Buffalo Bound

After a while, I stopped telling people we were going to Buffalo and switched to Niagara Falls (another destination on our itinerary). That seemed to make it go down a little easier.

Why? Well, as you may know, Buffalo’s got a bit of a reputation for being a not-very-nice place—a city in decline, terrible winters…

But really—what place doesn’t have its list of negatives, which we all know are more entertaining to bitch about than the positives?

Conversely, there’s a self-satisfying pleasure in seeking out the good stuff—kind of like a cosmic treasure hunt that makes you feel a bit more connected to the beauty of the world and less affected by the ugliness.

We began and ended our recent trip to Western New York in the Buffalo area and I’ve got to say—our experience was pretty flawless. (Of course, my observations have also shown me that a lot has to do with the traveler’s attitude to begin with but that’s another story…)

Checking in, passing through security, and boarding our Southwest flight was a breeze—Tampa International is a great airport.

Likewise, the Buffalo airport was as easy to navigate as my friend and former Buffalo-gal-by-way-of-Williamsville, Carla, promised it would be. In one smooth twirl, we deplaned, swooped up our suitcases, and parked ourselves at the rental car counter just across from the baggage claim. Ten minutes later, we were hurtling down the interstate headed for our first destination…Frank Lloyd Wright’s Darwin Martin Complex.

Up next…Buffalo Roundabout

NOLA's Slow Rebirth

The city’s still hurting.

It may be business as usual with crowds filling the French Quarter again but the joie de vive is definitely feeling a quart low. New Orleans seems just as mired in its economic, educational and political morass as ever, magnified by the poignant losses exposed in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, like pulling a band-aid off a nasty scab that was nowhere near being healed to begin with. Now the nation and the world have witnessed the grim, gritty, muck-infested reality of the people who live there.

The political corruption and socioeconomic quagmires stretch back across so many decades, better days will be a long time coming—IF the parties involved can make the kind of commitment necessary to bring about healthy change.

But there’s got to be something the rest of us can do. And there is.

Visit New Orleans. Support the culture that gives our nation so many unique gifts—in music, art, cuisine, history—and teaches us how to let the good times roll, even when the times get tough.

During a recent trip to New Orleans in the heat of summer, I was surprised and pleased to see the French Quarter teeming with life: families piling into the Audubon Aquarium, restaurants with interminable waits, new museums sprouting up here and there.

The Southern Food and Beverage Museum has taken up residence at one end of Riverwalk, the bland and touristy—albeit blissfully air conditioned—strip mall that parallels the Mississippi and cozies up to the convention center. Inside, visitors stroll through exhibits showcasing the delicacies of the region, giving greater understanding the next time one sits down in front of an oyster po’boy, a bowl of corn grits and other iconic foods of the South.

SoFAB is also home to the Museum of the American Cocktail—an outstanding collection of everything liquor-related spanning the centuries. Gorgeous displays highlight the evolution of mixology with well-preserved artifacts: bottles, glasses, shakers and other paraphernalia like recipe booklets, aprons and even the appropriate LPs to spin, creating the proper aural ambience for martini imbibing.

Halfway down Royal Street, past the tony antique emporiums, a Creole cottage-turned-storefront sports a shop dedicated to the Green Fairy, which as been making a resurgence of late. Nasty stuff, absinthe, but it conjures the romantic bohemian days of turn-of-the-last-century Paris. At the back of the little boutique, an intimate “museum” of sorts awaits, ready to share the history of the liqueur through artifact displays and a looping documentary.

There are new things to see along with old favorites, there’s still good food to be eaten, and May Baily’s still mixes the best Hurricane in town.

So go.

Mt. Dora Exploras

A recent day trip with friends took us to this central Florida hamlet known for its antiques shops. If hardcore antiquing is what you’re after, here’s a hint: skip the old lady boutiques in town and head for Renninger’s on U.S. 441 for a real avalanche of the stuff.

Seriously, the downtown stores are nice—if you’re shopping for your granny or your bridesmaids: a lot of frilly, girly stuff and tacky gifts no one really needs, with miscellaneous knick knacks scattered in between. (The smarter shopkeepers plant Man Benches outside their doors for gravity-weary companions.) To be fair, I did find a couple of interesting boutiques and a good cupcake shop, but it wasn't enough to make me want to go back.

For lunch: The Goblin Market scored points for the mysterious, secluded entry into a viny, hidden courtyard. We might have been sneaking into the Goblin’s own library, all book-lined walls and dimly-lit exotic décor. Then the stuffiness set in. They need to throw open the windows once in a while. Stale air quality makes me feel like I'm dining in a place that's perhaps past its prime. (i.e: Gypsy Cab Co. in St. Augustine.)

I might have liked the food more if the whole experience rated a little higher. Everything took FOREVER, from ordering to getting the check, with nary a hint of apology from the lackadaisical crew. We were all starving by the time our salads and sandwiches arrived, at that point when just about anything tastes good.

I’m almost wishing we’d tried the intriguing Icelandic pub with its crazy beer-liquor mixed drinks or the seafood house with the gorgeous veranda view of the lake.

(By the way—theme of the day: scary dolls. We just started seeing a trend.)

After lunch, we headed to the mother of all antiques emporiums, Renninger’s. Set on acres of tree-dotted hillocks, it’s an indoor/outdoor wonderland featuring every make, model and era of vintage paraphernalia that one could hope for. In one corner, a path winds through a makeshift “village” of freestanding shops.

Then there’s the massive warehouse of vendor booths showcasing everything from miscellaneous ephemera to mission furniture. Even if you’re not in buying mode, it’s a treat to chat with the knowledgeable dealers and learn about their various wares.

Renninger’s aside, the next time I’m in the mood to explore a quaint central Florida town, I’ll probably head for Winter Park.

UP NEXT: What’s New in NOLA

Cassadaga Nights

“It’s like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie,” said the biker chick to her companions at the table behind ours, describing Cassadaga, the central Florida town we’d just checked out of earlier that morning. Our search for breakfast ended up at Gram’s Kitchen, a Deland diner popular with the chrome and handlebar crowd.

I imagined ol’ Clint squinting in the high noon, attired in a flowing tunic, smelling of nag champa, crystals dangling around his neck, trying to decide where to have his fortune read. Cassadaga’s a one-intersection ghost town in the middle of nowhere dotted with old cracker houses in various stages of repair, sporting shingles for their resident psychics and related service providers.

Long ago, during a séance, New Yorker George Colby was

told that he would establish a spiritualist camp somewhere down south. His spirit guide led him to this “amazing energy vortex” and he founded Cassadaga in 1894. One hundred fifteen years later, Jennie from the Block, Maleficent Mel and I arrived at the Cassadaga Hotel and checked into our room, a tiny little sweatbox at the end of a spooky hallway. A scary-looking wardrobe easily could have been a portal to the Netherworld.

Yes—I blew some hard-earned cash having my tarot cards read—I’m a sucker to discover what infinite possibilities might be wrapped up in the mysteries of the Universe (and a couple of things actually have happened, as predicted).

Communing with the psychic world worked up an appetite, so we headed for the shady grove of DeLeon Springs nearby. At the park’s Old Sugar Mill restaurant, we stuffed ourselves with pancakes made on our tabletop griddle. The icy spring itself was overrun with humanity cooling off in the hot midday sun, so we trundled back to Cassadaga and took a stroll around town.

Its few shops hawk all manner of metaphysical books, crystals and other paraphernalia; the one restaurant, located in our hotel, closes early. Unless you make your own fun, there is seriously nothing to do in Cassadaga, once you’ve exhausted your budget ferreting out mystical guidance from one of their mediums.

The liquid spirits appeared after our nap. We drained a bottle of sweet tea vodka and enjoyed an antipasto spread in our room as the sun went down. Then, cameras at the ready, we set off in search of the spirits Cassadaga is known for.

Our anticipated ghostly apparitions, like anyone else with an ounce of sense, must’ve headed to cooler climes in the midst of the summer heat—substantial photographic orbs were hard to come by, though we did see a few oddities and felt the requisite flash of cooler air in one particularly charged intersection near the lake.

Jennie from the Block launched into an impromptu frolic along the darkened shore as if she’d been possessed by the spirit of a long-ago picnic reveler—and a hirsute one at that, according to the shots Mel snapped. That was the freakiest, most unexplainable event that happened during our expedition.

Back at the hotel, we drifted off to sleep, window unit cranking, with nary a bump in the night.

UP NEXT: Scaling Mt. Dora

Life's a beach, babe.

Every turn of the tire across that six dollar toll bridge gets us one step closer to beachfront bliss. The blue water sparkles seductively. We see our cares in the rearview mirror, stranded on the mainland.

Sanibel welcomes us to a seaside state of mind…where the only agenda item is collecting shells on the golden shore, a glorious place to kill time till cocktail hour and dinner.

The winding drive along the main road curves under blazing royal Poinciana trees, past heavy-hanging coconut palms that look like they’ve been growing there forever. The landscape gives way to native tangles of mangrove, wax myrtle and other scrub until we reach Castaways at last, just before the road jumps over to Captiva.

Castaways…Perfect name for a perfect getaway. Our petite apartment looks across a crunchy, crushed shell “patio” toward the swimming pool.

Dredging, with its mile-long black tube snaking across the sand, parallel to the water, is a necessary but ugly activity. The tinkling sound of sea treasures tumbling and whooshing through the flume is magical, though. At its end, the mother lode of shells spews out in a mud-smelling rush at the feet of our small crowd. Buckets fill with Florida fighting conch, calico scallops, whelks, banded tulips, olive shells and more. A rare Junonia, chocolate chip spirals around a vanilla swirl, sits perched on top of one woman’s overflowing pail. I can tell that the thought of distracting her and snatching it has crossed the minds of several onlookers.

Later, we wander toward Castaway’s inland marina, to the dockside duplex inhabited by our extended family. Mojitos mixing in the kitchenette, happy catch-up conversation filling the room…until we amble, amoeba-like, the thirteen of us, to the Lazy Flamingo next door.

Packed restaurant, a bit of a wait—all the more remarkable as it is run by TWO people. And efficiently so. The bartender/waitress/hostess commands her post at the U-shaped bar, taking orders and zinging them on a wire back into the kitchen where her partner cooks up fresh seafood. A ring toss game and cold beer distract hunger-induced impatience. When you’re on Island Time, amusement comes easy.

Next day: Bailey-Matthews Shell Museum—where the educational video taught us way more about the cut-throat, albeit slow-moving, world of the mollusk than we ever dreamed possible.

Tasty buffalo shrimp and sweet mojitos are downed at

Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille, operated by Randy Wayne

White, perhaps better-known for his literary pursuits.

Before we know it, it’s time to head back to civilization…

Castaways no more.

Up Next: Spirited Adventure in Cassadaga

Just Can't Get Enough of the California Experience!

--Downtown Fullerton: Extraordinary boutique--Gilding the Lily--owned by Aunt’s similarly cool sister—chock full of sparkly things from German glass glitter to vintage jewelry to velvety millinery swirls and flourishes. My kinda place. http://www.gildingthelilyvintage.blogspot.com/ (great soundtrack, BTW!!)

Sweet little local history museum featured architectural photographer Julius Shulman’s 1950s and 1960s work documenting Fullerton houses and other buildings—a visual foray into the mid-century lifestyle, followed up with a visit to neat downtown shops like
mod Otto and retro-hot Out of Vogue.

--Long Beach. Aquarium of the Pacific. We got the lowdown on that sea monster we had seen washed ashore near Huntington Beach the day before: a massive wad of kelp. Checked out the touristy pier, saw the stately Queen Mary anchored across the harbor.

Drove up the interesting and scenic Pacific Coast Highway, admiring the pretty beach towns along the way: Redondo, Manhattan, Venice (where we parked and walked a bit, great for people-watching!); I could have kept going on the PCH but we hung a right at Santa Monica and meandered through 90210 on our way back home. Rodeo Drive looks as…ah…well-kept…as its inhabitants.

--Theme Park Day. I get my fill of the theme park experience in my own home state, that’s for sure…but thought we should at least check out the west coast’s “happiest place on Earth” for ourselves, at least do a little drive-by. They have that place so walled off, despite its location in the middle of Anaheim—unlike the World in Orlando, which has its own power grid plus acreage to spare—that there’s no way in hell you’re going to see that castle without a ticket, mister. So after an amble around Downtown Disney (free parking, first 3 hours!), we headed for our next adventure: the fried chicken at Knott’s Berry Farm that we’d heard so much about.

Fiorella’s in the French Quarter still wins the fried chicken smackdown in my book, but at least we can say we’ve eaten at the birthplace of the boysenberry. Also—if you think you can “do” Knott’s Berry Farm in 45 minutes, here’s the way to go: buy a “shopper’s pass” for half-price admission at Guest Services, and if your “shopper” hand stamp “accidentally” washes off in the restroom, get your fill of the thrill rides and be back at the gate before the clock strikes three quarters of an hour for a full refund. Now, I’m not saying I did anything like that…but the person with me might have…

Thus concludes our whirlwind tour of SoCal—can’t wait to go back!

Up Next: Sanibel sand in my shoes...

Cali-bound, Part One

You have to fly across the surface of the moon to get to California.

Or, as the cartographers call it, New Mexico and Arizona.

Here are some highlights of our recent westward expedition…

Home base: Fullerton, half-way up a mountain at Aunt & Uncle’s fab little mid-century abode, complete with Disneyland fireworks view, gourmet fare and cocktails at the ready. Couldn’t have asked for more gracious hosts: a fantastic cook and an easy-going tour guide/mixologist, to name just a couple of their many talents!
[To R & L: You guys ROCK!!!]

--Downtown L.A. Petersen Automotive Museum—A top-notch attraction for car buffs and design junkies alike (Love those hood ornaments!); Craft and Folk Art Museum—Tiny but I got to see what I came for: an assemblage exhibit featuring works by L.A. artists, including punk scenestress Exene Cervenka. Rich visual constructions elevating ordinary objects and the forgotten detritus of human life into a visual poetry of extraordinary compositions.

--Old Towne Orange. Browsed the antique shops around the Circle. Lunch at Watson Drugs & Soda Fountain (est. 1899 and seen in films like Tom Hanks’ “That Thing You Do”)—had a BLT with avocado...onion rings…and a shared chocolate malt…taste bud heaven and cardiac hell in one sitting. Bought some cool old keys at Muff’s, a crazy, packed-to-the-rafters vintage hardware store.

--Laguna Beach. Waded into the Pacific for the first time. And to this Florida gal, it’s cold. Like fishing beer bottles out of the cooler’s melted ice the morning after a party. But in Florida, you can’t stand in the surf while looking up at the big mountains in the distance. Nice.

--Pasadena. Gorgeous buildings, lovely landscapes. Gamble House: prime example of Arts & Crafts architecture cited prominently during my American art history college courses. Here I was, standing in that very house, marveling at the handiwork—and I do mean HANDIWORK. The craftsmanship in every beam and joint, every fixture, every windowpane, is breathtaking. And the “clinker bricks” on the back patio—so beautiful in their imperfection.
I’m in love with the Greene brothers for details like that.

Friday night’s big thrill: Reading quietly on the couch. A gentle shaking, barely discernible, lasting maybe 10 seconds if that, but nonetheless…kinda freaky.

“Aftershock,” Aunt proclaimed from the kitchen. Yorba Linda’s little quake earlier in the day finally caught up with us. Just a reminder from Mother Nature that humans ain’t as big shot as they think they are.

UP NEXT: More cool Cali excursions…

Hey there, Cupcake.

I, for one, am tickled pink to see the wave of cupcakeries blooming across this great nation. What could be better than a few bites of spongy goodness crowned with a cloud of toe-curling buttercream?

Cupcakes are an “affordable luxury,” in consumer-speak. What I really like about them is their lack of commitment—it’s like a Sweet Fling compared to the Long Haul. I mean—why be saddled with a WHOLE nutty carrot cake, when you just want a few minutes of deliciously spicy escape?

Jennie from the Block and I hit the road to see what Tampa had to offer in the way of sweet flings. Here’s what we found:

--The Cupcake Spot (also in St. Pete): “Doesn’t smell cupcakey,” Jennie proclaimed upon entering the strangely aroma-less bake shop. The lack of adornment in the plain pink, black and white storefront made the case of iced delights stand out like crown jewels. Go for the flavors. Jennie’s Chocolate Elvis was a hit: moist banana cake and surprisingly good peanut butter (!) icing capped with a little fudge pompadour. My Va-Va-Vanilla lacked va-va-voom; sure, the cake was fine but I’m a buttercream junkie. Theirs was too whippy; it needed more velvety heft. More Scarlett O’Hara, less Melanie Wilkes. Cuppy’s strawberry pink cake tasted like a childhood memory; I liked the sour cherry ball on top, but I still had to contend with that sad snowdrift of vanilla frosting. NEXT!

--Square One Burgers: Who knew our Battle of the Buttercream Champ in this round would be a sit-down burger joint with real cloth napkins (and to Jennie’s delight—Mr. Pibb on tap!)? The Creamy “Dreamy” Vanilla boasted a moist delicious cake AND a buttercream I can really get into—that paper-thin sugary crust that gives way to…well…my kind of heaven. The Chocolate’s tooth-rottingly sweet icing overpowered any real chocolate taste. Red Velvet missed the mark, but I’m hard on Red Velvet—very few bake up as good as Fannie Flagg’s recipe in her Fried Green Tomatoes cookbook. Jennie reached Cupcake Nirvana with the Carrot Pecan—hallelujah! (Their burgers are pretty good too.)

For additional choices close to home, check out “Sugar Fix in a Sarasota Alley,” on MySpace. (www.myspace.com/cortwrite)

In Savannah, look up the Cupcake Emporium on E. State St. Philadelphia’s got classic and creative flavors at The Flying Monkey in the Reading Terminal Market. SoCal bound? Try downtown Pasadena’s Dots on N. Fair Oaks and when you’re out antiquing in Old Towne Orange, stop at The Perfect Circle.

UP NEXT: California Dreamin'

Step right up, folks!

Life is one big amusement park: thrill rides that make your stomach do flip-flops (Will I get that new job? Will he notice that I exist?), freak shows (pick any morning TV program—the one with Hoda & Kathie Lee, for example), cotton candy and fried things on sticks (those rare days when EVERYTHING lands in your favor, YUM!), games to test your skill (balancing the checkbook), exhibitions of humanity that defy the imagination (try people watching at any mall/airport/beach…). And you don’t even have to buy an admission ticket for all that.

As for me—I live to explore the world, from hidden treasures and wondrous experiences in my own back yard to what’s going on across the country and around the world. Almost every outing presents an opportunity to see or do something new. I never know what adventure awaits around the next corner.

I never expected to do barrel rolls over the Gulf of Mexico in an open-cockpit, circa 1941 biplane, but there I was, strapped in behind the pilot, laughing and hooting like the barnstorming aviatrix of my daydreams. I never expected to zip line through a Costa Rican forest, but I did—and dang, those valleys are deep and wide between aerial platforms!

I also never expected, after 20 successful years of working my way up to my “dream job,” that I’d quit the 9-5 grind cold turkey to do my own thing, which largely consists of investigating the infinite possibilities a creative life has to offer.

I’m going to be your Spirit Guide—your “Free Spirit” Guide—at this Roadside Attraction: introducing you to people and places, art and culture, food and drink, stuff that delights the senses: anything that I find interesting, entertaining, fascinating or just plain weird, posted here for your enjoyment.

Hopefully Roadside Attraction will encourage you to see the world in its Technicolor splendor and to appreciate the little things. Every person has a story and every place has its charms. Maybe Roadside Attraction will inspire you to explore new places of your own.

So now, I draw back the velvet curtain and present to you this Roadside Attraction serial, in which the curiosities of mankind shall be revealed in kaleidoscopic glory…

UP NEXT…Your Field Guide to One Helluva Sugar Rush…