Category Archives: Travel

With an upcoming virgin visit to the Royalton Hotel in New York planned for tomorrow, it seems a good time to revisit some favorite stays in some stellar properties (and a few not-so-favorite stays, as they seem to be the most interesting.) It will be difficult to touch the top-notch service and luxurious environs of any Mandarin Oriental property. The one overlooking the Potomac in Washington is especially nice, but I’m also keen on the Boston location as well, and its five-star spa. For an upcoming wedding in Washington, I’ll be back at the Hotel DuPont, which was life-changing because of its heated bathroom floors. I’ve posted about some less-than-ideal places on my TripAdvisor page, and here are a couple of choice tidbits from my most recent hotel stay at the Hilton Minneapolis:

At first glance, it seems lovely, until a bit of dark green on the top of the couch catches your eye. I thought it was a ribbon or a bit of raffia from a gift, but upon closer inspection it turns out to be a dried and dessicated bit of broccoli. Oh well, maybe someone got drunk, ordered room service, and threw some food around. There have been worse things found in hotel rooms, some of which were probably left by me. I picked up the stiff veggie with a tissue and threw it out. Later on, another dried bit of broccoli was found next to the bedside table, way across the room from the couch. What kind of crazed broccoli rampage went on here?

The rest of that review can be found on TripAdvisor, so I won’t bore you with a re-tread here. Besides, it’s more fun to focus on the future, and what’s coming up. For this weekend’s stay, we’ll be in Times Square, right on West 44^th Street. Conventional wisdom is that hotels in New York are small and cramped, but since there’s so much to do outside of your hotel room it doesn’t really matter. I don’t subscribe to conventional wisdom, and the hotel is one of the most important parts of any trip for me. (In my younger years that was not the case, which is why I could stand the Hotel Chelsea or the Chelsea Inn, for example. These days I’m less adventurous, and far less willing to settle.) Luckily there are places that still offer decent space, even if they come with minor drawbacks – 6 Columbus and the Bentley Hotel – and a few that had no real drawbacks at all (The Out, NYC.) The simple fact is, the price of a hotel stay in New York has gone astronomically high, and if they’re going to charge that much, they better be ready to deliver an impeccable experience.

The hotel sets the tone and becomes the home for the few days you’re in a different place. The front desk becomes family in a city of strangers, the valets become like brothers, and the housekeeping ladies are like doting aunts. The accommodations are your bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, office, and closet all-in-one. It becomes the central location around which a trip revolves, and forms the major backdrop for many of the memories that one will make. (I still remember the important role the Taj played on a certain weekend in May of 2010.)

My love for a hotel has been no secret here. If I had to live in one for the majority of the year I’d be a happy clam. Every once in a while I’ll splurge for a small suite, one that comes with a couch and sitting area, and the correlating expansive space that is a luxury in certain cities. Minneapolis is not one of those, being as expansive as the room seen here, and I quickly grew accustomed to splaying myself across the place.

In the mid-afternoon pocket of time that just precedes dinner preparation, there is often a lull in the action of the day. Some countries break for a siesta, a tradition about which I have mixed feelings.

On this particular afternoon, however, I embrace it.

For my first dose of Minneapolis culture, I took a walk through the sculpture garden leading to the Walker Arts Center. It appeared that Minnesota had as late a start to spring as we’ve had in upstate New York. The walk that led to the sculpture garden, normally a garden itself, was brown and dried, waiting for the warmth and the wet that was nowhere in evidence. Beauty was about, even in the dead stand of cat-tails by the water, or in the solitary ginger-bread-like styled cottage along the way.

A bridge was decorated by a poem that ran its entire length. It’s a thrill seeing words and poetry utilized in such a manner. I’d like to see a poem on every walking bridge. Here, one could read and walk and contemplate the bridge at hand, and the bridges that came before and after.

A ghostly sculpture of an empty coat sat defying the wind, while a barren arbor lent architectural structure to the sky. Withered vines of sweet autumn clematis lay fallen at the arbor’s columns, but soon they would begin their return skyward, covering up to forty feet in a single summer season.

But that work was weeks away. For now, in the few days between an old job and a new one, the only signs of something stirring were in the brave and courageous Scilla that were just starting to poke through the ground.

Even the bright metallic jumble of red steel and a crimson cherry paled in comparison to the coming spring.

Nature trumps garish human creation every time.

The single redeeming feature of the Mall of America may have been its aquarium. Not the rainforest portion populated by plastic trees (!!!) but the aquarium itself, with a neat shark tank and some artistically-lit jellyfish that provided ample photo ops that the Mall simply didn’t have. Like a museum or art gallery, aquariums have always provided a sense of peace, in their tranquil dim waters where light didn’t always reach, or the rocky lair where the intelligence of the octopus laid in patient wait for the smallest crack of escape. I could spend hours watching the undulating wings of the sting rays gliding elegantly by, or the sleek torpedo form of a shark slicing seamlessly through the water.

Beneath the dismal never-ending Mall, the lionfish roared and the seahorses galloped. A pair of green moray eels greeted visitors with unrelenting stares and open mouths, while a colorful coral reef display found Nemo and Dory in close confined proximity.

Yet even here, the hokiness of the Mall pervaded, from the aforementioned plastic trees of the rainforest to the false ruin of some fictional Atlantis-like civilization. Fortunately, underwater scenes can look quite magical in a photo, as hopefully evidenced by these shots.

Even the surroundings could not take away from the majesty of these sea creatures, and my fascination with ocean life always stirs in the company of salt-water inhabitants.

We were all very far from our homes, and there was something rather sad about that.

The saving grace was that I could return to mine, at least for now, but they never could. Kept in an artificial environment, they would not be able to successfully return to their origins, never experience the freedom of the open ocean. They had lost the ability to survive on their own, the instinct to hunt.

I still had that hunger. No one was putting on a wet suit and jumping in to feed me.

Perhaps more than anywhere else, a mall will always be my comfort zone. Not so much for enjoyment or pleasure these days but more as a way of life I’ve known since I was a toddler teetering around Buster Brown. In the 90’s, I was all about the mall. I worked in one (during summers) and played in many. There was a sense of safety and comfort in so much retail packed into one stretch of space. Some malls came and went rather sadly (the Amsterdam Mall in my hometown, for example – a poorly-planned and sorely-executed disaster that served only to divide the city and now stands mostly filled with random medical offices) while some thrived and expanded at a terrifying pace (Crossgates, which more than doubled in size from where it began). Others expired completely (Latham Circle) while some almost-expired before rebounding miraculously (Colonie Center). The point is, I know my way around the mall.

Every week, before rehearsal for the Empire State Youth Orchestra, my Mom and I would spend a couple of hours at Crossgates, shopping and eating in the food court. I’d usually begin in the bookstore (back when every mall actually had a bookstore), devouring Entertainment Weekly and People and Us and getting my weekly dose of pop culture. Then I’d meander through the department stores, studying the mannequins, looking over the newest displays, possibly sniffing a cologne or two. We exhausted the expanse of the space after a few weeks, and there was just so much of ‘Things Remembered’ that a person can take without wanting to forget, but when the Mall of America made its splashy announcement that it would house hundreds of stores, an amusement park, and an aquarium, I was as impressed as a cynical teenager could be.

I remember the story playing on the news, and one day I felt certain I would walk its hallowed halls and At one point, I actually had a tentative plan to drive all the way to Minneapolis and spend a couple of days taking my time exploring every mile of it. (That sort of solo adventure was not unprecedented – I’d driven to Florida and back by myself on one of my tours – what was a few thousand more miles West?) While that never planned out, when a deal for Minneapolis showed up on Expedia, I decided to check the Mall of America off my bucket list.

The first thing I felt upon walking into the space was… disappointment.  It looked like, well, a mall. I’d forgotten how depressing malls had become in recent years, and how I rarely frequented them for anything more than a conduit to the movie theater. I’d also failed to realize that my taste in fragrance had progressed beyond Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria’s Secret – both of which seemed to populate vast expanses with their overpowering aromas of fetid sweetness.

I sought out the anchor department stores first, the best of which was Nordstrom, but they did not have any Tom Ford Private Blends (even Las Vegas had an extensive selection!) so the cologne pushers lined up the garishly-packaged Bond series – overloaded with their obnoxious NYC logo. Despite such resistance, I enjoyed what I was sniffing, but not enough to make a purchase. (If I thought random Minneapolis strangers on the street were overly friendly, a fragrance seller is just psychotic.)

There was a small stretch – marked by hanging decorations of crystals to signify its fanciness I suppose – of higher-end stores, like Burberry, which is where I found the only Moods of Norway retail shop outside of New York and Los Angeles – but it was only fit for browsing. I’m guessing they don’t do much business with the locals. Other than that, and a few interesting stores on the first floor, there was little all that different or exciting about it, even with the screams emanating from the central amusement park.

After all these years, I went to the Mall of America and ended up buying absolutely nothing. Not a single thing. No souvenir, no keepsake, no cologne, not even a cookie. And it made sense. The dreams I had of the Mall were from a different time, and the dreams of a child shouldn’t always come true.

Midway through her 1990 hit ‘Escapade’, Janet Jackson inexplicably shouts out, “Minneapolis!” I believe it’s a reference to the city in which she worked with producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis on most of her albums, but to casual non-fans it must have sounded like a random Jackson quirk. My only desire to see said city was when the Mall of America was built. Back then, I was a fan of malls, and I made a promise to myself that before I died I would make a pilgrimage to that over-the-top riot of retail madness. It took over two decades, but I finally made it to one of the Twin Cities, the place of Prince, and a rather nifty oasis of civilization in the mid-West.

Apparently this was also where Mary Tyler Moore’s fictional television life took place. Having never seen any of her shows (bad gay!) it didn’t mean much to me, but the opening, where she throws her hat in the air, is so iconic that even I recognized the pose in the sculpture seen here. Currently it stands before a rather lackluster Macy’s, in the downtown area that bustled a bit on the first weekdays I was there, then immediately fizzled out come Saturday and Sunday.

As for Minneapolis, there were glimmers of greatness – in the museums, the galleries, and the music (Hello Dakota) – and there was beauty too if you knew where to look, but for the most part, one visit in a lifetime proved enough. As with most things, it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey – and the journey of Minneapolis was largely a good one, one that will be told mostly through a few photos rather than a lengthy narrative.

I will say this about the people I encountered in Minneapolis: they were unbelievably, almost uncomfortably, friendly. I enjoy my emotional distance from strangers and appreciate a cold shoulder from those I’ve never met and care not to meet again, but that went against everything around me. Random strangers on the street stopped and said hello. The person taking my order in a café (for a simple cranberry orange scone) went on a ten-minute diatribe about every single other offering in the store, while a line formed behind me. I began to wonder how anything got done with all the friendly chit-chat, and also whether or not there was some sort of pod-people invasion.

Whether or not it was genuine, I didn’t stay long enough to find out, but by the end of my stay I’d come around – as much as I was going to come around – and if I learned anything on this trip it was that a little friendliness can go a long way.

A siren sounds dimly in the distance. A corner of condensation obscures the lower part of the window. A city still sleeps, frozen in time. I was scheduled to depart today, but the ice storm cancelled my flight. Now I stand looking out over the city of Dallas. An extra day is a luxury, often better shared with another, but I must make do with myself. The hotel has reserved my room for me for an extra night. I have nothing but hours to explore. I’m glad I hadn’t taken the time to peruse the many hallways of the place – it will give me something to do in the afternoon. Transportation is still sketchy, so I make no moves to go outside. It’s only in the twenties anyway. The lobby alone is too chilly unless one is lucky enough to get a spot by the fire. For now, I remain alone, in a high room, as the day begins its slow slide into night.

An arsenal of blank letters sits on the desk. A book lies on the bedside table. A description of the acclaimed steakhouse in the hotel sits on a cardboard stand. Together, they comprise the plan for the day, and an early evening. If I’m to brave the perilous ice-ridden trek to the airport the next day, and a possibly chaotic scene upon arrival, I’ll need an early night. But again, this is all in the future. I want to stop for a moment, to slow down and commemorate this extra day. I am so often alone, by choice, but this time it feels different. It feels, and I don’t often feel this, lonely.

I pace in front of the window, like some caged creature still hoping for a way out. I twist one hand in the other, taking deep breaths, walking and walking and going nowhere. Hurriedly, I gather my book, a pad of paper, some letters, and a pen, then quickly exit that suddenly-suffocating room. I need to be where other people have been. My time in Dallas has come to a close.

The ice storm arrives that night. Against my hotel window, little pellets of ice perform the lightest percussive touches, a late-night soundtrack to lull one off to sleep. Before that though – and before it gets too slick – a dinner at Oak. Sparsely-populated and quiet (the way I like a restaurant to be), I sit at the bar and watch the world go around.

Couples sit at tufted booths, staring into each other’s eyes. Businessmen sit across from each other alternately serious and jovial. The wait-staff outnumbers the diners on this dismal night, but those who have made the trek seem happy to be here.

The food does not disappoint either – and in the land where the deer and the antelope roam, I accept the recommendation for the latter. It arrives on a bone, tender and not the least bit gamey. It is a cozy dish for a frightening night, and after digesting it I just make it back to the hotel intact. It will need to sustain, for the next morning it proves impossible to go anywhere. An inch or two of solid ice has crippled the entire city. Everything from schools and churches to the zoo is closed beneath the thick sheet of frozen water. Somehow, though, wrapped in the sheets and blankets of a large bed, I do not mind it in the least. High above the city, I look over an icy world, safely warm and embraced by the sweet folds of sleep, gently cradled in a lazy morning of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, and a breakfast tray arriving at any moment.

Dealey Plaza, the site of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35^th President of the United States. If there was one place in Dallas that I wanted to see, other than Neiman Marcus, it was this. The warehouse from which Lee Harvey Oswald shot the President has been turned into The Sixth Floor Museum – a disturbing and somewhat morbid commemoration of the events that took the life of a young President.

My mother was fascinated by the Kennedys, and I was raised with an active interest in the history and story of JFK’s assassination. She had books on the subject, and even a bust of the President that should still be somewhere in their attic. Each November 22 we would go over the sad events, and as I walked through the museum it brought back a childhood of learning, and a fascination of what could never be fully explained.

The museum does an excellent job of presenting the historical background of the time period, and then an excruciating follow-through of the shooting and the various theories and evidence behind it. Questions still linger, doubts remain, and in the end all I was left with was a feeling of profound sadness for what can never be understood – the senseless end of a promising life. I think it was the image of Mrs. Kennedy in her pink suit, climbing over the back of the car, helpless and alone, that struck me the most.

Then there were the boxes ~ the storage boxes that Oswald hid behind while staking out his striking point from the 6^th floor window. They stood, piled high, disguising the small space of a murderer – and it was such a small space, such a small life, that still somehow managed to snuff out such a large one.

Afterward, in the cold, I walked across the street and took these photos of Dealey Plaza. Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes all is forlorn.

If you ask me where I’m most comfortable, chances are my answer will be at a hotel bar. If it doubles as the lobby, so much the better. The Joule in downtown Dallas has such a set-up, and while it was too early for a cocktail, I sat in close enough proximity to the bartender to have him smile and ask what I wanted. After a polite declination, I took out a book and read a little, raising my eyes to watch a few people check-in, and hotel employees welcome them to Dallas. Families and couples met in the lobby to start their day. Luggage and bags were taken by porters and whisked upwards once the elevator doors closed. Large bouquets of white peonies accented by white twigs made an incongruously spring-like winter wonderland, while a large industrial gear spun slowly in the center of the room.

Biding time until lunch, I unwrapped my scarves. The bartender polished some glasses as a few seats began to fill. This was the in-between time ~ the moment before and after some clearly demarcated event ~ whether that be lunch or a meeting or dinner or a play. Life is about the in-between times. We think it’s the opposite, but it’s not.

My in-between time was almost over, as my stomach called, and the cold demanded a bowl of pho. That night, an electrical fire would rage in front of the Joule, forcing the hotel to be evacuated. But I escaped before then, bundling back up before crossing the street to a Vietnamese restaurant.

The cold had deepened, and the brief walk sucked all the warmth out of me in minutes. The ice storm was in the air ~ gray and foreboding ~ and the damp chill drained any holiday cheer. Yet salvation was on the way, in a bowl of hot pho ~ a bowl of sustenance, a bowl of love, a bowl to warm from the inside out. It was the only way to get warm.