AB1 Tour 2014 - Week 6 - Miami

Oh, Miami, we were going to do so much in your beautiful seaside town: jai alai; Jungle Island (where they have "Hercules," a "liger," which is a cross between a lion and a tiger.  I had to see it.  And then, what next?  A griffin, maybe?  That would be part lion, part eagle for you Greek mythologically-challenged); dinner at the legendary Joe's Stone Crab; Gulfstream Park now that we're so fired up about California Chrome and his wonderful Kentucky Derby run-for-the-roses; and the Jackie Gleason Center for the Performing Arts.  Yes, we missed seeing any or all of these.  It was due to a run of bad fortune combined with horrendous traffic, expensive fees, our loss of a day to St. Augustine, and our general all-around RV-induced malaise.  What are the odds?
   

 We did, however, accomplish our main reason for including Miami on our Sisyphusian summer schedule: we got to see a baseball game in Miami's brand spanking new (2011) baseball stadium.  So if you're keeping a Kaye and Stuart official scorecard, you can cross off #18 on our list of 30 major league baseball stadiums which we'll be seeing by September, 2015 (or bust), or at least it will be so until idiot Atlanta builds another new stadium (has to be their 4th one in 11 years) and then our list of seeing all 30 major league ballparks will revert to 29.  No backsies.
     OK, I was going to tell you that since we were only going to be in Miami four short days, that this edition of the "Kaye & Stuart Blog" would be mercifully short ... but I guess that ship has already sailed judging by what I've already written.
     Bygones.
     Monday, May 5, was our travel day.  Our one-day delay meant we didn't have a day to recover like we usually do when laying vacational siege to some major city (like New York, Philadelphia, or Blooming Prairie, MN ... hi O.B.  Remember the Blossoms' cheerleader?).  That meant that we were up and at it immediately the next morning with our long commute into town to see the Miami Marlins game.  No rest for the wicked or the retired.
     

We got to town early enough to snag one of the last free parking spots in one of the last free parking lots in any major city in the world.  It was the section of town called "Little Havana," a scant 10-block walk from the ballpark.  We wandered Little Havana hoping to get a real "Guys and Dolls" feel for the island nation.  Instead, we got a feel more for East Dubuque, Iowa, a tough town if I've ever seen one (and I don't think I have).  Instead of a real Cuban dinner in Little Havana, which we weren't able to find, we instead opted for the fine dining experience of "haute ballpark cuisine."  I couldn't have been happier.  Diedre wearily shook her head and went along with the program.
     

The two-time world champion Miami Marlins are playing in major league baseball's newest stadium (built in 2011).  It was huge, spectacular, somewhat stark, and mostly devoid of fans.  Their main attraction was a bobblehead museum.
     Go figure.
     The Marlins hosted the New York Mets on our night.  With a nice job of shutout pitching by the locals' 2nd year pitcher with the British-Hispanic name of Henderson Alvarez, the Fish prevailed 3-0. Young Miami strongman Giancarlo Stanton absolutely crushed the ball every time the Mets would actually pitch to him (2 walks and 2 base hits).  Attendance was 18,315 in the 37,000 soul stadium, although most of those in attendance seemed to be disguised as empty seats (I know, I know, old joke).
     

The real excitement of the evening came later that night back at the homestead (RVstead?) when our youngest and only female feline Samantha made her long-awaited break for freedom.  One moment she was there, and the next, she was a gone cat.
     A "Snowshoe" by breed which means her abnormally long white feet really do look like snowshoes, Samantha became the first of our three cats to escape from the previously impregnable AB1, better known in cat-speak as "The Al-cat-raz RV."  Her quest for freedom reminded me a lot of Andy Dufrene in that great prison movie,"The Shawshank Redemption."  Samantha had actually clawed a hole in the RV wall, then took the crumblings and hid them in her litter box so we wouldn't realize what she was doing.  I'm not making this up ... well, most of it anyway.  Finally on a night with a big storm ...
     No, no, that's not right.
   

(DK - Does this really look like someone ready to bolt?)

 Actually, the door was left unlatched when ONE of us went to the camp bathhouse to take a shower. Now, I'm not going to say which one of us risked the life of our poor, sweet little girl, although most of you can figure it out, what with my aversion to soap and water being fairly well known.  So when the door was left minutely open, Samantha was out in a flash.  Alleged brains of the cat mob Charlie stood hesitantly at the door debating whether to make his break for freedom or go have a much-needed lie-down on the couch.  Meanwhile, adorable middle child Casey was lying on top of the refrigerator absently counting his toes.
     It took me five solid minutes to finally apprehend Samantha. I was a real bloodhound. Sammy was like an escaped convict in one of those old fashioned prison movies where they're dressed in black striped uniforms. I continually pursued, she continually escaped.  She went under the RV ... I went under the RV ... She went under the Honda ... I went under the Honda ... she went under the picnic table ... I went under the picnic table ... She went under the Boardwalk ... "Under the boardwalk, out by the sea" ... no, wait, that's a 60's song.
     Anyway, you must remember how good cats are at responding to verbal commands. Unfortunately, their response to most any verbal command is a casual yawn and a look that snidely translates as "REALLY?" They then inevitably roll onto their backs and await the expected tummy rubs.
     I finally caught up with our facile feline when her extra poundage had her tiring of the chase.  I nabbed her quickly, at least as quickly as any good 63-year old retiree can nab a wayward pet, and returned her to the RV prison where the punishment meted out consisted of a snack and a spirited game of "Bird."  Her distracted meows that night sounded like she was saying "SCHEREZADE!" (You'll have to ask our actress friend and Early Bird Special comedienne, Alaina Beauloye, what that means.)
     I just received an email of such earthshaking importance that I know you, meaning every God-fearing dessert lover in the tri-state area, will want to know about.  Las Vegas, home of all that is decadent and depraved, has finally come up with something that is good, decent, and wholesome for every non-diabetic you know.  They have just announced ... drum roll, please ... wait for it ... OK, now ...
     HERSHEY'S CHOCOLATE WORLD!!!
   

 Yes, Las Vegas, that massive den of iniquity, is now becoming the sugar capital of the world.  Already sporting a four-floor M&M's Museum and Gift Shop (emphasis on the "shop"), they are now in the process of building a two-story destination site featuring all things HERSHEY'S.  It will be located at the New York-New York Hotel and Casino. The retail experience will offer guests a chance to create their own HERSHEY’S happiness through a variety of interactive experiences such as customizing candy wrappers and personalizing HERSHEY’S Kisses plumes.  There's also talk of a chocolate dunk tank, but the waiting list for that is already two years long.
     OK, back to real blog news.
     

On Thursday, we made our way out of the city and into that vast moray of mud, swamp-water, and the creepy crawlies.  No, it wasn't an invite to Kanye West and whichever Kardashian's wedding.  Better than that.  It was the Everglades National Park, a place I had always wanted to see.  And our little Grand Canyon hiker was only too glad to join me and strengthen those leg muscles wading through thigh-deep bogs while fighting off the occasional, now full grown, toilet-flushed Burmese python.  Oh, do I know how to woo a girl!
     Instead of one big hike like we've taken at so many other national parks, we instead took a series of short hikes to totally different types of trails, each with its own unique take on flora AND fauna (Didn't want you to forget the "fauna.")  At the first trail head, we ran across a sign indicating a precaution we had never heard about before.

Bird diapers ... what will they think of next?
     After safely ensuring the safety of our trusty steed, Zippy, we started off on the "Anhinga Trail," so named for the Anhinga bird.  He's an interesting guy; he gets so wet diving for fish that he can't fly, so he awkwardly stands in the sun and flexes his wings like an avian Arnold Schwarzenegger to try to get them to dry off.  This trail was also great for spotting alligators in the wild, as opposed to alligators in your rumpus room.
   

    Pinelands, the next trail, was teeming with a subtropical pine forest.  Yes, I said "pine" forest in the Everglades, full of bogs and swamps.  Evergreen trees?  Not a picture I had even considered.  Who'd a thunk it?
     From there, it was on to the Mahogany Hammock Trail.  Clambering over about two miles of boardwalk (no song here) at the base of these massive trees growing in the swamp made me feel like Han Solo on the planet of the Ewoks.  (Cue Diedre to roll her eyes).  

But my favorite tree, a bare, red barked beauty, was the lyrically named "gumbo-lingo tree."  Kind of reminds me of that great Dodger pitcher from the 40's, Van Lingle Mungo.
     The Everglades is one huge-ass park.  What I didn't realize, in fact, is that the lower half of the park, virtually the entire southern tip of Florida, is more water than land ... a lot like the basement in our Minnesota house.  This area is made up of nothing but keys, and these are not the ones leading down to Key West. There's so many, I think they ran out of names for them.  There are the keys that sound like a bunch of guys playing poker and after drinking too much beer, decided to go out and name some keys after themselves: Frank Key, Clive Key, Roscoe Key, Sid Key, Bob Key, and Russell Key.  Animals are well represented here: Rabbit Key, Eagle Key, Deer Key, Pelican Key, and, of course, the everything is just "Duck Key."  Speaking of animals, there's a particularly treacherous spot in the area where there starts to be more land than water.  It's an area one should probably avoid: the unholy triumvirate of Shark Point, Alligator Point, and the most feared Minnesota attack animal of them all, Mosquito Point.
     And then there are the really odd names: Twin Keys (Twinkies?) and Gopher Keys (after our great Minnesota sports teams), Spy Key, East Key and West Key (not Key West), Dildo Key (Now what were they thinking there?),  and the only Russian key, Passkey Down the Streetskey. (That one's for you Marx Brothers fans).
     But I digress (Ya' think?!)
     See you in Tampa!

AB1 Tour 2014 - Week 5 - Northern Florida

OK, in a nutshell, here's my blog for our week in Northern Florida:
    Monday - Rain
    Tuesday - Rain
    Wednesday - Rain
    Thursday - Rain
    Friday - Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows every ... aw, just kidding.  It rained.
    Saturday - Rain
    OK, that's it for this week.  See you next week ...
    What's that, dear?  What do you mean "That's no blog?"  Well, I guess I could embellish it a bit.  I may even have to make some things up to make it interesting, and you know how I hate to do that.  (Insert "chuckling" here.)  OK, here goes.
    Yes, during our time in Panama City (we actually camped in the nothing little burg of "Freeport," although I wanted to be in Panama City), we were the recipients of more rain in our first 24 hours there than this part of Florida had gotten in the first four MONTHS of 2014; it was even more rain than they got during the infamous "Hurricane Ivan."  So, while we were definitely wet, at least there was no hurricane.  So we had that going for us.
    I've decided that the Panama City (Freeport) gods certainly have something against me.  For gods knows whatever reason, they do not want me to partake of their oh-so white, sandy beaches.  My main reason for stopping in this area was that during my college spring break of 1971, buddies Alps, Homer, and Wick and I had made our way to Tallahassee, Florida, where by some miracle, we met and became friends with a Florida State University student named Brian Bengston.  It just so happened that Brian was the son of the head football coach of the storied, many-times-world-champion Green Bay Packers.  Brian took us on a day trip to a place he said we had to see: yes, the aforementioned Panama City (not Freeport).  And just as it happened to Diedre and me some 43 years later, it rained on us poor overwrought college students.  It was the only day of the 10 we were in Florida that year that it rained.  What luck.  Of course, this year, we had four times the rain and four times the disappointment that we had back in '71.
    

There's a Mark Twain quote posted on our RV refrigerator that represents how we want to live during our "senior" years:
         "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do.  

        So, throw off the bowlines.  Sail away from the safe harbor.  Catch the trade winds in your sails.

         Explore.  Dream.  Discover."
    

Even living by this tenet, our faith was sorely tested on that fateful Sunday, April 27, on our way to Panama City (Freeport) when a rear tire on Zippy, our Honda Fit that we tow, blew out.  We only knew that it had happened because of a boy in a car passing us who had a look of horror on his face as he motioned to me that something was wrong with our Honda.  We pulled off at an exit just in time to not do any damage to our tire rim.  If that young man hadn't caught my attention when he did, we might have gone the day's requisite 300 miles leaving Zippy as a smoldering pile of burnt metal and rubber.  So, thanxx kid, wherever you are. 
     "Alan" was the nice young man who our AAA Wannabe Road Side Service sent out to help, since Diedre obviously knows nothing about changing a tire, and I can't risk my typing hands getting injured doing such menial manual labor.  While changing the tire in the time it would have taken me to find the jack, Alan asked me what I did.  Naturally, I made up that story you so love about being a writer, and sure enough, he bought it.  I asked him if he was interested in cowboys. 
     "YEE-HAH!" he exclaimed with a strong Alabama accent (Is there any other kind?)    So I proceeded to tell him about the biography I wrote of Peter Brown's life.  I MAY have mentioned it a time or two or twenty last year.  To my surprise, this mid-20's something young man had actually heard of Peter and his TV show, "Laredo," even though he (Alan) had not yet been born when it aired.  Go figure.  
     I immediately handed him one of the books.  And the cost was only $20, but he was a nice kid.  I really think it's the best $20 I ever spent.
   BA-DUM-BUM!
     The next day, Diedre showed who wears the pants in this family by jumping in the car and driving the hour it takes to go to the Honda dealer in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, whilst I cleverly stayed behind and sorted the animals by two's.  In addition to showing who wears the pants, she also showed who has the brains in this twosome (as if there was ever any doubt) as she enjoyed one of the most beautiful drives either of us had ever taken on the way to auto-repair-central.  Of course, she didn't let on about her joyous drive, instead basking in the kudos she got for bravely volunteering to go out on the treacherous roads to get our spare repaired at the Honda dealer whilst I remained back at AB1 slaving over this furshlugginer blog.
     

Yes, Diedre got to see the beautiful white beaches of Destin, FL, on their marvelous harbor walk while she waited for the tire to be repaired; I, on the other hand, got to walk a mile-and-a-half to a 7-11 convenience store/gas station through mud and puddles to get an 82-cent newspaper, "The Pixley Times."  There was a lot of info in there about Uncle Joe who was a movin' kind of slow at the junction ... actually, "Petticoat Junction!"  I don't know ... maybe I was hallucinating all that.
     Moving on.
     You know, whenever I get down into the real south, the rural south, near the water, I always have that feeling, what with the droopy trees and the hanging Spanish Moss everywhere and the slow pace of life, well, I'm just pretty sure I'm going to be running into people whose first words to me will almost certainly be: "YOU LOST, CITY BOY?!"  (Cue the "Dueling Banjos"music).
     Tuesday DK went rain-grocery shopping; I'd do it, but I'm so dumb about food that the last time the wife dared send me out for vittles, instead of a shopping list, she cut out pictures of the actual food for me.  Still didn't work.
     With food comes exercise.  We're both trying to stay in shape this year, although we each have different styles.  Whereas I'm just compulsive enough that I have to walk three miles absolutely every day (today was the 830th consecutive day I've walked that prescribed distance), Diedre subscribes more to the "Goldilocks Workout Regimen," i.e. she walks three miles a day IF it's not TOO hot, or IF it's not TOO cold.  Yes, you guessed it, it has to be ... JUST RIGHT!  Of course, on those days she usually walks 5-7 miles.  That's scary.
     That night we had the biggest scare in our RV since Diedre spotted me wearing my "Snoopy" boxer shorts.  The rain, as it had all day, kept coming that night, only now harder.  I went to bed about 11 while DK did that computer-voodoo thing she do so well.  About 12:30 a.m., her phone sounded its emergency warning: tornadoes had been sighted.  And there we were, in a big tin box, with no real place to go.  The camp bath house would have been marginally safer, but it was a good three blocks away, and we had the cats to consider.  Casey's only about 9 pounds, so he wouldn't have been a problem, but the other two?  Charlie (18 pounds) and Little Samantha (14 pounds) would have been too heavy for me to put them all in the cat carrier and lug them to the bath house.  So we decided we'll all go together if we go.  The warning was on for just 20 more minutes, so there we huddled, managing to get just one local channel on TV telling us what was going on.  First 15 minutes left ... then 10 ... 5 ... AND it was over.  We will definitely have to rethink our escape procedures for the future.
     Wednesday was a day of recovery from the previous evening's onslaught.  We both sat there and re-evaluated our priorities.  Diedre re-pledged herself to family and friends while I made a major life choice and declared my intent to eventually climb Mount Noot-Newy.
     Speaking of life pledges, my brother Mark, after 43 years with the same stock brokerage company, called it a career at age 66.  Wow!  43 years doing the same thing over and over ... that's crazy ... a lot like managing the Chicago Cubs.
     Not sure what the roads would be like after the Noah's Ark Storm from last night, we called our campground in St. Augustine and changed our reservation there, cutting it one day.  Then the five of us spent the day on the couch huddled under Diedre's massive homemade quilt and watched reruns of "Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C."
     

Thursday, May 1, we regrouped, first wishing my darling Birman cat Casey a happy 7th birthday with a cake made out of tuna and sundry mouse parts and sporting anchovy candles.  Then, it was out of one rainstorm and into another.  Our trip to St. Augustine gave us 2,766 miles traveled so far in 2014 with 34 nights in campgrounds.
     I was excited to finally get to see St. Augustine.  Its history is just incredible.  St. Augustine was the first European settlement in the U.S., established even before both the Jamestown settlement and the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.  It was recently ranked number six on the top ten list for "Best Historic Cities" in the country by "USA Today Travel."  Amazingly enough, we will hit five more of those cities this trip (Savannah, GA, #4; Charleston, SC, #5; Boston, #7; Santa Fe, NM, #8; and Philadelphia, #9), and have already been to number 10 (New Orleans) last month.  We're only missing numbers 1 (Montgomery, AL), #2 (Annapolis, MD), and #3 (Williamsburg, VA, although both DK and I have been there in other incarnations).
     As is our usual style when first blowing into a town, Diedre searched out the best pizza place they had to offer.  And this was a GOOD one!  Pizza Time was rated #7 out of the 476 restaurants listed in St. Augustine (actual number, not a fig-newton of my imagination), and this was not just out of all pizza restaurants, but ALL restaurants, even those with non-plastic silverware.  Owner Domenico is legendary for his pizza and his attention to customers.  He's gone from making "za's" in Sicily to Brooklyn and then finally on to St. Augustine.  The man is a genius.  

We don't usually do this at the fine "semi-factual Kaye and Stuart Blog," what with our high journalistic standards and all, but the address for those of you interested in trying out Domenico's talents is 124 St. George St.; phone 904-819-0133 to gab with the garrulous owner.
     Friday, May 2, our Amazon Jungle-like weather continued.  Miss Diedre was content to stay home (stay RV?) and do the most difficult "Anti-Diet Yoga" which requires the combatant to freeze in the "Dying Cockroach Pose" while eating chocolate bon-bons.  It's actually a yoga I could get into.
     

I chose to get back in Zippy on that most rainy day and head to the monument to steely nerves and bad dressing, the World Golf Hall of Fame.  Looking to be accepted by that higher class of snobs, I opted NOT to wear my usual "I'M WITH STUPID" tee shirt and instead threw on my "Old Course at St. Andrews, Scotland" windbreaker that I had gotten from my dad.  I mean, I didn't want those stuffy golf types to think I was a total idiot.
     The HOF was a huge campus consisting of not only the Hall of Fame and Museum, but also a golf course, condos up the wazoo, and a re-creation of the Players course 17th hole island green around which were situated many golf-oriented retail establishments.  There was even a bar-restaurant owned by Bill Murray (of "Caddyshack" film immortality) and his five brothers called, appropriately enough, "Caddyshack."  I loved their motto: "Eat, Drink, and Be Murray."
     I'm a baseball guy, although I do know quite a bit about the other real sports (not fake sports like pro wrestling and soccer).  But here, I did learn some interesting things about golf.  To whit (To what?):
-Young Tom Morris was already winning money as a professional golfer at age 13.  Starting at age 18, he won four consecutive British Open championships from 1868-1871.  He was the tourney's youngest participant ever at age 14 and the youngest winner ever of the open at age 17.  Amazingly enough, his dad, "Old" Tom Morris, was the oldest Open winner at age 46 and the oldest participant at age 74.  Young Tom was credited with the first hole-in-one ever at the Open in 1869.  Unfortunately, Young Tom died of a ruptured aneurysm at the far too young age of 24 ... on Christmas day, 1875.  Sad story.
-They had a copy of Annika Sorenstam's scorecard from a tournament on March 16, 2001, when she shot a record breaking 59.  It was amazing enough that she started the front nine with four birdies in a row, but it was on the back side when she really caught fire.  Starting on number 10, she got eight birdies in a row ... I said EIGHT!  She then choked big-time with a horseshit par on the 18th hole, giving her a 28 on the backside to complete her 59 ... and this was NOT a match on a miniature golf course.
-Henry Picard won the 1938 Masters and the 1939 PGA.  He was from Hershey, Pennsylvania, where he was the Hershey Club pro in 1934.  So, Milton Hershey of the Hershey Chocolate Company decided it would be good for his chocolate empire if he matched Henry's golf salary dollar for dollar.  He felt Henry was a walking representative for Hershey.  Henry even handed out chocolate bars wherever he went.  Now there's a golfer in whose gallery I could march.  His nicknames varied between "The Hershey Hurricane," "The Chocolate Soldier," and "the Bon Bon Kid."
     It was still drizzling on Saturday, May 3, so in order to break out of our rain-induced cabin fever, we made our way over to the local massive flea market.  On the short walk, we spied this sign which gives you an idea of the security and quality of some of the fine RV parks in which we stay.  And of course, the first sign we saw when entering the flea market estate said it all:  ZOMBIES EAT BRAINS ... FORTUNATELY, YOU'RE SAFE!
     We made it back to home-sweet-RV just in time to see my choice for winning horse racing's Triple Crown, California Chrome, romp to an easy victory in the Kentucky Derby.  I'm going to go out on a limb here and bravely predict CC will win the Preakness ... yes, there, I've said it, and not just because I'm writing this THREE days after the Preakness.  I'm just that good.
     That night we watched a tape of "The Big Bang Theory" TV show.  It was quite a night for me as my "Big Three" were all involved with this show:
1- It's currently our favorite show;
2-The subject that night was "Star Wars," my all-time favorite movie;
3-One of my all-time favorite comedians, Bob Newhart, was guest starring.
     I'd call that "The Triple Crown of Comedy."
     Sunday, May 4, was a day that will live in the opposite of infamy ... I guess that would just be "famy," because ... HUZZAH!!  HUZZAH!! ... the sun finally came out.  Let there be dancing in the streets!  Drinking in the saloons!  And necking in the parlors!
     Since we had lost a day in St. Augustine because of losing a day in Panama City (Freeport), we then decided to add a day to St. Augustine, figuring one less day in Miami was not that big of a deal.  And we ended up being right.
     We did our preferred walking tour.  When we did this several years ago in Key West, Florida, we found all things "southernmost."  We did the same thing today, only this time finding all "oldest in the country" things.  

 We first walked by the oldest wooden school house, then found the oldest house, the Gonzalez-Alvarez house.  It was built shortly after the English burned St. Augustine in 1702.  It's so old, they still get their dairy products from a milkman (Oldster blog-followers, please explain this concept to your youngster blog-followers).  We walked "The Plaza," the oldest public space in America; it was laid out by the Spanish in 1573.  

The Constitution Monument was built and still remains there since 1813.  We toured The Mission of Nombre de Dios which was finished being built on September 8, 1565; they were here a whole 55 years before the Pilgrims got to Plymouth Rock.

 And we really enjoyed the ancient Castillo de San Marcos, also known as "The Fort."  This place was used by the Spanish, the English, the Spanish again, the Americans, the Spanish yet once more, the Americans again, and finally by one of the most feared groups of them all, the Knights of Columbus.
   

 If you want to talk real age, check out this photo of me here with the Ponce de Leon statue; the really stiff one is me.

 Ponce landed near this spot in 1513.  We were allowed to take a sip of water from the actual spring Ponce claimed to be the Fountain of Youth.  Of course, it did nothing for me, but I'm pretty darn sure it worked wonders for Diedre.  I'd say it made her a good three, maybe four, weeks younger.

     OK, with that smart-ass comment, I better get a move on and take us to down Miami.  See you there.

AB1 Tour 2014 - Week 4 - New Orleans, LA

Before I start on this week's blog, let me just tell you about something of which both Diedre and I are very proud.  After several years of memorizing and practicing, we both now know and can sing ALL the words to the theme song of our favorite TV show, "The Big Bang Theory."  What?  You think that's easy? Well then, you try it.  It's on Thursday nights at 7 PM on CBS.
     In 1989, Diedre and I were running our short-lived retail business, "Collage:  A Third Dimension in Photography."  It was late afternoon on a Saturday near the end of our run at the store after another less-than-stellar week of sales,  Exasperated, we looked at each other and decided that we needed some kind of an adventure to shake us out of our doldrums.  Diedre had accumulated a fair amount of airline miles, enough for a trip for two to almost anywhere in the country.  We looked at each other, thought for a moment, and then came up with the same destination at virtually the same time:
     "NEW ORLEANS!"
     We decided to not even go home, that we'd just leave from the shop and head for the airport.  Whatever we'd need in The Big Easy we'd just buy when we got there.  It would be two days totally away from the business, and it would be GREAT!
     As with so many wonderfully spontaneous ideas, reality soon got in the way.  Stuff needed to be done that we couldn't get out of.  The cats had to be fed.  We must save our money.
     In the end, we didn't go.
     But now, 25 years later, we're finally having that adventure and taking our much-delayed trip to New Orleans.  And let me tell you, it was some week.
   

 New Orleans has been described as "an inevitable city on an impossible site."  This was brought out only too clearly during the epic Hurricane Katrina Fiasco of 2005.  But New Orleans is nothing if not resilient.  Their unofficial motto, in French, is: "Laissez les bons temps rouler" which translates to, "Let the good times roll."  Makes sense.
     My New Orleans history amounts to four previous trips to the Crescent City:
-March, 1961: As a 10-year old, I went on an Easter break trip down south with my family.  It was the first time that I had ever seen drinking fountains labeled "For Coloreds Only."  My main memories there are of a wonderful dinner at the legendary "Antoine's," and a run-in with a similarly aged African-American boy who was, to my surprise, out on his own at night on Bourbon Street trying to make money as a shoeshine boy.  I remember that he brazenly came up to me and announced, "I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes!"
   

 I knew there was no way he could do that. I mean, how could he possibly know about the J.C. Penny's in St. Louis Park, MN?  But I was too taken aback to answer him.  With my family looking on, he gleefully shouted, "You got 'em ON BOURBON STREET!"
     It got a big laugh.  I never forgot that.
-August, 1972: While in the Advanced Individual Training in the army, a buddy and I received weekend passes and decided to do New Orleans.  The military got 75% off rooms at the downtown Marriott, so a $64/night room (albeit a bit spendy in those days) cost my buddy and me only $8 each.  The only other things I recall from that weekend were bars and strip clubs ... uh, I mean, ... museums and libraries ... yeah, that's the ticket, museums and libraries.

-January, 1975: This was the second of my three ill-fated Minnesota Vikings Super Bowl trips (they lost all three games), but this was definitely the worst one.  On Friday afternoon, seven of us left Minneapolis in two cars just an hour before that year's "storm of the century" hit the Midwest.  The highlights (or low lights, if you will) were as follows:
     -a 4 a.m. car accident in Peevely, MO, where we lost one car and two guys (not injured, just pissed off enough to fly home)
     -a flat tire in Mississippi
     -a hotel room 50 miles from the stadium with one bed for five guys, one electric outlet, and no shower curtain
     -a cold, rainy Sunday with the game played outdoors because the Super Dome was still being built
     -being left with five $20 game tickets which we couldn't sell for any more than $1 apiece
     -sitting on soaking wet wooden benches
     -having a ketchup packet for my expensively cold hot-dog explode all over my white pants at kick-off
     After all this, I turned to my buddy, Duppy, and said, "If they win, it will all be worth it!"
     Final score: Steelers-16, Vikings-6

-April, 1982:  This trip turned out much better than the Super Bowl fiasco.  Joining my Carleton basketball buddies, Steve Obaid and Bob Strauss, for the NCAA Basketball Tourney's Final Four (this time, of course, in the dome), we scored amazing tickets for the championship game via Jack Thurnblad, our college coach, that sat us in the midst of the North Carolina student rooting section for the game in which Michael Jordan, as a freshman, hit the winning shot with just a few seconds left to defeat Patrick Ewing and the Georgetown Hoyas.  I still remember the raucous 2 a.m. atmosphere on Bourbon Street when we ran into Michael Jordan.  As young as he was, he still exuded incredible confidence when he said to us, "I had the shot... I HAD the shot!"
     OK, OK, enough about me.  Let's talk New Orleans.
     The first thing we noticed was that if you're one of the few people still into cigarette smoking, New Orleans is the place for you to go.  They apparently haven't gotten the memo yet.  In the bars, we surmised that smoking was not only allowed, it was encouraged.  It seemed that you had to smoke or they wouldn't serve you liquor.  That's so different than the other weird-rules-place, Utah.  There, you have to eat to drink liquor.  (Note that only one of the two previous state statements is really true.)
     

We drove from Houston to New Orleans on April 20 ... Easter Sunday.  No Easter eggs were squashed on the way, although there were quite a few armadillo road kill.  Our Easter dinner was celebrated that night in the French Quarter at the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen with as fine a pizza as we've had since Gina Maria's in Glen Lake, MN.  It was excellent!
     Our usual Monday routine after a hard Sunday of driving is to hang around the campground and regroup.  I did battle with the site's obstinate WiFi while Diedre relaxed by doing yoga at our RV's water-side parking spot.

     Tuesday was when we really got into seeing New Orleans.  And if you're going to see The Big Easy, you've got to start with The French Quarter.  We did our own walking tour of the area.
     The French Quarter is an incredible melange of smells.  On the plus side, you've got your aromatic deep-fried beignets, jambalaya, and gumbo odors emanating out of every restaurant you walk by.  On the minus side, interspersed with those nasal wonders are the acrid, tears-inducing smells of mold, urine, vomit, and B.O.  Diedre made the ultimate olfactory statement when she announced that compared to what we were smelling in New Orleans, she'd prefer the Mackinaw Island, Michigan, mixed scent of chocolate and horse manure any time.
     Interesting.
     During our walk, we saw, but did not go into, the Museum of Pharmacy.  I mean, come on.  What's next, the Museum of Aluminum Siding?
     

Our first stop was at the ultimate nemesis of any good diabetic: Cafe Beignet.  Beignets are basically deep-fried dough covered (and I mean COVERED!) with powdered sugar.  When I was first diagnosed with diabetes, the Kryptonite to my Superman persona, I received an e-mail from my cousin Duncan, similarly afflicted.  He told me about his addiction to Krispy Kreme donuts and how, when he would cheat, those were what he would have.
     "If you're going to splurge," he said, "do it right!"
     So I did it right and had my WONDERFUL New Orleans beignet for the first time in 53 years.

Diedre settled for some fine chicory coffee and then had her picture taken with her jazz hero, Al Hirt (a statue).
     We finished the day with a beer and a Hurricane  at Lafitte's Blacksmith Bar, the country's oldest continuously run bar.  It goes back to 1772 (I think that was the last time they cleaned the men's room).  It's one of the oldest surviving buildings in the French Quarter.
     From there, we took the RV park's shuttle back home so that Diedre could try some "aerial" yoga.  I, trying to also keep up with my fitness routine, went for some "Direct TV" sit-ups and waited for Wednesday, April 23.  You'll soon see why.
     Historical note:  On April 23, 1914, the first Federal League (new, yet short-lived rival to Major League Baseball) baseball game was played  in Chicago at the brand-spanking new "Weeghman Park."  Two years later with the Federal League out of business, the National League Chicago Cubs took over the site, changed the name to "Wrigley Field," and have been failing to win the World Series ever since.  Today would be 100 years since the opening of Wrigley Field.
    Please ... a moment of silence ...
     So 100 years later, we celebrated the beloved baseball building, Diedre by having her nails done and then taking a cooking class, and me by visiting the World War II Museum.  Makes sense, doesn't it?
     The idea of Diedre taking a cooking class seems about the same as Lebron James going to a summer basketball camp.  But that's what she wanted to do.  And since I would be the recipient of all that good Cajun food (the class was teaching gumbo, chicken Creole, and pralines (probably the best we've ever eaten, although we found out that we've been mispronouncing it all our lives: it's "praw'-leens", not "pray'-leens"), who was I to argue with The New Orleans School of Cooking?
     

I loved my time at the National World War II Museum.  Since both my dad and my Uncle Judd fought in that war, I've always had a keen interest in its history.
     On arriving at the gigantic museum campus, you're first greeted by an immense slab of twisted iron; it turns out that it's a wall column fragment from the north tower of the World Trade Center.  The emotions only grow from there.
     One of the most interesting things I found out about the war was the American build-up of troops in England.  My dad was there for D-Day, although he went across the channel as a member of Patton's 3rd Army a few weeks later in order to give some of the boys a rest.  Anyway, there were 1.5 MILLION American troops in England by D-Day.  But for all that we were doing for the Allied effort, there was a fair amount of resentment of the Americans by the average British soldier.  After all, we were being paid four times what the British troops were making.  Beyond that, our guys paid a lot of attention to the British women, much to the British men's chagrin.  The resentful English commonly referred to the American soldiers as "overpaid, oversexed, and over here!"
     Another fun fact: President Teddy Roosevelt's son, age 56, was a Brigadier General.  Just like his dad, he was there for the action.  He was on the first wave of assault forces to land on Utah beach.  He fared better than those at Omaha Beach:  there,  2,200 men, one of every 19 soldiers who landed at OB, died.  So sad.
     The campus also included a tremendous one-hour, "Four-D" movie (not "three" but FOUR!) produced by Tom Hanks on a giant screen.  It was moving and excellent. (The fourth dimension is adding sensory - shaking of the seats during explosions and the stage raising and lowering things like canons and other physical items.)

Each exhausted from our respective sessions with the cooking class or the museum, we met up for dinner time at Jackson Square.  There I paid my respects to Old Hickory, Andrew Jackson.  A fine dinner at the Crescent City Brewery courtesy of Diedre's Internet acuity for saving us money got us a great "Buy-One, Get-One-Free" pair of meals.
     On Thursday, we started off walking along the Mississippi looking for our old friends, Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.  When we came upon the Natchez Steamboat, we remembered that today, one day and 100 years after the opening of Wrigley Field, was the centennial birthday of Fritz Diederich, Diedre's father.  Happy birthday, Fritz!
     

We then walked across the street to the legendary Café du Monde, world famous since 1862 for beignets and its chicory coffee and the site of my first beignet in 1961.  It had been a personal favorite of Fritz's when he worked the Mississippi as a boat radio operator.  He loved to dunk the donut in the chicory infused coffee.  If you're ever looking for Cafe du Monde, it's easy enough to find: just follow the trail of overweight guys with white powder on their pants.  It's guaranteed to be powdered sugar from their beignets.  Either that, or else they're very sloppy cocaine addicts.
     After the bonus of being allowed yet a second tasting of the wonderful beignets, I then made my way with Diedre over to the French Market.  The Market dates to 1791, although it was even long before the city was established in 1718 that it existed as an Indian trading post.  It was not as farmers' markety as we'd have liked, but we checked it out anyway.  I bought a pair of sunglasses there, so if you'd like to enter the "Alexx Set-Down" pool by sending us a dollar, the winner will be the person who guesses closest to the date and time when I lose these sunglasses.  And let me tell you, they weren't cheap ... they took up the better part of my $5-bill.
     

From there, we made the arbitrary New Orleans visit to Pat O'Brien's for a Mint Julep (note well, Marx Brothers' fans) and a Hurricane.  We were done just in time to take the shuttle home and get ready for some New Orleans Zephyrs minor league baseball.  It was a fun little stadium.  And this time, we managed to stay for the entire game.  And the really great part was that Diedre found us a two-for-one ticket sale on-line.  When I got to the box office, I said, "Give me the best you've got."  And she did  ... two ducats in the first row right behind the Zephyrs' dugout!  And it only cost $12, the price of just one beer at a Diamondbacks game.
     

So unlike both Bob Uecker and George Costanza, we WERE in the front row with our feet up on the dugout at the big Zephyr-Omaha Storm Chaser game.  And we had further lucked out as it was "Thirsty Thursday," meaning beer was $1 per glass.  It was so much better than being there on "Woeful Wednesday" when their special was deep fried broccoli.
     Cheering for the Zephyrs was a bit confusing.  Their nickname is the "Z's," so when all the fans were yelling that, we thought they had fallen asleep and were snoring.  The Zephyrs looked good as they came out of their slump and scored a lot in beating the Storm Chasers 12-8.  It evened our home team record at 1-1.
     On Friday, April 25, we were excited to hear how my play, "The Woes of Kilimanjaro ... Country Club" had done as a fund-raiser back in Scottsdale for the Mayo Clinic Transplant House.  We're still waiting for word on that.  We also waited around AB1 as we had some RV repair done by the nicest and most southern-accented guy you'll ever meet.
     

To start out our big anniversary  night on the town (more on that "anniversary" thing later), we headed to Royal Street in the French Quarter.  You know you're getting old when you prefer Royal Street to Bourbon Street; those of you who have been to New Orleans know what I'm talking about.  Pre-dinner, we spent our time listening to "The Royal Violinist" (Tanya) and her guitar playing partner (Dorise).  They play ONLY on Royal Street and not on the much more crass Bourbon Street.  They were absolutely wonderful, so we showed our gratitude by purchasing their CD.  It goes in the monthly morning rotation immediately.
     From there, we stopped at the Rib Room for a quick cocktail.  While pretending to look for the ladies' room, DK stole a praline from the hostess's desk.  She declared it also the best ever, apparently tying it with the New Orleans School of Cooking's praw'-leen efforts.
     History note: Diedre and I had been married on July 6, 1991, in a Hawaiian themed wedding in my parents backyard in Minneapolis.  And ever since that date, we've always worn our wedding finery wherever we were on our anniversary.  Only now, my incredibly crafty bride has figured out that the mere mention of our anniversary seems to put people (read: restaurants) in a most giving mood.  So in "Part I of the Anniversary That Would Not Die," Diedre came upon a scheme that was technically honest: she informed the hostess that it was our "23rd anniversary .... trip."  No matter that our actual anniversary "day" was still two+ months away.  It was, indeed, our anniversary "trip," so Antoine's gave us free champagne and pomme frites (glorified French fries).  I'm sure there will be many more of these "anniversary trip" scams to follow this summer.
     

Anywho, back to our long awaited dinner at Antoine's, the country's oldest continuously operated restaurant and, I might add, all run by one family.  They've been around since 1840.  This is the incredibly fancy restaurant where my brother and I marveled at my dad as he put down an order of "Oysters Rockefeller" in March of 1961, much to our incredible and juvenile distaste.  So in honor of my dad, Mac, who passed away in 1997, Diedre also downed an order of the legendary "Oysters Rockefeller."  I continued to grimace.
     The restaurant has an incredible amount of history adorning the walls, no surprise since they were already open for 21 years when the Civil War broke out.  They even had a framed newspaper front page on the wall from the day Lincoln was assassinated; they had already been open 25 years at that time.  Other dated photos of people who had dined there included Admiral Byrd before he went to the South Pole, Groucho Harpo, and Chico Marx, Ty Cobb, Hopalong Cassidy, Jerry Lewis, General Patton in 1942, JFK and LBJ in the early 60's, and the Pope in 1987.  There were also adjoining photos of Barney Fife and George W. Bush; when I pointed that out to Diedre, her problem was telling who was who.
   

 It was definitely a night to remember.  And the near two C-notes bill meant that the restaurant still did alright by us, even after the free champagne and pomme frites.
     Saturday, April 26, was our last day in New Orleans, so we decided to, much like the Union army had done 150 years ago, divide and conquer.  I dropped Diedre off in the French Quarter at the "Langlois Culinary Crossroads Cooking Class" where she added to her already immense Cajun repertoire by learning the in's and out's of artichoke soup, jambalaya, and praline bites (which are actually more cookie than candy).
     In the meantime, instead of following Sherman on a march to the sea, I made my way across town to the Civil War Museum, the oldest operating museum in Louisiana.  It had opened on January 8, 1891, probably just a few weeks before basketball was invented.  They had an incredible amount of relics from the war: tons of guns, swarms of uniforms, and a lot of Confederacy President Jefferson Davis's stuff.  Old JD was a much more accomplished man than I had ever realized: he was a graduate of West Point, fought in the Indian wars, and was named Secretary of War for the U.S. before the Civil war ("irony" bell rings).  He was the only president the Confederacy ever recognized.
     Their flag, on the other hand, was not so unique.  I found out that the flag which we've all come to know as the "Confederate States of America" flag was, in reality, just one of 10 flags the South used during the war.  The flag we recognize was actually the "Confederate Battle Flag for the Army of Tennessee" and was just used from 1864-65.  It was only AFTER the war that this design was adopted as the official flag of the United Confederate Veterans, so that's why most people refer to it as "the Confederate flag."  It was never, however, the official flag of the Confederacy.  So, you learn something every day.
     Diedre and I then met up in the city's beautiful and historic "Garden District" where we took the prescribed walking tour.  Among the wonderfully large and old southern homes we walked by were ones owned by Sandra Bullock, John Goodman, and Archie Manning.  We stopped by the Commander's Palace, a huge and lovely aqua-colored house which was the starting point and catalyst for the careers of great chefs such as Paul Prudhomme, Emeril Lagasse, and surprisingly, Chef Boyardee. 
 And just as last year's trip was best remembered by all the references and sites having to do with John Wayne, so too has this one been with Jefferson Davis.  Sure enough on our walking tour, we stopped in front of the  house in which the old faux president passed away in 1889.
     To celebrate our last night in town, I dragged Diedre back to the World War II Museum where they were performing "The Andrews Brothers Show," a recreation of a USO show at the recreation of a Stage Door Canteen that was all the rage for servicemen in most Allied countries during WW2.  The singers were great and the atmosphere was so realistic to the time.  And if you're counting, tonight's show makes the score:  Theatre (Diedre) - 6, Baseball (Alexx) - 2.
     On to Florida.