Mountains and Moxie

I was home for five days before jumping on another plane, this time for a long planned trip to Colorado. The trip came about when I realized that Sweet Baby James was performing at Red Rocks Amphitheater as part of his summer tour. The photos of Red Rocks make it seem like such a special place and I can generally get my hands on JT tickets, I figured why not. Especially since one of my college dearests, Laura lives in Denver, and while I had just seen her – she came to Cleveland in April to watch the eclipse with me – the last time we were together before that was when we joined the millions of women marching on Washington in 2017.

And of course it would give me a chance to eat a rack of Colorado lamb, the thing I cooked when I was cooking across the country.

I arrived in Denver on Friday afternoon. With the afternoon free, I went to the immersive art installation Meow Wolf. Something I’ve wanted to see since its first iteration launched in Sante Fe in 2008. It was overwhelmingly beautiful and chaotic and creative. But I’m not sure it was art. At least not for me. But I am so glad I’ve now experienced it.

ON Saturday, I ventured out to the mountains. We headed up Pike’s Peak, the mountain that inspired the song American the Beautiful and one of the “Fourteeners”, mountains higher than 14,000 feet. Pike’s Peak is one of the few that has a roadway that allows you to drive all the way to the top, which we needed becuase I’m not sure I have it in my to climb 14,000 feet at the moment. I am very good in thin air, however, so I wanted to stay up there far longer than my travel companions. We did explore some of the high altitude trails and reveled in the deep snow. The universe provided and we saw a spectacular lightning show on our treacherous drive down. The whole thing was just amazing.

And then it was time for dinner! I had to find a place that served Colorado rack of lamb. One would think that would be relatively easy, but one would be wrong. Google researching all the high end eateries in town, I found a few that served lamb, but no indication of whether it was Colorado or not. I was resistant to go to Buckhorn Exchange, Denver’s oldest restaurant, because it felt really touristy, but in the end, it was the only place I could be assured of getting close to what I wanted. While I didn’t get a rack of lamb (and honestly thank goodness, because that one I cooked, I ate for three days), I got 2 of the most delicious lamb chops and a fantastic old fashioned. I was proud of how I’d done cooking mine, but that’s cause I hadn’t had theirs. Buckhorn Exchange is quite an experience. Every wall is covered with animal heads, including one that they insist was felled by Teddy Roosevelt (whose stone visage I’d just seen last week). I do not actually believe that he was involved, but it is a nice story. Also on the wall is a framed credit card reciept from when Jimmy Carter ate there in 1988, which feels a bit like a violation, but of course, I immediately compared my spending to his.

Sunday arrived and I spent the day with Laura, her husband Robert, and another friend. We wandered Denver, got a picnic and headed to Red Rocks. My first Red Rock experience and my gazillionth JT experience was so, so worth it.

So long Colorado! I loved it here!

It’s taken me a while to want to revisit this project. I knew I’d want to, and I knew that the way I’d want to is to go to all the places and eat the food that I’d made and see how well I did. It’s gonna take me a while, but here goes.

If I were a better writer I’d be able to sum up the crazy symbolism of the last little bit of my life and suss out what it means in the greater scheme of things (my things only – not cosmic things).

It’s only really happened once before that I’ve had a week that has been so filled with what should have been a metaphor for something if I was just clever enough to figure it out. That was in 2012, when in the course of one week I went from the the top of the world – Mount Everest – to the bottom of the ocean – scuba diving in the Bay of Thailand. And while I’ll never, ever scuba dive again, that was a very good week.

This week started with a dumpster fire at work. No really, a literal one. And somehow that very literal dumpster fire made any figurative dumpster fire going on in my life seem so not important anymore.

And with that cleansing fire, our school year ended and I had a brief, spontaneous week off. Granted to staff since the last few months have been rather stressful (google it). Since it was last minute and before Memorial Day, it was not the kind of trip you spend a lot of time planning, I decided to spend a few days in a corner of the country I’ve always wanted to visit, but isn’t really on a lot of my friends’ bucket lists. And while I was here, I would start revisiting the food of my Road Trip project.

First stop the historic and historically haunted Alex Johnson Hotel in Rapid City South Dakota. Here’s what I can tell you after 4 nights there – ghosts aren’t real.

Day one I hit the first round of hot spots – The Crazy Horse Memorial is epic in it’s scale and thrilling to see in person, though it is unlikely any of us will live to see a completed artwork.

The Needles Highway from Crazy Horse through Custer State Park was a spectacular winding road full of switch backs and treacherous drops. Custer State Park was glorious and, after a twisty drive and some turn offs to hike around beautiful lakes and along lovely paths, I suddenly found my car surrounded by bison. I was warned of course, there are signs everywhere saying stay in your car, and don’t approach, but there were none and there were none and there were none and then all of a sudden they were everywhere and it was amazing. As I was leaving the park, one popped up out of nowhere on the road ambling slowly towards my car, taking his sweet time. I could not have written it better.

Then I drove the very exciting Iron Mountain Road that takes you through several one lane tunnels that give some great sneak peaks of the stone heads before I got to the main event of the day – Mount Rushmore. Mock me all you will, but I’ve always wanted to see it. Now I have, I got the selfie and I don’t need to go back, but alongside Crazy Horse, Custer and the two great drives, it was a very fun day!

For dinner, it was time to see how I did in my cooking for South Dakota. I had to go back and look and I cooked something called chislic, which is basically fried meat. Interestingly for something I’d never heard of before, in my research on SD, I learned it was something you’d find at every bar or restaurant. My assessment was that it was tasty but a waste of steak. I was a little nervous I wouldn’t be able to find a place to order it, but indeed, it was on just about every menu. I picked a nice looking restaurant and ordered it with an old fashioned. I did mine slightly wrong. I did not dust mine with corn starch before frying it, which definitely made it better, but in the end, I hold to my initial assessment. It is a waste of good steak.

Day two and the chance to see the natural site I’ve most wanted to my whole life. I don’t know why – but I’ve always wanted to see Devil’s Tower, Wyoming. And now I have and it is even better than I expected. On the way I stopped at the exact mid-point of America, Belle Fourche, SD, and got a remarkably good cup of coffee in Aladdin, WY, population 15. Devil’s Tower is not what I expected, though I don’t know what I expected, but it is breathtaking. I did the 2 mile trek around the base (to climb on the tower requires a permit – and skill). From every angle I was in awe. I wanted to stay there forever and I did stay for far longer than made sense, but I was so overcome. On the way out, I passed a field full of prairie dogs and I had to stops and watch their antics for a while. It was all joy.

On the way home, I stopped in the tiny town of Sundance known for putting that one guy in jail and earning him his nickname (he’s from Philly y’all). In Sundance, I looked for a place to celebrate my Wyoming meal. I cooked bison for Wyoming. Having just had steak yesterday, I was not into having it again, but its all in the name of research. It was not quite dinner, not quite lunch, I couldn’t bring myself to have a full bison steak, so a bison burger it was. My assessment is the same as it was for the bison steak – I’d just as soon have cow.

On the way back to Rapid City, I made the obligatory stop in Deadwood. I’m not really into Frontier lore, and I never watched the HBO show, but at the risk of veering into inappropriate appropriation territory in the territory where its least appropriate to do so, the best thing about Deadwood was the chance to pay tribute to my spirit animal.

As I was planning day 3, I noticed how close I was to Nebraska, so I figured I had to add another state to my trip. I drove for hours in the Oglala Grasslands area of Nebraska and never saw anything. Not a car, not a person or a building. Nothing. I sometimes found myself driving 100 miles an hour, which is unlike me, but there was nothing out there and just road and I didn’t even notice. Just when I was bored with Nebraska and about to head back to SD, I saw a sign for CarHenge, and that seemed like a necessary hour and a half detour. And it was.

The detour brought me to a little town, and since it was close to lunch time, I figured I’d hit my Nebraska meal. It was another steak. I couldn’t eat a steak at lunchtime, so I ordered a ceasar salad with marinated steak. I asked about the marinate and it was basically the same as I used – worcestershire sauce, red pepper, and garlic. It was perfect. Honestly, my best meal of the trip.

From Nebraska, I visited the incredibly moving site of the Wounded Knee massacre and the beautiful Badlands National Park.

What an amazing, spontaneous few days seeing a part of this country which which I have no experience. I’m feel revitalized.

*** BONUS – A couple months ago, I went to Savannah, Georgia with my friend Gene. I got there the night before he arrived, so I figured I’d eat the meal I cooked for Georgia. Looking back, I kind of cheated and made pimento cheese, which I served with fried green tomatoes. At the very touristy Pirates Cove retaurant, which was near the hotel and low effort, I ordered fabulous crab soup, fried green tomatoes, and pimento cheese – turns out that is how one is meant to serve the FGTs in Georgia. I enjoyed them while the charming bartender regaled me with stories of Savannah’s haunted history. Two things I love – a charming bartender and haunted history, though, as mentioned above, ghosts aren’t real. And bartenders lose their charm, so but for the night it was fabulous. Also fabulous – Savannah. What a beautiful city.

I believe in omens, but only the good kind. I can make anything a good omen. There’s a great scene, that I think about all the time, in the film The World According to Garp, where Robin Williams as Garp is looking at a home with his new wife. After a plane crashes into it, he says to the realtor, “we’ll take it.” Explaining to his astonished wife, he says “yes, but that will never happen again – it’s been pre-disastered.” 

So now I have to figure out how getting a concussion on the very first day of 2024 will act as a pre-disaster for the rest of my year!

First off – I’m fine. I have a big bump on the back of my head and a bit of ear pain (the internet says that’s normal), but while I had a headache yesterday, that’s gone today.

We were driving the ring road from Reykjavik to Vik to see the black sand beaches and besalt rock columns. Along the way are a number of beautiful waterfalls and I made us stop at everyone of them for a little awe for nature and selfies!

The beautiful Saljalandsfoss did me in. The majestic falls have a 360 degree path around them so you can experience their beauty from all sides. I should add that it was alternating between rain and snow for our entire visit and the path to anyplace watery will be sheer ice if the thermometer falls below zero as it had on January 1. They were clear about the danger.

But it was so beautiful that it needed to be seen up close (I will add that on my last visit to Iceland I saw this waterfall up close, so honestly, it didn’t need to be seen again.).

My beloved hiking boots, which have taken me up the Himalayas, the Andes, the Atlas Mountains, across the Sahara and the Arctic Circle have seen better days. I quickly realized that a decade plus of hard use takes a toll on the tred which, it seems is no long existent on my soles. Quickly realizing that I was in real danger of falling I made the mistake of grabbing hold of a guide rope. As I started to go down, I held tightly rather than use my hands to break my fall and came down hard on my right elbow and continued to slide as the back of my head hit the hard ice.

I have fallen many many times in my life, but I have never hit my head. While folks rushed to check in on me, and an onstite medic was called, I checked in on myself. I’m so used to twisting an ankle and going down that I was initially just excited that walking was still easy.

My pupils were checked and pulse taken, I waited the obligatory however many long minutes and was deemed safe to travel and only very mildly concussed. We finished our journey to our hotel in Vik and opted to eat in rather than risk the weather.

The worlds greatest fish soup was the salve for any lingering annoyance or pain (in that order).

In a change in policy, apparently it is ok to let a concussion victim go to sleep and I slept very welI last night, and woke up feeling about 90% better, headed to 100% with a bullet.

I have been marooned in the Maldives, robbed on the Marrakech Express, and gotten pneumonia in Peru, but, despite how clumsy I am in all aspects of my life, I have never been hurt on any of my travels. I suppose it was only a matter of time, but I’m a little pissed that it happened. And I’m also grateful. I am no pre-disastered and nothing can stop me.

2024 is gonna rock.

Happy, happy 2024! I’m always excited as one year ends and another begins and I’ll having spending that transition experiencing something I’ve never done before. And boy was that the case this year.

I’ll share more about my overall trip to Iceland later, but right now, as I sit in an infirmary in the tiny town of Vik, with a bag of ice on the rising egg on the back of my head – the result of a slip near a beautiful waterfall that I insisted we detour and hike to (I’m fine, but I’m gonna gave a bump for a while) – I just want to tell you about the hours from 10pm to 1am as 2023 became a memory and 2024 brought with it new opportunities for success, fun, love, and adventure.

We started the day at wonderful Reykjavik Art Museum, a contemporary gem that could rival any in Europe, and had lunch at the most famous restaurant in Iceland, the hot dog stand near the water.

Everyone we asked in Reykjavik said “just go to the church for fireworks” when we queried them about what to do. I’m a fireworks elitist (having worked the past 20 July 4ths at some of the biggest concerts nationally, I’ve seen some good ones), so I was skeptical at best.

But a quick nap and some celebratory champers at our hotel, we were ready to venture to the church. The church is no ordinary church. It is an architectural marvel and one of the countries most iconic structures. There a small crowd was gathered and fireworks were underway. We learned that anyone can set fireworks off in Iceland and it seemed like they all were doing so. We’d hear a whizzzz, look up and an anemic spray would appear in the sky.

As frequency of the whizzes increased so too did the quality of the spray. We noticed a crowd forming to our left and wandered over to see what the fuss was about. A roped off area housed a number of what we learned were firework launching pads and anyone who chose, could just wander in and light some off. And many folks did just that. Everything from tiny crackers, the kind we used when I was a kid, to large missile shaped things to entire boxes of multiple little bombs they would just light on fire and run away from like the dickens before the whole thing went up.

Many a small child was in there with a torch the likes of which I’d be nervous holding. As we started chatting with a nice Welsh couple as enthralled by the experience as we were, a young Nordic girl handed the husband a sparkler. He took two and handed one to me. Several minutes later she wandered back and he asked her for a light. “That’s what I was hoping you’d offer me,” she said “but you took the sparkler instead.” We sheepishly returned them as my travel companion Cassie and his wife howled with laughter.

The DIY firework display went on for hours and we never once tired of it. As the clock neared midnight, more and more lights went up and fire showered down on our heads. Little bits of soot and spark would hit our hair, skin and clothes, mostly harmlessly, but occasionally with just enough fire left to hurt a bit. After more bits in my eyes that I was comfortable with, I remembered I had a pair of sunglasses with me and watched the rest of the display with less vibrancy, but more protection.

By about 1am, we realized that Icelanders were far from finished with the evening, but we were getting close. We downed some champagne provided by our new friends, directed them towards the hot dog stand, as they were desperate for a late night snack and happily headed back to our hotel to figure out if sleep would come or not (only 3 hours of daylight has been an interesting challenge with regard to our rest situation).

I’ve spent a lot of new year’s eves in a lot of places around the world – downing grapes in Puerto Del Sol, Madid, watching for aliens in Marfa, Texas, watching the fireworks over water in Miami, Montreal, the Maldives, and Niagara Falls, dodging drunk frat boys in the French Quarter, New Orleans and heading to downtown Nassau at 1am for Junkanoo, to name just a few, but this may have been my most fabulous when it comes to the pure joy that everyone gathered felt and shared.

I’m wishing you all a Happy New Year! My resolutions for 2024 are to be the joy that I received last night and to share it the whole year through (and “follow through” on all the creative projects I swear year after year that I’ll accomplish!). 

Hey maybe the bump on my head could be just what I need – like one of those movies where the kind of a mess lead falls on their head and everything starts going there way. Oooooh – I like this idea.

Gotta go, Jude Law is at my door…..

Everything good happens between late November and early January. Not everything good, I guess – I really love the summer time – but this is the most festive, and my most favorite, time.

This season of joy started with shocking sadness. In addition to the horrific violence in the middle east, my hometown of Lewiston, Maine was the latest American community rocked by gun violence. In a reminder that most people are good, with little prompting my wonderful sometime employer traveled to north to perform at the Lewiston High School’s football game with their biggest rival from across the river, Auburn (I actually grew up in Auburn, but they’re one and the same in these cases.) Seeing JT with the Lewiston High School principal, my dear childhood friend Jon, before taking the field to sing the anthem had me not just teary, but actually weeping with gratitude and love.

Thanksgiving was a wonderful trip to the Berkshires and Connecticut, which included family, dear friends, great food, many walks in the woods and one up my favorite mountain (Monument Mountain).

A week later I celebrated my birthday with brunch, a night at the santa bar, and setting up my christmas tree (and s’mores with students from CIM).

A couple days later, I was boarding a flight to London. If you know anything about me, you know I don’t plan trips very far in advance (indeed, I planned a trip for this weekend while I was in London last weekend). But this trip has been on the books for months. It was a whirlwind of friends and music and many, many drinks.

In the very early ’90s I worked with the conductor Marin Alsop in her spectacularly fun Too Hot to Handel, a Gospel Messiah. I’ve seen the work at least a dozen times and listened to a bootleg recording of it every holiday season. At lunch with Marin a couple years ago, she mentioned that it would have it’s European debut at Royal Albert Hall in 2023 and I pledged to be there. Nicola and Tiffany, my steadfast British besties, who have never turned down a good time, secured a box for the concert and we hatched the plan to make the most of a long weekend visit.

Arriving off an overnight flight, I walked into their flat to see my sixtieth birthday celebration. Um – I’m not 60, I reminded them. No, I’m sure you are, the generally always right Tiffany insisted and it actually made me think twice, but I am not. Nicola shuffled away the balloon and card to save for a few years (I got to keep my present, which was something delightful).

That night, after Tiffany madly texted our concert companions that it was not actually my 6oth birthday, we headed for Royal Albert. London takes the holidays seriously and if it was hard to escape christmas spirit before the concert, it was impossible to after.

Day two of the visit included a very long lunch with views of the whole city(Hutong is delicius) and many, many rounds of drinks, following by the kind of night out that I haven’t done since my 20s. “You want to go to French Mama for drinks tonight?” “Sure” “Great, we’ll head over around 11pm!” In for a penny, in for a pound, but man was it fun!

Day three gave us time for a little lay-in and a day at the theatre. We went to see one of the most American of shows – Guys and Dolls – in the most spectacular of productions. A nice Thai meal near the Tower Bridge and led to an early night of Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing with the British Stars) and a much needed early to bed! (it’s possible we drank a bit throughout the day as well).

Day four came. It’s hard to say what I was most looking forward ot in the weekend, but it may well have been our afternoon with ABBA! We went to the spectacular, immersive ABBA Journey, in its venue specially built to house the virtual reality band (the music was performed by ABBA-tars), as well as a live band, singers and about 5000 of us dancing our hearts out. We were scheming about this last spring in Jordan and several of our travel companions joined us for a mini-reunion. I love meeting people on my travels (I also connected with a friend with whom I was in Nepal and one from Peru while I was in town). The people who like to do the kind of travel I like to do are always interesting, and this group was no exception! After our ABBA night, one of our group jumped a plane for Lapland and another to Namibia – you guys think I travel a lot, but i have nothing on these women! No photos were allowed, but trust me when I say that dancing to ABBA for two hours will cure anything that ails you!

That night, with Dancing Queen ringing in our ears (not to mention the Hallelujah Chorus and “I got the horse right here”) I watched my very first ever episode of Dr. Who. It did live up to the hype. On the flight home I watched The Big Lebowski, also for the very first time, and it also lived up to the hype.

Less than a week after coming back across the pond, I spent less than 40 hours across the country. A quick zip to the Pacific Northwest included a bit more music, more drinks, and best of all – I learned how to poach fish – one that we secured, frest caught from the Public Market!

Now I’m home and not going anywhere for eleven more days (it will be a quiet Cleveland Christmas for me), when I’ll be headed off for a chilly New Year adventure in Iceland. Not a new country for me, but one I always look forward to. In the meantime, I look forward to resting my liver and eating a lot of salads!

Happy holidays my friends!

We laid my beloved aunt and uncle to rest this weekend at the church my uncle and grandfather helped build. Every single living member of our family was there, which has not happened since we were a family of just five cousins and our parents. And as this was the place that we memorialized my mother and grandfather, it felt as though they were there too. It was beautiful.

I was tasked with saying a few words. For someone who loves being the center of attention as much as I, I am very uncomfortable with public speaking. I have shared my words below, so maybe you can meet them a little. You would have loved them, everyone of you, because everyone loved them.

I woke this morning in my favorite place – the Berkshires – and I’m headed off to hike up my favorite mountain – Monument Mountain – before enjoying some art and good food with friends. So basically – living my aunt and uncle’s legacy.

Here is what I shared:

Hello.  I am Kathleen Drohan and I am Nancy and Dick’s niece. My mother and Nancy were beloved sisters.  I’m here on behalf of myself, my sister, Karen, her daughters Talia and Ava to talk about my aunt and uncle and how grateful we are to them and our mother for making sure that we always felt like we were one family. We loved them so much and we grew up adoring our cousins Janii, Steven, and Jon, we still do, and that love grew and grew as they brought spouses, children, and grandchildren into our little clan (not so little any more).

Karen and I moved around a bit as kids and for most of our childhood, were in a single parent household. Our single parent, our mom Judy, was amazing, of course, but we were always a little jealous of the boisterous stability we saw our cousins growing up in.  Hindsight is 20 / 20 and all that, and I know they had their issues, but from where we sat, there was nothing more fun, and slightly intimidating, than being around the controlled Peterson chaos.

Uncle Dick could make us laugh like no one else. He could talk like a duck – sometimes we called him Uncle Duck – and it would send us into hysterics. Sometimes, he would come to our house in the evenings and my sister and I would listen from the top of the stairs, long after we should have been asleep, as he chatted with my mom and stepdad, in hopes that he might slip into duck-speak.

Aunt Nancy had the very glamorous job of physical therapist, which included her often working in the pool at our local hospital, which sounded amazing! She was also the first Waukeela girl of our family. Waukeela Camp later became a summer home for my mom, my sister and me, and both my nieces, but Aunt Nancy was the OG. My sister was actually married at Waukeela and when I arrived for the wedding, my aunt was already there and we looked at each other and without saying a word, broke into a very out of tune version of the camp theme song. My brother-in-law-to-be looked on in amazement. “Karen told me this might happen” he said, shaking his head, “but I had no idea.” Little did he know how many Waukeela songs he would hear from that point on.

We got older and wiser and as a family we all moved around a lot, but we always knew that Aunt Nancy and Uncle Dick were there. They never forgot our birthdays, which conveniently were the same day, and called to check in on a regular basis. When Talia and Ava joined the clan, they were overjoyed. Uncle Dick resurrected his duck voice prompting a very young Ava to refer to him as Silly Boy, a name that stuck, and is still what we sometimes call him.

When our mom got sick, Aunt Nancy was with us every step of the way, often driving to Boston on a moment’s notice to accompany my mom to a doctor’s appointment or just to sit with her on her hardest days. After she died, both my aunt and uncle would check so regularly that it was almost too much, except that it wasn’t. Uncle Dick would come to my mom’s house, where I now lived alone and just walk around fixing things. Anything that needed even a little tweak would be tweaked to perfection.

As I was thinking about them and what I could say about them today, everything felt so obvious. You know it all. But I think the thing that rings so true to me is their capacity for goodness and love. No one is perfect, but boy did they overflow with goodness and love.

Uncle Dick loved people. All people. And he loved telling you about the people he met along the way. This one lives over on Governor’s Island and he had three cats. That one was just telling me about his neighbor’s girlfriend’s son who is going to school to learn math. No detail was too small, because he thought every detail was fascinating. He was fascinated with people and he wanted us all to be as well. What a gift.

And Aunt Nancy believed that there was always something good in every situation. She would say to me over and over when something bad was happening – in the world, in our town, in our family – she would say – “you have to find good and praise it.”  And she could. She should find something nice to say about the person who cut her off while she was driving. And when I despaired as my mom lay in a hospital bed, she could help me find the beauty in our being together. She said Find Good to me so often that I eventually had it tattooed on my wrist, and I look at that tattoo every time I find myself sinking into grumpiness or worse.

I am struggling to find good in their loss, but they had beautiful life stories, with each other and with their amazing kids, grandkids and great grandkids. And Karen, Talia, Ava, and I are so blessed to have been part of the story as well. 

We love you and we will miss you every day.

I haven’t been feeling myself lately. Normal life stuff, mostly – been almost sick for a couple weeks at the same time as a pretty major work situation (too much to explain, but you can google it. It’s gotten a lot of media play). The most important task in front of me at the moment is to write a eulogy for my aunt and uncle as we celebrate their lives next weekend in New Hampshire. I’ve been struggling to write it and had to get back to my normal self to do justice to these people I love so much. And when I want to get back to me, there’s only one thing I for me to do.

You’d be forgiven if you said “a percussionist,” and you wouldn’t be wrong exactly (more on that in a sec), but really, and you know this – it’s doing some kind of travel, the wackier the better. So less than a week ago, I found myself googling like mad for a quick, weekend getaway, when I discovered that there was an eclipse visible from the Pacific northwest through Texas.

I like an eclipse. A few years ago,I drove to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee with a my friend Esme and her kids to watch the eclipse totality from Smokey Mountain National Park. We even made it onto PBS’s special “Sounds of the Eclipse“. That’s me assuring Alexandra that we won’t be going blind, my photos are 25 to 28. Photo 26 is Penelope, 27 is Alexandra. Anyway, when I saw there was another eclipse, I tried to convince them to fly away with me to watch, but turns out you can’t just convince teenagers to go somewhere as easily as when they were younger.

For about two hours, I was gonna go to Crater Lake in Oregon, where I have always wanted to go, but then I found out that the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta was happening smack dab in the eclipse path, and, well, you know I can’t resist a crazy festival, so, despite it being a stupid amount of money for a weekend trip (“you’re an adult with a job and a credit card” a friend reminded me when I wavered about booking it), I jumped on a plane on Friday, a mere five days after it occurred to me to go, and by noon that day I was in my hotel in Old Town, Abq!

Just before I left, I remembered that an old friend, a percussionist, whom I’d only seen on social media for the last decade and a half, lived outside of Albuquerque and though I’m always convinced that folks won’t remember me from time to time, he did and we arranged to have dinner on Friday since he was leaving for concerts in Sedona on Saturday. It was perfect – he showed me the town, we laughed, teased each other, and compared lives. After shrimp tacos and more-than-we-should-have margaritas, we promised it wouldn’t be so long til the next time, and we parted ways.

My original plan was to wake before dawn on Saturday to see the balloons in what is known as a “mass ascension” which may include joining a cult, but my margaritas from the night before helped me adjust the plan. I watched the ascension from my hotel room window and it was beautiful. Hundreds of balloons dotting the sky and crossing the Sandia Mountains.

From there, it was time to get serious about the eclipse, or as they call it in New Mexico, the E-clipse. Since all of Abuquerque was in the path, there were some good choices, but ultimately I headed for the Petroglyph National Monument visitor center (I couldn’t get to the trails, but I’ve seen lots of petroglyphs over the years and around the globe), where I spoke with park rangers and a wonderful collection of of folks from near and far. From there, I walked along a mysterious path (where folks had set up telescopes), to the lava field of the “Three Sisters” volcanos. Though I hadn’t intended to, I hiked to the top of the volcanos, found a nice piece of lava on which to plant myself and watched through the various glasses the rangers were handing out. The field was populated with good natured and friendly groups of eclipse watchers, some with impressive cameras – one nice man from Miami with a giant set up, let us watch through his lens and took email addresses promising to send us all his photos. But most folks (me included) were trying desperately to put sun protective glasses over their camera lens to do the best they could. Just as the total eclipse occurred and the famed “ring of fire” appeared, one clever group turned on Johnny Cash and everyone gathered joined in a giant singalong and I teared up at the beauty of our shared experience.

After making my way down the volcano (wearing thin soled keds was not my finest decision), I headed back to the hotel for a quick change and into Old Town, where I’d signed up for a bike tour along the Rio Grande. At first it was only me, and the guide was exactly the kind of guide I like for these things – weathered, gruff, with a long beard and leathery skin. “You ready to RIDE?” he asked, and I was. But then a mom from NOLa and her nine year old son came in and join up, and our guide changed to a woman named Heidi with a Roswell t-shirt and an alien tattoo. “Who watches Breaking Bad?” she asked? Not one of us did (fortunately the nine year old did not). “Well, I’ll show you some of the hot spots anyway and then you can go home and watch it.” I will not be doing that and I started our slow ride without any of my joy from the morning. But quirky (or as she called herself “Albu-quirky” Heidi won me over and I loved talking all things New Orleans with my riding companion. We made it to the Rio Grande, which was not exactly rushing, and rode along it for quite some time before turning into town and exploring the vast neighbors in the area. On Kit Carson Way, we passed some busy pickleball courts and I made a note to come back if I had time. I didn’t. The ride was terrific and my legs were feeling my hike and ride.

But wait – there’s more. After wolfing down the doggie bag of shrimp tacos from the night before, I jumped on a shuttle to head to the field of balloons. The hotel had arranged a “party limo” to take folks throughout the day and I found myself riding with two lawyers from Forest Hills, Queens. “Oh, I go to Forest Hills a lot,” I shared, because my friend Angela lives in the building abutting the concert stadium and gets a lot of free tickets. Turns out they also live in that complex and also go to a lot of concerts, but their absolute most favorite concert of all time – James Taylor. “Funny you should say that,” I said…..Where ever I go, JT brings people together.

At the balloon site, I wandered a massive field with hundreds of balloons and I realized I’d never been close to a balloon before. They’re huge. The evening was the “Balloon Glow.” While they didn’t go into the air, they would light the propane burners in a choreographed way that was remarkably beautiful. The crowds were massive, but everyone was full of joy. It reminded me of the Macy’s Thanksgiving balloons as they get inflated the night before the big day – only on a massive scale. I was thinking I’d be in and out in an hour, but I stayed for about four hours, the evening ended with a drone show and ok fireworks (my standards are high after 20 years working July 4 concerts). Back at the party limo, my lawyers were there as well and equally, surprisingly awed by the experience.

This morning, I did get up at stupid early o’clock and got on the party limo in the dark to head back to the field for the final mass ascension of this year’s festival. It was cold. So, so cold and my little keds offered little protection for my toes, which I was sure were turning blue. I wondered the dark for a while and grabbed a hot chocolate and Indian fry bread (something I’d considered making for New Mexico in my cooking trip around the country.). 7am came and went without any balloons being inflated. The crowds thinned. A red devil balloon slowly rose and quickly deflated. I asked one of the balloon handlers what was happening – apparently the wind was too much and the lift was cancelled. We talked for about 30 minutes about how one takes up ballooning as a hobby (I mean, if you think skiing is expensive…), and he introduced me to his brothers, all dressed in pink jumpsuits. Their parents had taken them up in a balloon decades earlier and they scrimped and saved and worked with other balloon teams, til they could buy their own. Now they all work full time as balloon guides. “Get in,” he said, hoisting me into the tiny basket. I’ve never actually thought about taking a balloon ride, but now I might give it. a try. He handed me his card and said they’d be happy to train me as a volunteer balloon handler for next year’s fest, and I might just do it.

Back in town, I finished my visit, as one should in New Mexico, viewing a Georgia O’Keefe exhibition at the wonderful Albuquerque Museum of Art.

I write this from 35,000 feet somewhere between Dallas and Cleveland. I’m an definitely cured of what ever it was that made me need this trip and feeling like my best self, living my best life. I’ve thought so much about my darling aunt and uncle and how they inspire me. My uncle’s love of talking to ANYONE and finding commonality and my aunt’s desire to find the good in every situation. In fact she said find good so often, I had the words tattooed on my wrist as a reminder to always do that! Here are my favorite photos of me, but also of them – dancing with my aunt, and my uncle just totally ignoring our shenanagans as he prepares breakfast.

There is a lot of bad in the world right now, but I challenge us all to go out and find the good. And for me one of the best ways to to do that is to share a magical experience with people – friends to be sure, but it is just as powerful with strangers, some of whom will become friends. There is so much to see and do and I can’t wait for my next boondogle, but right now, I’m looking forward to getting back to the Great Catsby and real life.

PS – the next total eclipse is April 8, 2024 and Cleveland is in the line of totality. I’m already planning the viewing party/picnic at Cuyahoga National Park. Everyone’s welcome! I have extra beds, air mattresses, tons of eclipse glasses!!

I began the summer visiting the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim holy sites in Jordan including Moses’s final resting place and the exact(ish) spot on the River Jordan where Jesus was baptized. There I witnessed one of the most profound moments from all my travels when a female pastor baptized her trans son with his new and true identity.

It is only fitting that I end the summer in my personal Holy Land – Northern New England. My trip began, as all trips to the Holy Land should, at Mecca.

My father’s cousin Brenda has been a fan of James Taylor since before I was double digits in years, so my nearly 20 years of working with him have benefitted her almost more than me. Not so much her long-suffering, but always cheerful, husband Frank .

There was real skepticism about my plan to finish off the work day in Cleveland, fly into Boston and meet Brenda and Frank at JT’s Fenway concert. But, I arrived at the the concert hall at Fenway, checked my bag, visited the loo, and got myself a beer, before joining them in our front and center seats with enough time to greet the Team Taylor guests seated around us before the concert began. “You’re unbelievable, Kathy*” Frank said, though why he doubted me is a mystery – I am very skilled at multitasking and I always deliver when I say I will.

At intermission, i felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Suzy. Name your favorite movie about music (any genre) from anytime over the past 40 years and Suzy was involved in it. No one is better at translating music to film than she. “This is Lisa,” she said, introducing me to her companion. “Lisa asked who you were and I said ‘the person who should be running press at the Boston Symphony!” Sing it Suzy! I am always amazed when someone remembers me, but I’m especially awestruck when they not only remember me, they advocate for me.

After what I reckon to be my 50-something-eth JT concert, we crossed the border to the New Hampshire seaside – the vacation community of my father’s childhood, and where his ashes began their journey into the Atlantic.

In the morning, as I crossed over the Piscataqua River Bridge and into Maine, I was flooded with memories. Particularly the one day, when my mom drove us over the bridge while fought as only mothers and daughters can (I wish it were about something like who to vote for and how to do the most good in the world, but it was more likely about my decision to wear an orange sweater over a pink one). While I was gearing up to scream the inevitable “You’re ruining my life”, we passed the Welcome to Maine sign at the the mid-point of the bridge. “Where are we going?” I asked my mom. She looked at me concerned that I’d suffered a sudden stroke. “To North Conway.” North Conway is in New Hampshire and is a left at the State Line Liquor store (where, it should be noted, we had stopped). This bridge and Maine were to the right. I’m sure my mother was about to make her final wardrobe thoughts known when we came to that particular fork, and sense memory took her to the right. “We’re in Maine,” I said. She looked around, laughed heartily, and said “screw it, let’s get lobster!” We took the exit to Ogunquit Beach, filled ourselves with lobster rolls and cold beer and forgot whatever it was that had been so important just moments earlier. The memory made me smile as I headed on my sad errand.

At the deceptively cheery nursing home, I found my cousin Steven sitting next to his mother’s, my mother’s beloved sister’s, bedside. She was shrunken and twisted, and would periodically emit a deep moan, but nothing more. “Mum,” he yelled, though she was non-responsive, “Kathy’s* here.”

I stayed for several hours as various members of three generations of her family came in to wish her goodbye. We sang songs, told jokes, and caught up on our lives in the years since the pandemic had kept us apart. “Where do you live now?” Was a question I answered more than I should have given all of our presence on social media. And we hugged a lot.

Many years ago, my aunt and I had a joke about dementia. The joke doesn’t matter, but the punch line was “spaghetti sauce.” As I prepared to go, I leaned close to my aunt and stroked her hair, and told her about my sister and nieces. “I love you so much, Aunt Nancy. Tell mom we’re ok.” I told her before whispering in her ear “spaghetti sauce.” I’m certain she smiled slightly at that and I will never allow anyone to convince me otherwise.

A finished my brief trip to Portland with dinner at the home of close friends. The holiday weekend had made restaurant reservations hard to get since I was unsure of my schedule. “We could meet at Hooter’s” Mike offered, before his wife invited me over to theirs. We grilled steaks and told stories and laughed a lot. “That was the most Kathleen story I’ve ever heard” Mike said after I told what I thought was a pretty average story of some hilarious humiliation I’d suffered. “Just the other day, I was telling the story of how you found out there was a warrant out for your arrest, convinced a cop to help you dodge it, and still made it home in time for cocktails.” Jill added. It was a perfect antidote to the afternoon’s pain and perfectly additive to the afternoon’s love.

As I drove back to NH later, I called my friend Esme to recount the day. “Why aren’t you staying,” She asked. “If I told you, you’d be so annoyed with me.” “How could I possibly?” She responded before I explained my desire to get back in order to hit up the sunrise beach yoga the next morning. “Oh. Yup. There it is.” she teased.

Yoga accomplished. I spent the day on a nostalgia tour of the coastline.

The New Hampshire coastline is quite short and much of it is comprised of working class Hampton Beach with its hoards of sun worshippers and the far tonier Rye Beach. Of my dad’s mother’s many siblings, only Brenda’s parents had the forethought to invest a shocking-for-the-time $15k in a Rye beach house. Their neighbors now include DaVinci code author Dan Brown, two former governors, the genius behind AirBnB, and a former football coach of everyone from the Oregon Ducks to the Philadelphia Eagles (I forget his name). “That’s where Ogden Nash invited us kids to tea,” Brenda said pointing at a modest cottage near Dead Man’s Curve, the hairpin turn abutting a steep rocky drop into the ocean. That is the spot my step-mom chose to descend before giving up and tossing my dad out as far as she could. He mostly landed on guard rail and high rocks, but I’m certain a good rain and high tide took him out to sea. Every single time we take that curve now, someone will say “hi Tom.”

Beach time, black raspberry ice cream and lobsters by the water with yet more cousins rounded out our day.

On Monday, I had one more long walk on the beach, willing each of my senses to remember the experience. The feel of the hot soft sand, the wet hard sand, the sharp rocks, and the ocean spray; the smell of the clean air mixed with the occasional waft of swamp gas, Coppertone, and grilling meat; the sound of the crashing waves, cicadas, and laughter; the vast horizon, vibrant sunrises, and hearty surfers; and of course, all the tastes of late summer – sweet corn, robust tomatoes, rich ice cream, and, indulgent lobster. More cousins and more hugs and I was off to the airport.

I’ve been accused of having more cousins than anyone on earth, but as Boston Irish families go, we’re actually quite small. It’s that I count them all – first, second, third, one-removed, whatever – they’re all cousins. And we all like each other – that’s what really sets us apart. We truly enjoy each other even when we don’t always understand each other. Also – they happen to concentrate in that part of New England.

I think cousins are perfect relatives. You have a shared history, but none of the button pushing ability of siblings. We fill in each others blanks as we try to learn about ourselves. Steven told me about a rift between our moms and how they transcended it. Brenda shared the (often booze fueled) exploits of my dad and his contemporaries.

From 36,000 feet bound for Cleveland, I’m thinking back on the love bomb of a weekend. We all need those people in our lives who truly know us, and I’m so grateful for mine. I feel fortified. That is what a trip to the Holy Land does for you.

*Don’t get any ideas. Unless you are a senior member of my family, someone with whom I went to high school or summer camp, or one of only a handful with grandfathered privileges, you should call me Kathleen.

I’m in New York City for the first time since 2019.

I lived in New York for a long time in a lot of neighborhoods – Upper West Side and Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan; Park Slope, Red Hook, and Flatbush in Brooklyn; and Mott Haven in the Bronx. I was a good New Yorker – I did it all. I could get anywhere in 40 minutes or less on the subway; I spent more nights that one can count in dark smokey clubs listening to live music (and I could even hold my breath long enough to use the bathroom at CBGB); I had daybreak meals at Veselka or Coffee Shop; I dated more than my share of musicians, actors, and filmmakers – a few famous ones, many who will never make it, one whose single appearance on Sex and the City became an instant classic. I’ve been mugged, witnessed a shooting, overdoses, and the attack on the World Trade Center from a block away; and once paid a prostitute to drive my car from impound when I discovered my license had lapsed. I earned two degrees in NYC, found my career, started a successful non-profit in my 20s and another in my 40s, fell in love many times, and out of love a couple times. I even know how to pronounce Kościuszko. I could leave New York.

A lot has happened since I left – there was a worldwide pandemic and a nearly year long lock down; we got a new president; there was an attempted insurrection; I’ve had two jobs and discovered my great passion for pickleball. I’m not sure why I haven’t been back. in the past four years, I’ve left the country three times, been to Massachusetts four times, and hit up Montana, New Hampshire and Maine. Since I moved to Cleveland 8 months ago, I’ve been back to Miami Beach twice. But something kept NYC at arms length.

And now I’m back and it’s great. New York is back as they say, but I’m pretty sure it was never gone. Traffic, homelessness, and random smells remain, but so does everything else. Upon arrival, I quickly met up with my oldest, dearest Esme for a quick zip across town to the East Side to see some art. Then we zipped back to walk my old stomping grounds at Lincoln Center (I was eager to see the renovated David Geffen Hall and while it did not disappoint, the giant disco ball over the fountain was the real treat. One more zip and we had dinner in the latest iteration of our favorite corner bistro, joined by her teenagers. I walked Broadway from 105th back to 71st where I’m staying, soaking in the familiar sites and the new ones.

Saturday morning, I walked through Central Park, checked out the amazing pickleball courts that have sprung up on Wollman Rink (but they were fully booked so I couldn’t play), and indulged in my first bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich in four years.

On a whim I ducked into the place where I used to get my hair cut and my longtime stylist volunteered to give me a blowout for free. “No hairspray or anything that smells like lavender” he said, making my heart explode with gratitude for being remembered (until I had a slight panic that it was because I’m so difficult). He was well-tipped.

With the Hooter’s 1985 classic “And We Danced” pumping out of my airpods on repeat, I did a nostalgia walk though the Union Sq Farmers Market, to my shopping mecca ABC Carpet, and jumped a subway back to the Upper West Side. Some primping later, I was ready for the main event, a wedding at the chapel at Columbia University – which of course meant a run through the Barnard campus as well. Walking through the Columbia gates and up the steps by Alma Mater…I may as well have had one of Proust’s madeleines, the memories flooded back so quickly.

The chapel, which I entered for the first time that day despite four years at the university (my atheism took hold young), was beautiful. It was a special treat to see the harpist playing us in was an old friend, since I knew no one else there. The groom and I worked together at a job that was no good for either of us, but we had each other. This is the kind of wedding I’d normally skip, but he called me with the most wonderful request about how I’d served as a mentor to him and how he owed so much of his success professionally and personally to me. Appropriately flattered, I couldn’t not go.

My personal issues with happy endings, loving intact families, and joining lives together (that is a subject for another blog, which I will likely share only with my therapist), the wedding was perfect – funny, meaningful, and short. Among the readings was the Bright Eyes song “Kathy with a K”, which of course made me smile. The reception was fancy and casual and joyous. Both the bride and grooms family spoke lovingly and any my table full of the brides former colleagues from Conde Nast Travel were charming and (hopefully) charmed by me. And we danced and danced and danced!

It was a fairy tale wedding and I am confident that they will live happily ever after.

I’d initially had no plans for Sunday and then just like that I was booked solid.

First stop, back to Bryant Park for croissants and coffee, with my mentor, the great Jami Bernard. Film buffs know Jami for her expansive writing about the medium, partnerships with some pretty famous directors, and for being the target of Mel Gibson’s fatwa when she wrote a less than stellar review of his Jesus film. I met Jami about 10 years ago when she was teaching a class at for Barnard alums (she’s class of 1978) on memoir writing. I had googled her extensively before the class began and was more than a little bit intimidated to meet her. We had all submitted work and she was pulling out examples that she like and having us identify ourselves. After saying “and this one made me laugh out loud” she read my piece and I melted into a million pieces.

Jami and I found we had lots in common and over many cups of coffee and long walks around all five boroughs of NY we became close friends. We gave each other advice on life and love and she kept up the drumbeat of my writing. She only half jokingly refers to me as her greatest failure, since I was never able to complete a book. Today, I told her about an idea I had and the trouble I was having actualizing it. Over the course of the next two hours she set me straight about the book and my life – like Cher slapping Nicolas Cage to “snap out of it,” she shared much needed and not always kindly delivered real talk. Maybe it’ll work this time.

From the park I headed to Grand Central to hop Metro North for lunch in Westchester with my jet lagged sister, who’d just landed from a week in Europe. She brought me a single bar of my favorite British candy, now hidden away for a reward when I hit some book milestone. We talked about her trip and walked along the Hudson and ate delicious August tomatoes.

Back in the city, I popped into the Bloomingdales outlet store and bought new clothes for the first time in four years (I’ve not been particularly fashion inspired in either Miami Beach or Cleveland). Silk and cashmere now jammed into my already busting at the seams weekend bag, and it was time for dinner.

One final walk down Broadway to dinner with Harvey. Harvey married into my NY chosen family, he was husband to my wonderful friend Anita, whom we lost a couple years ago, but he’s become a core member. Over dry white wine and seafood, we caught up about work and travel, talked about movies and the future. It was like one perfect final hug for my weekend in the city.

I’m not sure why it took me so long to get back to New York, but its great to be here. I have an early flight out tomorrow, but I can leave knowing that I’m still a really good New Yorker.

“We’re not that kind of twins.”

I’ve said that a lot in my life about my sister and me. Do you have telepathy? Do you dress alike? Did you go to the same school? Which one of you is the evil twin? The answer is no to all of them except the last one. The answer for that is: her, obviously.

Twins are a mystery to non-twins, and not because we’re so great. It’s because people think twins are weird. Watch any tv show long enough, ANY show, and at some point they’ll make a joke about creepy twins, or twins will be the reason they couldn’t solve the crime, or there will be some sexual innuendo (that’s incest folks – twins don’t do that, no matter what your cheap porn tells you).

There was a time a couple years ago when I decided to collect all the twin references on tv and make a twitter account showing that twins are the only people left acceptable to make fun of. I watched tv for one day, found four examples and got bored with the project. It was too easy. Seriously, I dare you to watch tv for a day, any day, and not find your own examples.

And being an adult twin means you’re just creepy. Child twins are adorable, but adult twins, especially ones like my sister and me who still look a lot alike, is just fodder for weirdos. We’re not the weirdos, the people who have to point out – to us! – that we’re twins are the weirdos.

But there is one twin thing that has always fascinated me. The annual Twin Festival in Twinsburg, Ohio. Any twin knows about this, and we often said, one of these years we’re gonna go, but we never did. In the 1990s, in NYC, there was a restaurant called Twins and it was staffed only by identical twins – and if your twin was sick, you had to call in sick that day too. They all wore nametags saying Karen not Kathy or Kathy not Karen and you had both as your servers. We only went once and it was weird, I’ll admit. But also annoying, mostly because the food was bad.

But this morning social media reminded me that this is the Twin Festival weekend and I now live only 30 minutes from where it is being held. So I went. It was in a the yard of a local high school, with a little village of concession tents and food carts, and one large event tent.

Holy moly. First of all, there were twins everywhere and they were all dressed alike. I love a little audience participation, but I’m pretty sure if we dressed alike it would only be because we were both in jeans and t-shirts. There was a church service going on in the event tent when I got there led by twin ministers. I skipped that, after noting all the paired heads bowed in prayer. There was also a beer garden run by twin brewers, which I would have visited but it was a bit too early to drink even for me.

A little further up a hill there was a huddle of tents with different twin research studies going on. I went over to one, mostly because they were giving out moisturizer (it was a skin care study) and asked if I could have some. Only if my twin and I both fill out the survey they said. “I’m a twinless twin today” I cheerily responded. Before I could add that it was because my twin is in the UK with her kids on a little summer break, I was surrounded by twins who wanted to hug me. I hugged the first woman lightly with my head leaning to her right, which she quickly corrected (“we have to be heart to heart” she said, hugging me for an uncomfortably long time.) Then I was ushered into a memorial tent with a number of other folks there alone talking about their lost twins. AWKWARD! I slowly backed out, saying oh, thank you. And they all said “we’re here for you when you’re ready to share.”

Later, as I was casually looking at a table of beaded jewelry, the woman manning the table said, “its so nice to see another singleton. I’m so sick of these twins that talk alike and walk alike.” My sister and I do sound an awful lot alike, but I decided wear the singleton label.

There is a hot dog dinner tonight for the twins, but no twin lobster option, which seems like. a missed opportunity. I did not stay long and would only go back if my twin wanted to join me, and even then I’m not sure I would.

We’re just not that kind of twins.