of the space on your plate) of freshly marinated pork barbecue. The tender, juicy strands, while delicious naked, can also be tastefully dressed with the hash options next in line. Hash, which I believe counts as a vegetable on the Southern food pyramid, is a vinegary kick of a gravy sure to delight anyone's taste buds. The buffet has just gotten started. Still to come are chittlins', green beans, steamed okra, butter beans, creamed corn, tuna casserole, macaroni and cheese, honeyed yams, carrots, hush puppies, buttered cabbage, and more. The final stop on the impossibly long buffet train is the tea. The staff at 'Po Pig set out generously portioned white Styrofoam cups filled with ice, and after grabbing the first available cup, your final decision must be made: Sweet or Unsweet Tea? May we recommend the Sweet? Sure, I understand that Sweet Tea is a Southern speciality served just about anywhere south of the Mason Dixon line (including McDonalds), the Sweet Tea at 'Po Pig is about the best I've ever had. It is dispensed from large, metal, urns bearing the Luisanne Tea Company logo, but tea this good surely has to be a secret family recipe of some sort. When you finally sit down with your first plate (of many), the sticky plastic table cloths and lazy fan circulating the room from the far corner will be as fancy as the ambiance gets. We will be willing to bet that after the first few bites, you will be planning your next trip to 'Po Pig.

So were we ready to leave France? No. And yes. How can we recapture the sun-warmed apricots, the tangy olives, the unidentifiable fish that drips from the bones, the black velvety coffee, or the yeasty crunch of a great baguette? Then again, how could we not leave for a taste of Edisto? I guess once bit by the wanderlust bug, there will always be another place calling to me. The irony is that I can never experience it all at once. At least I have yet to find a place on this wide earth that serves up a savory plate of barbecue next to a freshly baked croissant. If you find it, let me know. Until then, I'll be travelling.

~B
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152308520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152308520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152308520/tpod.html Tue, 01 Aug 2006 18:13:18 -0400 How to drink in Provencal sunshine, surf in Biarritz, and ask a French warehouse worker about life. Join an adventure of business and pleasure through Southern France.

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Paris, France

Paris. Rush hour. Jet lag. A trifecta worth a few words. So an entry about driving through France. As we waited in Charles de Gualle airport with approximately 175 pounds of luggage (the copious number of books that I've brought along for this journey accounting for 18 pounds of that weight), we realized that while we had managed to obtain the rental car, we did not have a map of Paris. In our bone-aching weary state, we lugged the luggage through the crowded and demanding halls of the airport, down the escalator, down a flight of stairs to a small airport store which sold plenty of bottles of wine, tacky postcards, packets of cigarettes declaring "Fumuer Tue," and just one (believe it or not) map of France, then back through the maze of arrivals and departures, back up the escalator, to the car park and finally--deep sigh--to the rental car. With 175 pounds of luggage waiting patiently for our next step, we quickly came to the realization that while we had the key to the car, we had no clue how to unlock the doors. Ah, what Americans--you're reading this urging us to simply put the key in the door and turn it aren't you? Well, not possible. 1--the doors had no key holes. 2--the key is shaped rather like a credit card. (See picture of James modeling the thing.) So, after a few minutes of wandering around the vehicle (again, 175 pounds of luggage waiting patiently on the asphalt beside us) looking like clueless idiots, waving the key around the door handles like some magnetic impulse will suddenly occur and unlock the door, I began composing mental conversations en Francis that went something like "Excuse me. If you could be of help to us? The key? How works it?" In the end, James finally discovered two small buttons on the key: lock and unlock. Voila! We were off.



That takes care of the Paris part of my opening Trifecta. We arrived and were underway, launched quickly into the sluggish veins of Paris traffic. We chose a route which would circle us around the perimeter of Paris since our ultimate destination lay south. While we certainly had the "around Paris" part under control, we did manage to go the exact opposite direction in that circuitous route than we had first intended. So as we acclimated ourselves to the French road signs and James reacclimated himself to driving a manual car(At one point in the traffic, I calmly asked, "You do remember you're driving stick, don't you?" and James quickly responded by throwing the car from fifth down into second, barely avoiding a lurching stall), the next part of the Trifecta began to assert itself: The Jet Lag. Now let's review a few key facts: 1. Four hours of sleep in twenty-four hours. 2. A breakfast of one buttermilk donut and a cup of tea. 3. 175 pounds of luggage. 4. Traffic with jerking starts and stops. 5. An unnecessarily circuitous route through the suburbs of Paris. Those of you who know me best know what this is heading toward: White face, gripping knuckles, and a barely audible "I think I'm going to be sick." Yes, I've been sick in many inconvenient places, but it turns out the French roads are so inconvenient that I had to fight back the waves of nausea and fatigue simply because there are NO bathrooms, rest stops, or even gas stations on these French byways. I will simply close by saying that James handled this added stress admirably and did eventually (with one sighting of Sacre Coeur and two sighting of the Eiffel Tower) to direct us to A6 and the South.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152312000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152312000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bhendrickson/france-2006/1152312000/tpod.html Tue, 01 Aug 2006 17:55:20 -0400 How to drink in Provencal sunshine, surf in Biarritz, and ask a French warehouse worker about life. Join an adventure of business and pleasure through Southern France.

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Aix-en-Provence, France

Bonjour, (good day), takes on a new meaning in Aix. Here it means winding pedestrian streets lined by bustling boutiques, the unexpected surprise of a place popping up around the next corner, the plash of fountains murmuring behind French conversations, brilliant sunshine intermittently mixed with dappled shade from towering Plane trees. Aix offers all of the gentile, refined French culture we Americans dream of as we down a coffee to go from Starbucks. This afternoon, I sat at a French cafe for two hours sipping une pression . Even at 3:00 in the afternoon, I was surrounded by numerous other people of all ages and walks of life who were also stealing these moments from their day to relax and enjoy life. We've noticed that even in the few places where the French can actually get a coffee "to go", they end up standing around tall tables finishing the coffee before moving off the next item on their agenda.



In the midst of all of this culture, it is so hard to avoid thinking about what I, as an American, have to offer in terms of culture. My jumbled thoughts meander in two different directions: shame and pride. I am ashamed that my French is so poor and that my culture expects everyone to speak English by default. Yet I am also proud that my culture works hard, plays hard, and reaps the rewards of this quintessential American dream. As I type these entries tonight, I am watching Scrubs en francais (parenthetical comment for all Scrubs fans--yes, it is just as funny in French as in English) and considering this idea of culture shock. We enjoyed a dinner of fresh Provencal pizza tonight at a bustling little restaurant called Chez Antoine right off of the Cours Mirabeau (the Aix equivalent of Paris's Champs d'Elysees), but James made the astute observation that we must have "American" tattooed in large letters across our foreheads. While I think we do manage to blend in under most situations here, I do agree with him that being in France forces us to encounter the uncomfortable sensation of being foreign. This culture shock, while inevitable, gives even a lighthearted show like Scrubs a poignant edge. While I've seen this particular episode, I now can pick out only one in ten words. Even with American content, I am lost in France. Perhaps it is only the late hour of the evening, or the tenacious tendrils of jet lag, but I can't help but wonder: Will Aix be all about Culture or Culture Shock?
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