The kick-ass kitchen table–home to fabulous communal dinners–at the Gallery Hostel in Porto.
For my recent travel story for the Star Tribune, I divulge five of my favorite grown-up hostels—the kind of hostels you would want to stay in even if you’re over 25, have your partner (or your parents) in tow, or generally believe that there’s a very good reason that “hostel” sounds like “hostile.”
Before I fell back in love with hostels, my relationship with them had hit a definite low point.
While traveling in the South of France a year and a half ago, I met up with my musician friend Sy in Toulouse, a city neither of us had ever been. Her email told me to meet her at La Petite Auberge de Saint-Sernin, a hostel near the Basilica of Saint Sernin, the oldest Roman church of its kind in the world.
Basilica of Saint Sernin
But I had already made a halfhearted vow to swear off hostels, the way you might break off an exciting yet dubious romance that too often leaves you feeling regretful in the morning. And after years of enjoying the intimate conviviality and communal joie de vivre so particular to many hostels––as well as earning bragging rights to a few horror stories––I was throwing in the towel. Specifically, the thin, battered, postage-stamp size rental towel that costs around two euros at most hostel reception desks.
But Sy had already checked in, and I had agreed to join her. Upon arriving in the tiny, non-nonsense reception area, I found the hostel was cozy––if by cozy you as mean comfortably cramped as my old Brooklyn living room, with standard bunk beds stacked in a tiny co-ed room. A sleep-deprived Sy recounted her story of the drunk, foul-mouthed Russian metal band who had decamped in the room the night before. Between the yelling, the mess, the terrible proximity of the ensuite bathroom to the beds, and a particularly obnoxious lower-bunk assignation between the drummer and an equally drunk female visitor from another room, the night had been sheer hell.
Thankfully, they had departed. Tonight would be better, Sy promised.
And it was––at least for us. Yet as the hours trudged towards dawn, we heard a soft knock at the door and a plaintive request: was there a free bed in the room? The voice was young, American, female, and desperate in the peculiar way that a sleepless night in a hostel can make one desperate.
In the morning, Sy and I shuddered to hear the woman’s story. Let’s just say this: if penned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, it might have been called “The Case of the Young Male Traveler who Mistook Someone Else’s Backpack for a Toilet.”
I hadn’t had a hostel experience like this since I stayed in an Athens hostel where the condition of the showers intimated that I would actually be filthier post-shower. The man passed out drunk, face down, in front of my room looked like he had braved the shower himself.
When Sy and I left Toulouse and hopped on a train to lovely little Albi to see the Toulouse Lautrec Museum, we resolutely stayed in a hotel with a pretty little courtyard. It was conspicuously free of rock bands, Russian or otherwise. That night I vowed: no more hostels. Nada. Fin. Finito. Finished.
But then I found myself in Stockholm one February evening, balking at the price of a gloomy 2-star hotel whose grim décor resembled a Soviet version of IKEA. So, to save myself hundred of krona, I gave myself a one-time out and checked into a surprisingly cheap hostel with a sweet little café. And then I wound up spending a couple of weeks in Portugal. Did you know that Portugal is basically the world capital of amazing hostels? I’m talking phenomenally wonderful places that could take your mother to.
If you read the Star Tribune story, I talk about staying at Gallery Hostel in Porto and Home Hostel in Lisbon. Two other Porto hostels where I stayed and ate pretty fabulous multi-course communal dinners were Tattva Design Hostel and Yes! Hostel. Thanks to the amazing Christian from Hamburg for the latter recommendation.
In an age of epic walls, the Walls of Constantinople were the envy of the medieval era. Built during antiquity by emperor Constantine the Great to defend the Roman Empire’s new home, the legendary walls successfully defended the city from foreign invaders for nearly a thousand years, until the Ottoman Empire’s devastating 1453 siege. Constantinople, along with the Eastern Roman Empire, was suddenly no more–-and the city of Istanbul was born.
Throughout history, societies have continually erected walls to keep people out–or in. Most of these efforts have ultimately been failures. It’s the same story even in Hollywood films: in the 1979 film King Kong, terrified villagers build a giant wall to keep out the iconic beast. Their efforts proved so wildly unsuccessful that not only did Kong kidnap Dwan (then unknown ingénue Jessica Lange) but also maul the Empire State building.
For my latest CNBC story, I interviewed several experts in conflict resolution, migration and refugee studies to get the lowdown on the world’s most controversial border walls, from Israel’s West Bank Wall to the many walls currently being erected across Europe.
The consensus? Walls are dangerous. And they simply don’t work.
I have known band teachers to be a particular breed of chain-smoking, middle-aged men with terrible posture, potbellies, and a certain endearing sweetness outdone only by their ability to silence a whole section of clarinets with a withering gaze. So when I walk in the Lyndon Baines Johnson High School band room, the first thing that strikes me about Don Haynes, LBJ’s head band director, is that he has a really good haircut. He also looks like he jogs ten miles and lifts weights every morning, and dresses with purpose rather than embarrassment. Yet the haircut really gets me, because I played in public school bands for over a decade toward the end of the last century, and in all of those years I never saw a band director with a decent haircut.
The band room is a familiar clutter of old musical scores, black horn cases, 1970s-era posters and a peculiar but inoffensive smell that is a cross between a tuba mouthpiece and moist plywood. Under cavernous ceilings, the band practices “Sonoran Desert Holiday” by Ron Nelson.
Don suddenly stops the brass. “Just think about what you played. Was that beautiful?” he asks.
“No way,” a trumpet player calls out, and a slight laugh ripples through the band.
“I want you to think about the Cleveland Symphony Brass. I want to express your spirit in music the way Shakespeare did in his writing,” Don says.
They begin. I am not sure if the piece evokes feelings of being on a holiday in a desert in Sonora, but they sound pretty good. Suddenly I realize that this is one of the only times that I have ever, in an American public school, heard someone ask very seriously, “Was that beautiful?”
Anyone who has ever played in band knows that when you shove fifty to a hundred kids in a cramped room and give them instruments, the potential for chaos is limitless. Yet these kids are focused, attentive even. Perhaps it is because Don exudes more warmth and charm in an hour than some college professors display in a whole semester of lectures. What is the magical equation that makes kids care very much about something — even something that requires long hours and that dreaded word, practice? Even when the bell rings, no one bolts.
Practice, Practice, Practice
It’s 4:00 in the Walmart-sized school parking lot when the band members, along with the color guard, move into their places on the asphalt as if satellite radar directs them. BJ Allen, a twenty-three-year old fresh from a two year stint as University of Texas drum major, and Travis Ancelet, the assistant director, direct the half time show run-through from the high metal podium cemented to one side of the parking lot. In their impeccable shirt and ties and wraparound sunglasses, they look like FBI agents supervising a massive bust.
Travis is the second in command around here, which translates into the fact that he has been at LBJ for ten years to Don’s twenty-six. The first day I meet him he jokes that he hasn’t had a date in four months because a being band director is like one endless weekend date. By his easy laugh I think he might be kidding, and then I wonder if there are cute band directors all over the country who are sacrificing their social lives for the demands of high school football schedules. He is the kind of guy who, if he asked for your phone number, you would be flattered. He is the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask for your phone number.
I played in the Wind Ensemble in high school, and once a year, at Homecoming, we were forced to march. There was great resistance. Everyone whined as the put on the scratchy orange wool “Go Tigers!” sweaters that smelled like cheese curls left in a locker in 1977. I remember marching on the field with the all enthusiasm and precision of a chain gang. But that was in Minneapolis, where many high schools lack the spectacle of color guards and baton twirlers.
LBJ used to have a twirler-in-residence. I ask Travis Ancelet why this glamorous position is no longer.
“It wasn’t a problem with the twirlers, it was a problem with their mothers.” He laughs and shakes his head painfully, and I imagine a long line of overbearing mothers who secretly dream of wearing short skirts and throwing weightless silver sticks into the air.
“They wanted to live vicariously through their daughters,” he sighs. “And they wouldn’t let us forget it.”
One of my other misconceptions about marching band is that the culmination of the year is a long dull bus trip to a competition in some place like Des Moines, where you bravely play for a bunch of nearly deaf judges in the parking lot of some second-rate amusement park. That was my experience, anyway, and while the illicit fun of trying to order Mai-Tais in the HoJo tiki lounge was memorable, it seems a childish field trip compared to, say, the LBJ band’s recent two-week excursion to London and Paris.
Bill Cox, a tall, genial father in a spotless baseball cap that he seems to wear at all times, tells me that it took them several years to earn money for the trip, which resulted in nearly 300 kids dispersed on 8 planes to London.
I ask how on earth they raised the money.
Bill tells me they “do everything: silent auctions, raffles, and picking up trash from the stadium after the University of Texas Home football games.”
“Wow,” I say, “Kids are willing to pick up trash?”
“Ha. Not just the kids,” he grins. “We’re out there too on Sunday mornings, getting on our hands and knees.”
This, then, is the last misconception I have about marching band. That instead of being just an after-school “activity” that might rack up extracurricular points on a college application, that this is a dirty, sweaty, joint effort that requires a lot of grunt work and a great deal of patience.
“I know it’s a cliché,” Don Haynes sighs in his office, where the walls are choked with old pictures of the bands he has directed in his 26 years at LBJ. “But we really are a family. The band has a life of its own.”
While it seems natural that many students use the word “family” to describe the band, it is the parents who surprise me more. The parent Booster Club is an official tax-exempt organization with its own constitution; the members seem nearly as tight-knit as the band itself. Take, for instance, Gail Capers, whom I met while she was working at the ticket table for the Capitol City Marching Festival.
Gail moved to Austin not too long before her son, Mark, now a senior, enrolled at LBJ. She was wistful about the fact that this was Mark’s last year in the band — and thus her last year. “Band gave me a change to meet other parents. It gave me a chance to feel like I was doing something positive… I’ve had a ball. This is my senior year and I’m really sad it’s going to end.”
The Tailgate Party
It is late on a Thursday afternoon before the LBJ vs. Johnston football game, and in the long shadows of the school a core group of parents makes dinner for the entire band, color guard, cheerleaders and football team. The precise number of hamburgers that Bill Cox and Jose Villareal flip in the steam of charcoal and the late afternoon sun is staggering.
“What’s the special occasion for the food?” I ask.
“We do this every week,” Jose laughs, tapping his spatula against the massive grill donated by Home Depot.
In the last rays of the sun, everyone eats together in the grass, and on the steps. A couple of football players toss a ball back and forth. In the distance, three cheerleaders practice a jump, their skirts making a purple blur against the oncoming dusk.
Are the kids glad that parents are here? I talk with Deborah Steadman, another band parent. “Kids this age would rather have their friends think they were hatched from an egg than that they have parents,” she says.
Jose interjects, “True. Yet even though your kid says he doesn’t want you here, if you don’t come, they say, Dad, where were you?”
Later, at the football game, I help haul the percussion equipment on the field. The scoreboard flashes silver against the dark Texas sky and I realize it is late, I am tired, and somehow I am at a high school football game, hauling an eighty pound xylophone onto wet grass.
“Do you ever get tired of this?” I whisper to Raoul Calderon, a lean man with a wry sense of humor.
He shrugs. “Family life has to revolve around something, right? You have the whole week. How bad is it to spend one day with other parents, enjoying the weather, the game if we win…. This brings you back to high school.”
“And let’s face it,” another mother nods. “High school’s the time of your life.”
At halftime, the color guard’s rifles are white as salt as they soar up and are caught again. In the last strains of “Sonoran Desert Holiday,” the male cheerleaders pick up the female cheerleaders and throw them weightlessly into the air. They wear bright white shirts, which read, on the front, “While you’re sitting in the stands…”
On they back, they read, “I’ll be picking up your girlfriend.”
Some things really don’t ever change.
The Pit Crew
At the next football game, one of the parents gives me a shirt in thanks for helping haul the stationary percussion — “everything that’s a real bitch to move,” he explains — at the halftime show. The shirt, which many of the parents wear, is a bright purple polo that proclaims on the back: The One. The Only. The LBJ Parent Pit Crew. Tonight is the first time I have ever worn article of clothing with the word “parent” on it. Whatever anxiety this instills in me I temporarily ignore.
The Pit Boss
It has taken me several weeks of hanging out with the pit crew to figure out who, if anyone, is the boss. Finally I ask.
“That would definitely be Randy,” says Bill.
Randy Baden, a compact, muscular sort of guy who looks like he would destroy you at arm-wrestling and then buy you dinner afterwards, is the father of a senior in the band and has been around long enough that he claims to possess “an accurate mental map of where every piece of percussion equipment goes in the pit.” Like all of the other parents I met while working with the pit crew, his child does not actually play percussion. At first this seems inconceivable to me: there are American parents who don’t mind volunteering nights and weekends helping someone else’s children lug a bunch of heavy metal stuff though fields in all kinds of inclement weather?
Randy explains to me that he actually enjoys this. “There is a great camaraderie among parents who help out with the band and the equipment,” he muses.
And Randy knows equipment: he’s the one who goes to pick up the Uhaul trucks that the band rents for each away football game and competition, which means that for the past several years he’s been the one to transport the cumbersome equipment all over Austin and beyond. When I ask how he decided to volunteer, he explodes with laughter.
“Volunteer?” he says. “I never volunteered. The torch was passed to me, and I accidentally accepted it.”
Apparently, a few years back there was a father of a band senior couldn’t make it to pick up the truck one day, and Randy stepped in to pick up the slack. That was four years ago and now Randy’s daughter is a senior. “And soon some innocent parent is going to start helping out, and I’m going to hand them the keys just the same way they were handed to me. The torch will be passed on again,” Randy tells me.
Back in the Pit Crew
After making it to the final rounds of the Westlake Marching Competition, one of Austin’s major fall band events, the Jaguars are psyched for the region competition. Tonight the kids wear their full marching regalia: sparkly purple sashes, regal caps with plumes, patent leather shoes and crisp white shirts that look less and less crisp the longer rain pours from the unrelenting sky.
I ask Gordon Bennett, an LBJ pit crewmember in a rain slicker that is doing him no good, if it took a lot of dedication to work in these kinds of conditions.
“That’s one word for stupidity,” he says.
Thirty minutes before the band is supposed to march on the field, I go with the pit crew and the percussion section to wait at the gates of the stadium. Ken and Deborah and I joke about the weather and tread lightly around politics; a snare drummer jokes that his shoulder are about to detach from his body. The rain courses over our faces, we are lost in the middle of a vast parking lot, and suddenly I am having fun.
I feel like I’ve given up some anxiety — the need to be productive, the need to have a constant purpose — and that I can stand here in the rain with these kids and their parents and just enjoy waiting around. To be in the marching band in any capacity, you have to be willing to wait around, to kill time, to put the group ahead of yourself. You can’t rely on a schedule or weather or getting exactly what you want. In the pit crew you move on instinct, by the moment: which drummer needs what, where, when. As Ken puts it: “The pit crew does not deal in reality. Not in truth, nor in facts. We deal in rumors, innuendo, and speculation.”
As the band marches on the field with rapt expressions, I lug the chimes out to the track. My heart beats fast and I clench my hands. I worry: Lauren in the color guard will drop her rifle. I worry: Dan will drop his trumpet mouthpiece; my chimes will get stuck in the mud.
But none of this happens. One boy loses his shoe and yet they keep on going. There is something indescribably lovely about watching two hundred and fifty kids play an overture through a river of mud. There is something in their gestures and facial expressions that says a lot about how beauty happens when you least expect it. I think of when Don asked them in the band room, “Is that beautiful?” and I want to say yes, yes it is.
After the competition, we huddle by the stadium fence to hear the judges announce their official ratings. The Jaguar Band receives a “1,” which means, technically, “Outstanding;” a “1” at the regions qualifies any band for State.
As we clap and scream, a parent from another school glances at my Pit Crew shirt.
“Congratulations,” she says.
I hesitate for a moment, wanting to say that I am not part of the band, that I am not part of anything like this. But before I can say this I smile and hear myself saying “Thank you” as I brush the rain off my face.
I fly often, and I usually book––and pay for––my own tickets. So after years of scouring the internets for cheap airline tickets, I’ve made countless rookie mistakes*––and also scored some amazing deals.**
How Much are You Willing to Suffer, and At What Price?
Sometimes buying plane tickets comes down to this essential equation: how much you’re willing to suffer in order to save money, or how much you’re willing to pay to avoid suffering.
If you ended up suffering in a middle seat for which you paid an exorbitant price, it used to be your travel agent’s fault. No longer: thanks to the glories of digital technology, all of the self-recrimination and buyer’s remorse can be yours alone.
But First, A Little History on Online Tickets
Back in 1978, when the government deregulated the commercial airline industry, fares became subject to market forces and put travel agents in serious competition. In 1995, Alaska Airlines became the first North American airline to begin selling tickets online, and the explosion of online travel sites quickly followed suit. Expedia, among the first of online booking engines, launched in 1996. But times have changed since the birth of Priceline and Expedia: the online travel marketplace has more competing players than ever, and it pays to explore search engines and online tools beyond your go-to travel website.
Essentially, don’t look for the cheapest ticket. Really. Look for the cheapest ticket that’s a good value: in other words, for which you will suffer the least.
A cheap flight might no longer be good value after factoring a long layover plus the need to take a taxi during rush hour between New York’s JFK and LGA airports (about $40, with tip) or between London Heathrow and London Gatwick to make a connection. If this kind of minor disaster sounds farfetched, it’s a not-uncommon scenario to which many bargain hunters have fallen prey. Adjust your expectations––the cheapest flight isn’t always the best flight for you––and know the difference between cost and value. Know much you are willing to endure to save 20 bucks–-or 200.
*Rookie Mistake #1:
Showing up at the Madrid airport after booking on Air Europa, which is a basically decent budget European airline, but has a weird policy: if you book last minute (say, the day or two before) you might receive an email telling you that a customer service agent will call you to confirm your flight. This was the case last November, when I was heading back from Spain to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner in Amsterdam. When I still hadn’t received confirmation the morning of the flight, I became a bit concerned, so I called the customer service number. I couldn’t get anyone at customer service that was willing to deal with my extremely mediocre Spanish, and nobody would speak English, French or Italian to me at the number.
So I hung up and took the Cercanias train to Barajas airport, feeling confident I could resolve the situation at the Air Europa counter. After all, I had a bonafide reservation—I just lacked the confirmation, right?
Not so. When I arrived at the counter, the agent looked at me blankly and told me that my reservation was not confirmed and I could not fly. I tried to buy another ticket on the spot, but the price they quoted was ridiculous. She suggested, with an impressively straight face, that I fly Easyjet. Since I can’t bring myself to spend more than 100 Euros on an Easyjet ticket—it seemed as ludicrous as spending thirty bucks on a Subway sandwich––I declined, booked the nicest airport hotel that I could find, and decided to enjoy the pool and spa instead of waiting in the airport for hours to be crammed onto a crowded Easyjet flight that cost more than a last minute first class TGV seat from Amsterdam to Paris (including lunch with wine). And it turned out that watching the Real Madrid game with a bunch of Madrileños at the Irish pub near the hotel proved much more fun than waiting around the airport.
Rookie mistake, I thought—except what would I have done differently, other than simply not booking on Air Europa? I learned from this that until you have a confirmation, it’s probably not worth heading to the airport.
There are plenty of other colossal booking mistakes I’ve made, but I don’t want to scare you. Remember to read the fine print, and if you’re booking with an airline or third-party site you’re not familiar with, read consumer reviews online. If there are legions of customers complaining about unconfirmed reservations (Air Europa, I’m talking to you!) you might want to think twice.
** Amazing Deal #1
My sister and I scored some open jaw tickets on Air Canada from Chicago to Madrid and London back to Chicago. They were 400 bucks, which seemed insane, even ten years ago. Then we arrived at the Toronto airport on our layover and suspected why. The airport was nearly deserted––more post-apocalyptic zombie film set than international terminal––and the passengers who milled around were all wearing face masks. Except us. Because we were so psyched to land our $400 tickets to Madrid that catching a pandemic flu was hardly on our minds. Pandemic or no pandemic, I know I probably won’t ever find a ticket like that again.
This is an actual tumbleweed. We spotted it rolling down the street in the desert wind.
The Minneapolis Star-Tribune gave me one of my favorite assignments last month: to explore the Quintessential American Road Trip. Since I had racked up the majority of the 100,000 plus miles I put on my first car, a much-loved Toyota Corolla, while criss-crossing the country repeatedly between Minneapolis, Los Angeles, New York City, Austin, TX, and Chicago––for university, for work, for love, for relocation and just for kicks––I had sizable road trip repertoire from which to draw. Route 66 won out: my sister and I attempted to drive it completely spontaneously without an actual route map (or a smart phone). In keeping with the true pre-Interstate era spirit of the road–– a road that before it became Route 66, started off life as the Lincoln Highway out of Chicago––we got lost. And got lost again. And again. Here’s the story.
It’s not a classic American road trip if you don’t get at least a tiny bit lost.
My sister and I on a road trip through Nevada a couple of years ago We aren’t actually lost here, but we are clearly unaware in this photo that we are about to get a flat tire.
For my latest CNBC story on unconventional ways to build leadership skills, I spoke to management gurus, improv comedy artists, mindfulness experts, a business school leader, a CEO or two, and the co-founder of Amsterdam’s Boom Chicago. (Note to homesick expats missing American or British comedy: it’s hands-down the best place on the European continent to experience comedy in English.)
I also (finally) read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People––a leadership and personal growth bestseller by Dr. Stephen Covey that I had been meaning to read forever––as well as Dale Carnegie’s 1936 classic How to Win Friends and Influence People, a book I’d seen at the library as a kid and figured I’d never pick up.
If you want to be a great leader, here are a few essential tips I learned:
Develop a principle-centered approach. Be proactive. Connect with others through laughter. Real change comes from shifting your paradigm. Practice a martial art––it’s great for discipline and focus. Learn a language other than English. Read the classic leadership texts. Read the classics in general. Get out of your comfort zone. Shake things up by getting feedback from disparate outside perspectives. Meditate. Be mindful. Find a mentor. Mentor someone else.
If you’re in the mood for apres-ski but can’t get to the mountains, snuggle up at the Atrio Alpine ski bar at Zurich Hauptbahnhof. Don’t worry, the furs are fake.
As a blogger for Eurail, I’ve spent a lot of time killing time–eating, drinking, reading, waiting, people watching––in Europe’s biggest (and sometimes, tiniest) train stations. I’ve devoured lackluster sandwiches, run hungry to make train connections only to discover that no dining car existed on the route, and slowly learned where to eat–and more importantly, where not to eat–around these transport hubs glutted with teeming masses of commuters, students, and confused tourists. For tips on where to find decent food and drinks in and around some of the continent’s most sprawling, beautiful, and disorienting stations––Berlin Hauptbahnhof, Zurich Hauptbahnhof, Amsterdam Centraal, Antwerp Centraal, and Prague hlavní nádraží––here’s the story.
If you’re heading on the Eurostar, the Thalys, or the TGV through Paris’ Gare du Nord––whose particular chaos is equal parts maddening and fascinating––then read on.
Where to eat and drink in Gare du Nord:
With few exceptions, don’t eat in the station. It’s loud. It’s freezing––unless it’s summer, in which case it’s sweltering. The exception is to grab breakfast from Paul, a bakery that’s ubiquitous to French train stations. While it’s not the best croissant you’ll find in Paris, it’s still a better croissant than you’ll find in most of the world. There’s fresh squeezed orange juice and coffees, too.
Where to eat and drink near Gare du Nord:
Walking out into Paris Nord after alighting from the relatively serenity of the Thalys train can be slightly nerve-wracking. It’s full of pushy taxi drivers, bewildered tourists, pickpockets,and annoyed Parisians, as well as plenty of waiters desperate to get you inside their restaurants. Ignore the hawkers: cross Rue de Dunkerque, which runs parallel to the front of the station, and head straight to Terminus Nord at 23 Rue de Dunkerque. This art deco treasure serves French bistro classics (oysters! Chateaubriand! Boullabaisse!) until midnight. The danger here isn’t mediocre food: it’s that you’ll splurge on the warm chocolate profiteroles and miss your train to Nice.
Devotees of Indian food should head east of the station, where the streets are lined with sari shops and relatively inexpensive, authentic Indian restaurants. At 170 Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis, I like the South Indian vegetarian at Saravanaa Bhavan.
In Alexander Payne’s inimitable comedy Sideways––you know, the thinking man’s predecessor to The Hangover that featured wine instead of shots and Sandra Oh instead of Mike Tyson and his tiger––Paul Giametti’s character wouldn’t even stoop to drinking Merlot in California’s Central Coast wine region. In fact, Giametti’s Academy Award-winning performance singlehandedly killed Merlot sales (at least temporarily) with the following line: “If anyone orders Merlot, I’m leaving. I am not drinking any f*$king Merlot!”
In the film, he favors Pinot Noir. Unsurprisingly, Pinot Noir sales skyrocketed, especially in California. Blame it on Hollywood, perhaps, but Merlot is just not that cool anymore.
If the producers ever make Sideways II, or The Other Side-Ways, they’ll probably send Lance and Miles on a far flung trip to Tuscany where their wine escapade will involve Italian mafia. There maybe be a cameo where Berlusconi tries to bunga bunga with Sandra Oh. More importantly, there will be an essential scene where Lance convinces Miles to kick off the trip with a toast at the San Francisco airport, and Miles says, “I don’t drink wine at f*#king airports.”
Don’t try this at the airport. Especially the Minneapolis one. Minnesotans value temperance, or at least moderation.
Quite sensibly, Lance will attempt to reason with him. “Dude, when’s the last time you drank wine at the airport? You don’t have to drink crap wine anymore–they actually have wine bars at airports now.”
USA Today sent me across the country to check out some of America’s newest, and most fetching, airport wine bars. Here’s the story. My personal favorite? It’s Surdyk’s Flights in the Minneapolis airport––but, of course, I’m biased, since Minneapolis is my original hometown and the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport is where I took my first flight as a child, back in the 1980s when they still served hot meals on domestic flights. And complimentary wine––although I doubt it was Pinot Noir. Or even Merlot.
In the late 1990s, Sex and the City’s Samantha wouldn’t have been caught dead in Brooklyn.
How times have changed…
My latest story for CNBC was inspired by the recent summer day when I left the Lower East Side apartment where I was staying, walked down the street to the Essex Market, and ate a Guaco Taco from Brooklyn Taco for breakfast.
I hesitated before ordering. “Is it hot?” I asked hopefully. “I mean, spicy hot?”
The tall guy behind the counter nodded rather noncommittally, and I figured that I would be satisfied, yet underwhelmed by the taco. After all, I associated good bagels and ironically-named, overpriced craft cocktails with Brooklyn. I associated amazing pizza (Grimaldi’s on Fulton Street, the only place I’m willing to wait in line for an hour for pizza) and pizza that tastes amazing when it’s midnight and you’re starving, plus the guys at the counter remember your order and laugh at your jokes (Smiling Pizza on 9th St and 7th Avenue) with Brooklyn.
Yet I never associated tacos with Brooklyn. More importantly, I was confused why Brooklyn Taco was on the Lower East Side. And not in Brooklyn.
I sat there pondering this while the taco drew tears and practically burned my face off. Passers-by probably assumed I was crying over a breakup or The New York Times front page stories, which were sob-worthy the entire month of July. I was only crying over the taco, which is no small feat: I am a bona fide taco snob after 7 glorious taco-filled years in Austin, Texas. It’s not easy to bring me to tears.
My mouth burned all the way through my neighborhood stroll. To counter the jalapeno burn with something more mild, I considered popping in for a plain cheese slice at a pizza place that looked promising.
It was called–surprise!–Williamsburg Pizza.
Williamsburg, as you may know, would probably win the vote if you surveyed 100 New Yorkers on what is the trendiest, hippest neigborhood in Brooklyn. Of course, it’s practically a hipster dinosaur now, but it has staying power, like Madonna.
Back in the 1980s, Williamsburg was full of punk rock musicians and performance artists, in addition to the Hasidic families who had long been settled there. In the 2000s, Williamsburg traded up for trust fund kids and tech nerds with stock options.
In the 1980s, Madonna was a dancer and punk singer who dated Jellybean Benitez. In the 2000s, she traded up for Guy Ritchie and acquired a posh British accent. (Well, to be fair, Sean Penn and that backup dancer and a few others were in between.)
Whether Madonna is the Williamsburg of pop stars, or Williamsburg is the Madonna of neighborhoods, I will leave you to judge.
In Williamsburg pizza, I ordered a Grandma Slice: square-cut, cheese on the bottom and sauce on the top. It was excellent, but I expected it to come with a piece of mildly disapproving advice and a $25 check.
I couldn’t resist continuing my “why are Brooklyn businesses taking over Manhattan” line of inquiry with the friendly counter guy.
“In the last two hours I’ve eaten a Brooklyn Taco and considered buying a t-shirt in Brooklyn Industries, and now I’m sitting here eating Williamsburg Pizza. Does that seem remotely suspicious to you?”
He shrugged and threw another pizza into the oven, and changed the subject: he was interested in telling me how he attracted women who used him. I wondered if Jellybean Benitez had ever felt the same way.
“For free pizza?” I asked. The Grandma slice was good, and I imagined round-the-clock access to unlimited Grandma slices might be, for some, as heady a proposition as other aspects of romance.
“Nope,” he said. “The last girl I dated didn’t even like pizza.”
“That’s a really bad sign,” I sighed, and he agreed.
Champagne served in crystal glasses by tuxedoed waiters in the dining car. Grand dames encrusted in pearls casting frosty gazes as their ladies-in-waiting struggle with heavy steamer trunks.
Apparently, my first enchanting impressions of train travel were formed by watching a whole lot of old black and white films––which led me to believe that someone like Dame Maggie Smith’s character on Downton Abbey would be my seatmate.
In the 21st century, First Class amenities, with a few exceptions such as luxury lines like the Venice Simplon Orient-Express, don’t live up to these romantic, old world standards. Yet First Class remains fabulous, even if it’s not necessarily white glove service. That being said, I’ve done the majority of my travel on Second Class and it’s been equally wonderful. More social. Cheaper. I’ve met more locals, shared bottles of wine, and had more impromptu conversations––as well as a few singalongs.
At this new post on the Eurail Blog, I hash out the myths and realities of First Class versus Second Class train travel.
Yes, it’s true: James Bond does always seem to take First Class…
And who doesn’t want to travel like James Bond? To recreate his dinner with the inimitable Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale, all you have to do is book a First Class seat on the Czech Railways Pendolino fast train, order a bottle of wine, invite a fetching stranger to join you, and utter something cryptic like “I’m the money” or “The treasury has agreed to stake you in the game.”
In the film, Bond and Vesper Lynd are heading to a high stakes poker game at the Casino Royale in Montenegro. Of course, the actual Pendolino goes from Prague through the Czech countryside to Bratislava and Vienna––not even close to Montenegro.
If you want to play poker before embarking on the Pendolino, you can always go to the Casino Royale Prague––although I wouldn’t recommend it. There are more opulent ones in the center, although the rumor is that they’re run by the mafia. I’m not going to say which mafia, because this isn’t a mafia-sponsored post and I don’t want to promote any particular mafia organization. But I can tell you it’s not the New Jersey mafia, in any case. Oh, and a word of warning on Prague casinos in general: don’t expect to walk out with any cash. From my experience playing blackjack at one of the fancier Prague casinos, I am relatively certain the odds were far worse compared to Las Vegas––which is already a place where the house, as the saying goes, always wins.
Quite a few scenes in Casino Royale were actually filmed in Prague. Locations include the modern Danube House (where Bond kills offs two villains in the pre-title sequence) and the National Museum on Wenceslas Square (interior shots of the Venice hotel where Vesper and James bunk down for the night).
For more Casino Royale locations––and to confirm your suspicion that the Miami museum looked oddly like a certain central European Ministry of Transport office––check out this BBC Travel story.