Travel-Sonoma;Southeastern Tenn; Citrus County,Fla;Cayuga; Mt.Washington;Isola Comacina; Steamboat Springs; Lexington; Mendocino, Guerneville & Calistoga; Lake Tahoe; Taormina;Chattanooga; Taos,Santa Fe; San Antonio;New Brunswick, CaSONOMA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In New Choices Magazine, March 1999 Standing on the shore of Bodega Bay, I watched the tranquil water flowing toward the rushing blue-green Pacific Ocean around the corner. Gradually, I became aware of sweetly chirping birds, whose volume increased until they seemed to have become a kind of orchestra; adding choreography, many playfully circled the area. I hailed a fisherman and asked, "Is something going on up there?" He shook his head. "No more than usual. That's why he shot it here." I wondered: Who shot what? But I wasn't about to betray ignorance, so I nodded meaningfully. Not buying my act, the fisherman said, "I'm talking about Alfred Hitchcock. He filmed 'The Birds' around here." And that wasn't all, he told me. The photogenic county has been a popular background for more than 50 movies, including "American Graffiti," "The Beverly Hillbillies" and "Planet of the Apes." Forty five miles north of San Francisco, Sonoma's 1609 square miles offer more than 145 vineyards, producing some of the world's best wines, and tours and tastings are a popular activity. The county is also a feast of small towns, each with its own character. In the aforementioned Bodega Bay I took a Whale Watch cruise (conducted December through April), aboard "Jaws," a 55 foot fiberglass boat. Passing vessels with names like Jezebel and Predator, the boat approached Bodega Rock, where hundreds of seals were sunning, posing, shaking flippers. Several knots further, a spout was spotted; next, parts of two whale bodies. Then a whole tail popped up and the audience went wild. Santa Rosa, a short drive northeast of Bodega Bay, offered the gardens and interior of the Luther Burbank House, whose reception area holds a 1915 group photo; subjects include Thomas Edison, Henry Ford and Burbank, the internationally famous horticulturist who came to California in 1876, hoping to develop a strong potato to counteract the Irish famine. He subsequently created the Burbank russet potato, along with more than 800 other plant products, including the Santa Rosa plum, the Shasta Daisy, spineless cactus and white blackberries. Later, in the beautiful town of Sonoma, I passed a Spanish mission and the City Hall, which has an odd architectural feature: when it was planned, in 1906, no neighborhood merchants wanted to face its rear, so the building is exactly the same on all four sides. I also strolled through Petaluma, a treasury of Victorian commercial buildings, many with iron fronts; 99 are listed on the National Register, including "The Opera House," where Tom Thumb and Mark Twain gave lectures in the last century. The town also features 19 antique shops, including a 1926 terra cotta building that was once a bank. One of Petaluma's surprises is Maria of London. In a Victorian home, Maria Tarabbia, a Brit in 19th century costume, serves traditional teas, including sandwiches and cakes, with some of the 150 silver implements once used by servants to the rich. She also explains "high tea," created by working class families to use up whatever food was in the house as the day's final meal (We might call it leftovers). The concept was popularized by Queen Victoria, who sometimes joined the palace kids at their makeshift dinner. Obviously the royals were always cheap. ******************************************************* SOUTHEASTERN TENNESSEE By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In Vision Magazine,Fall 1999. You learn lots of homespun expressions down here. While hiking through South Cumberland State Park, along the lush Fiery Gizzard Trail, our ranger pointed to a growth of poison ivy and recited, "Leaves of three, let it be." Moving his finger to a less malignant plant, he said, "Leaves of five, let it thrive." As though this were a seminar, a local woman announced that when she gets into an argument, she usually tells her antagonist, "You may assume that I have mistletoe tied to my apron strings." South Cumberland State Park is 60 miles northwest of Chattanooga, where my friends and I began this trip. Here we saw remnants of the original "choo choo," visited the Bessie Smith Hall of Fame, where I heard vintage music, then moved onto probably the western world's most extensive fresh water acquarium, featuring stingrays, hammerhead sharks and otters. What impressed me most, though, was watching carvers at "Horsin' Around," the country's only authentic carousel horse carving school (Chattanooga's new carousel, with all horses created by the school, opened this past summer). Our next stop was north to the town of Dayton, for a tour of the Rhea County Courthouse, where the Scopes 'Evolution' trial was held in 1925. The immense courtroom, where the jury sits on Lazy Boy chairs (manufactured down the street), features a museum with historic photos, costumes, songsheets ("Red Lips Kiss My Blues Away") and signs: ("Gas .15, Tax .04, Total .19"). The following day I waved to pals who were going horseback riding and hardier souls (AKA maniacs) headed for hang-gliding on Lookout Mountain. My group selected whitewater rafting on the Ocoee River (venue for the 1996 Olympics whitewater contests), where, after valiant efforts and consummate teamwork, I felt as though I'd become the water's equal in ferocity--or at least wetness. Next, we headed for Fall Creek Falls State Park, nearly 20,000 acres of lush hiking paths, where the waterfall slides 256 feet down plateaus reminiscent of a staircase. We spent the night at the park's resort, and, after dinner, roasted marshmallows over a campfire in the woods, accompanied by a local band, singers and a cowboy who spun tales of heroism and lost love. One guest asked for beer and was told the Park is in a dry county, producing yet another Tennesseeism: "We have dry tongues and wet throats." # ***************************************************** CITRUS COUNTY, FLORIDA By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In New Choices Magazine, March 1997. Snorkeling in Crystal River, Florida, I glanced just below my feet at what appeared to be a mother manatee nursing two young calves. When I mentioned this to the guide snorkeling nearby, he smiled slyly and said, "Those aren't calves with the female. They're male manatees." I asked, "Are they flirting?" He looked at me as though I were the winner of the year's "Duh" award and said, "You might call it that." Moments later, another manatee bumped his nose on my arm. I patted his furry hide, then he swirled over, tickled my stomach with his left flipper--they use their flippers like arms--and swam away. Manatees have goofy faces, reminiscent of hippos crossed with pitbulls, and they're so cute that the temptation is to want one as a pet, except the average male weighs 1,000 pounds. This was a typical morning in Citrus County, 80 miles north of Tampa, and the same distance west of Orlando. It’s on the Gulf of Mexico, but what makes it special is that it's the only area in the U.S. where humans can interact with manatees, of which there are 2,000 left in the world. That would be reason enough to go there, but there are many others, most involving crystalline waterways, clean air and a wide variety of animals and vegetation. After snorkeling, I drove several miles to the Withlacoochee State Trail, a paved area covering 47 miles of what were once railroad tracks, allowing room for joggers, hikers, bicyclists and horseback riders. No cars allowed. As I strolled along the trail I saw intense vegetation on either side, including silver maple, holly berry and oaks. Among the wild blackberry vines and lavender wildflowers, I caught a fast glimpse of a rabbit and several squirrels hopping from one bush to another. Next day I drove a few miles south to Homosassa Springs State Wildlife Park, a 166 acre paradise dotted with cypress, palms, bamboo and magnolia trees, and filled with a variety of local animals, including otters named Robby and Olga, a black bear, an indigo snake and a crocodile called Jake. While a cormorant honked high above my head and two great blue herrons hopped around a pond, I passed flamingos and a black swan. In a nearby carefully-fenced enclave, seven enormous alligators snoozed on their beach, eyes closed, teeth hanging out, like typical Florida retirees. I wasn't sure whether they were snoring, but they looked so vulnerable that I wished they had an umbrella shielding them from the sun; the thing is, I wasn't going to be the one carrying it. # ****************************************************** CAYUGA, NEW YORK By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In Vision Magazine, Fall 1999 On a recent sunny afternoon, a group of adults sprawled on a huge hill of multi-million-year-old fossils at the Portland Point Quarry, searching for a shell known as trilobite, a distant relative of the horseshoe crab. As each of us dug up what we thought was one, we held it aloft and, if it was the real goods, an expert bagged it, accompanied by cheers from the group and some modest bowing. This was part of a visit to the Paleontological Institute in New York State's Cayuga Lake area, and it was the most fun I ever remember having outdoors, with my clothes on. But, to paraphrase Humphrey Bogart in "Casablanca," Cayuga amounts to more than a hill of trilobites in this crazy world. Set in New York's ravishing Finger Lakes, Cayuga is a hiker's paradise: rolling hills, beautiful greenery, gorges, 150 waterfalls within 10 miles of Ithaca, its leading city; and, not incidentally, more than 30 wineries. Cornell University is also here, offering a 2,800 acre plantation, including vegetable and herb gardens from different eras, as well as a garden of poisonous plants, growing near the university's veterinary hospital. This inspired me to ask our guide whether Cornell was in the Poison Ivy League. He didn't think I was funny. Later that day, my group and I hiked in Taughannock Falls State Park, where the 215 feet falls plunge through 380 million-year-old rock walls, giving one an eerie sense of the beginning of time. Our next hike, around Beebe Lake, offered a sight more interesting than greenery: a rather mature man rollerblading down the steep hills. Our guide said that he was chairman of Cornell's geology department and was also a champion skier, senior level. Most curious stop was at Auburn's Ward W. O'Hara Agricultural Museum, where we examined antique farm equipment, including a butter churn, a lime sower, a 1937 John Deere tractor and a human litter box (which may explain the exodus to cities). *************************************************** MOUNT WASHINGTON VALLEY, NEW HAMPSHIRE By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In Vision Magazine, Fall 1999. As the September sky slowly darkened, a group of us got out of our van at the summit of Cathedral Ledge, a 700 foot sheer cliff in New Hampshire's White Mountain National Forest, to watch climbers completing their journey. When the first, 52 if he was a day, hit ground and secured his line, he shouted "En billet!" a French expression meaning it was safe for the climber below to come up. She was even older, though she acted as though scaling cliffs was an everyday occurrence. Well, I thought, I'm good at other things. Now it was dark and we drove along Kancamagus Highway, for our ultimate activity: a moose watch. Several times we stopped, our guide, Greg Garrick, cautioning us to be quiet, but no moose. Finally, as though he'd gotten a signal, he aimed his flashlight across the road. Staring curiously at us were two majestic, beautiful moose. They didn't flee, didn't even blink, and our group became as excited as though we were Balboa discovering the Pacific Ocean. It wasn't exactly scaling Mt. Everest or bungee-jumping onto polar ice floes, but if you consider unique, new experiences as adventures, this was a biggie for me. Eastern Central New Hampshire was one of four destinations I visited in the past year, offering challenging--as well as lazy--physical activity, nature at its most ravishing, historic settings, a bit of culture here and there, great food and a lot of one-of-a-kind discoveries. The morning after the moose-watch, while several members of my group went horseback riding, I opted for canoeing on the Sacco River, a moderately exerting activity: one hour of canoeing and a second hour on land for making fun of each others' strokes. After lunch, we ventured to Great Glen Trails. Passing on mountain biking and fly fishing, I hiked near the Little Peabody River, marveling at how many different shades green comes in: trees weaving gracefully in front of mountains while breezes rippled the water. As a skittish bluebird soared from a tree, we passed growths of mushrooms and signs for areas called Great Grumpy Grade, Hairball Passage and Slaptail Crossing (When beavers get frightened, our guide explained, they slap their tails on the ground and dive into the water). Most bizarre experience (mid May to mid-October): A 20-minute auto trip to the top of Mt. Washington, going from an altitude of 1,565 feet to 6,288 feet and temperature of 76 down to 37. As wind roared to 80 mph, we zipped through all four seasons, with foliage going from green to gold to white to nothing--and wound up at what seemed like the North Pole, giving new definition to frost and fierce winds. Locals proudly call it "the worst weather in the world" (In winter, Mt. Washington is one of the east's most popular ski areas). We also visited the Swift River’s 120 foot Albany Covered Bridge--one of half a dozen in the area--a structure reeking of mystery and romance. At its foot were three 20ish local men, playfully tossing rocks into the water. Since it was 8 o'clock on a Saturday night, we asked another local whether they didn't have anything better to do. "Not those 'chuckies'," he said, explaining, "That's short for 'chuckleheads,' the New Hampshire eqivalent of 'bubba'." *************************************************** LAKE COMO'S ISOLA COMACINA By Lawrence Eisenberg Appeared In Destinations Magazine, June 1990 Not the least of Lake Como's many enchantments is Isola Comacina, the tiny island in its center. An easy day trip from Milan or any of the other Lombardy lakes, it sits opposite the town of Sala Comacina, minutes from shore via the island's private boats. Dating back to BC, it has been invaded, liberated, conquered and cursed. Olive trees dot the 656-yard-long landscape, which also features an archeological excavation, an artist's colony and a 15th century church. But the island's most important reason for being is the Locanda Isola Comacina, an outdoor restaurant which, for 40 years, March through October, has served the same meal, lunch and dinner, to such as Dr. Henry Kissinger, Dr. Christian Barnard, Mario Andretti, Alfred Hitchcock and Clark Gable. For 68,000 lira (about XX Canadian, per person) you get a heart- stopping view, along with a massive antipasto, including braesole and a whole roasted onion in its shell, followed by freshly caught lake trout, oven-fried chicken, ice cream, fruit, cheese and wine. Then comes the finale: Owner/ Puricelli passionately chants the island's bloody 2,000 year history while he concocts a cauldron of coffee, sugar and flaming brandy. The finished brew, he says, must be tasted first by a vestal virgin, and he selects one from the crowd. This always gets the biggest laugh of the night. ************************************************** STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published in New Choices Magazine, March 1998. Making my cross-country skiing debut, I snapped on skis--with a lot of help from an instructor--stuck my poles into the snow and poised at the edge of a forest at the Home Ranch in Clark, Colorado. I remarked on the beauty of the surrounding naked-limbed aspen trees, so packed with ice that they looked like stalagmites, and the instructor said, "Elk chip away at their bark and eat it"; he added, "Did you know that the bark was also used as an aspirin-type medicine by early Native Americans?" In the next 25 minutes I fervently wished I could chomp on some bark as I took repeated dives, each time feeling as though I'd been epoxyed into the snow. Never losing his cool, the instructor untangled me. Finally, after cursing and then laughing hysterically, I managed to stay vertical and slide forward, occasionally gracefully. I'm not talking near-Olympic prowess, but I was doing it and it was an immense high. The high continued for my three-day stay, though it wasn't strong enough for me to attempt any downhill skiing, for which Steamboat Springs, 18 miles south of the Home Ranch, and 157 miles north of Denver, is famous. Visit any time in the ski season, when the whole town looks like a Christmas tree, and you'll brush poles with hordes of sportsfolk in outfits that almost rival the flamboyance of golfers. Non-skiiers can take snowmobile rides, and tourists traveling with grandchildren may enroll them in one the town's several skiing schools. Warmer months offer fly-fishing, hay rides and hikes through the beautiful National Forest and the Mount Zirkel Wilderness Area. Other activities: sailing, waterskiing, hot air balloon rides and visits to spas (some people consider that exercise). The town is also packed with small art galleries, antique shops and boutiques. And don't miss the Tread of Pioneers Museum,featuring turn-of-the century furnishings, Indian exhibits and skiing memorabilia. I preferred spending time at the 1,500 acre Home Ranch, where, if you want to pass on the rustic property's 40 kilometers of trails, you can visit the pool, sauna or hot tubs. In other seasons the resort features barn dances, cookouts and rodeos. And, one night a week, owner Ken Jones and his cowboy band offer such standards as "Biscuit Creek" and "Ghost Riders In the Sky." Guests--whether or not they want to ride--are encouraged to feed the 200 onsite horses. I spent 25 minutes interfacing with several, including Skittles, a quarter horse intent on biting off my knitted cap. I also played with the two large house dogs--a Bernese called Bronco, and Sugar Bear, a white Kuvasz, who has a unique relationship with the resort's chef. On two occasions the latter put chocolate ganache and cooked lobsters out to cool in the snow. Sugar Bear ate the whole ganache and ran all around the ranch with a lobster in his teeth until he was cornered.# LODGING The Home Ranch-Six lodge rooms and eight cabins. Rates include cross-country skiing, snow shoeing, free shuttle, lift tickets to Steamboat ski area and three daily meals. Amazing gourmet cooking, including pecan-crusted Colorado lamb rack; Chilean sea bass; banana Brown Betty. Clark, Colorado (970) 879-1780. ****************************************************** LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published in New Choices Magazine, March 1998 "Don't turn your back on a stallion. He'll bite," said the guide from Bluegrass Tours in Lexington. Another advisory: "Put your fingers in his mouth and I guarantee they'll come out shorter." Those weren't options, since I'd never cared one way or another about horses. But after several days in Lexington, I began to love them, and actually posed for a picture with 24-year-old Bold Forbes, who won the 1976 Kentucky Derby. I was also impressed by the "Parade of Breeds" in the spectacular Kentucky Horse Park. Sitting in bleachers, surrounded by multi-generational families on vacation, I watched as riders in period costume came trotting into a corral aboard such breeds as a 17th century Oldenburg carriage horse, an American Morgan horse and everyone's favorite that day, an English Shire, black with white furry hooves, whose rider was dressed in a 12th century knight's armor. Other highlights included a visit to Man O'War's grave, where a life-sized statue of the champion (who sired 397 foals) towers above a circular fountain. In the Park's museum, I saw one of Secretariat's baby teeth and an exhibition of Calumet Farms' 560 trophies covering 50 years of racing. I also toured Gainseway, a luxurious stud farm, where the mating process was explained; the entire event takes no more than 15 minutes, beating out some humans by at least 10. And, during a stop at Keeneland Race Track, I witnessed a white-knuckle thoroughbred sale. While an auctioneer chanted words as indecipherable as Bob Dylan's lyrics, one-year-olds, prancing and neighing, went for huge sums. That night's topper: $135,000. But Lexington isn't just about horses and beautiful rolling, green farms. It's also about bourbon, and a tour of the nearby Labrot & Graham Distillery, where bourbon has been made since 1812, took me through the entire aromatic process. Mostly, though, the area offers historical treasures. In Harrodsburg, Kentucky's oldest town, I visited an authentic 19th century Shaker village (No residents; they were celibate). Another part of town features the cabin in which Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks were married on June 10, 1806. The local museum contains a reproduction of the N.Y. Herald front page headline, April 15, 1865: "IMPORTANT-ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN"; also itemized bills for Lincoln's funeral (Total cost: $8580.15). Other historic visits: the home of abolitionist Cassius Clay, whose master bedroom features a gout stool; and Henry Clay's home, where the pathway between the outdoor kitchen and the house was known as "Whistle Walk" (the slaves carrying dinner had to whistle to prove they weren't eating it). My favorite was the 14 room house where Mary Todd Lincoln grew up. The master bedroom features a dresser whose sole purpose was to store wigs. "They must have been rich," proclaimed a tourist in our group. "Or bald," I suggested. She said I had no respect. NOTE: Lexington's Convention & Visitors Bureau (1-800-845-3959)publishes a list of "70 Free Things To Do" in the area. . ***************************************************** CALIFORNIA’S MENDOCINO, GUERNEVILLE & CALISTOGA By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In New Choices Magazine, March 1997 Drifting down a street in the town of Mendocino, 160 miles north of San Francisco, I spotted a pricey foreign convertible of the type that, in Beverly Hills, seems to reproduce with the speed of insects. The license plate read: FILMS R US, and I said to a friend, "I thought they only did this vanity thing in California." She poked me. "Hell-o! Where do you think you are?" I'd forgottten, for reasons that should have been obvious: No palm trees or mansions, no smog, freeways or pretentious boutiques. Mendocino, nestling along a choice section of the Pacific Ocean, is filled with eucalyptus, bishop pine and cyprus trees and many Maine-style houses (its early settlers were from that state). In fact, it looks so much like Maine that it served as background for Cabot Cove in "Murder She Wrote." The area's diversity doesn't end there: if you're in the nearby town of Elk, overlooking the Pacific, you'd swear the brilliant royal blue water was the Mediterranean Sea just off Capri, complete with California's version of the famous Faraglioni rocks. The northern California sections I covered are rife with vineyards that produce some of the world's finest wines, and visiting them is a leading tourist activity. But I'd rather drink wine than see how it's made because the area is too full of other wonders, including the cultivation and use of natural foods and cooking that rivals, and sometimes surpasses, the cuisines of France, Italy and China. Our trip began in Mendocino county, which has nine state parks. First morning, as fog lifted off the ocean, Jeff & Joan Stanford, owners of Mendocino's Stanford Inn, gave us a tour of their "all-purpose environment," where they grow 40 types of lettuce, 20 kinds of thyme and such edible flowers as snapdragon, pansies and violets. Along the way we passed graceful California grand fir, apple and pear trees; also a pen with 14 llamas, a few of whom drifted to the fence to greet us. The property, said the Stanfords, is welcome to snakes, frogs and gophers; even employees are encouraged to bring their children and pets to work. The only ones not welcome are developers. That afternoon, we went canoeing along Big River, the longest (eight miles) unspoiled estuary in California, which flows gracefully into the ocean. Frolicking near us were a young seal and a mallard duck with a gang of ducklings. Also, floating here and there, from a long-shuttered lumber mill, were redwood logs, which scavengers can sell for $1,000 a foot. All they have to do is lift them. Next, we toured Mendocino's Botanical Gardens, set on 47 acres high above the ocean, where we enjoyed a technicolor feast of foxgloves, red and pink ice plants and a dahlia garden. The following morning, we drove 100 miles southeast to to the town of Guerneville and hiked through Armstrong Woods, a virgin redwood forest that has never been logged. For more than an hour we walked past the giant, silent trees nestled in clover. Most distinguished of all was the Col. James B. Armstrong tree, 308 feet high, 14.6 diameter and approximately 1400 years old. Later, in the neighboring town of Freestone, I dropped into Osmosis, arguably the handsomest of northern California's many spas catering to tense tourists. After A 20-minute soak in a tub of heated cedar chips, to help draw the poisons from my system, I headed for the garden, where an attendant smiled and said, "Your massage therapist is Gay." I asked, "Is that a name or a choice?" For the next 75 minutes, in an open-roofed tent, as I stared at the incredibly blue sky, Gay (a name) pummeled and soothed and turned me into a relaxed person. A drive of 110 miles southeast of Occidental brought me to Calistoga, a city with a wacko charm, exemplified by the Calistoga Depot, six restored Pullman cars converted to shops. Just outside town we visited the Petrified Forest, where, three million years ago, a volcanic blast buried a forest in a deep layer of ash and turned all the trees to stone. Nearby, I was just in time to witness the eruption of Old Faithful, one of the world’s three regular-erupting geysers, which performs every 50 minutes. On my final morning I drove to Calistoga Gliders for a 30 minute flight over the Napa Valley. Sounds risky, but it isn't. The pilot helped another passenger and myself to squeeze into the back seat of a Schweitzer 232 glider, which was attached, by tow line, to a small plane. When we reached 3,500 feet, the pilot released the towline and we floated through the ravishing clouds, descending slowly to the ground. No announcements, no flight attendants with limp sandwiches. I was the most happy fella in the whole Napa Valley. *************************************************** LAKE TAHOE By Lawrence Eisenberg Published In New Choices Magazine, April 1996 Several years ago, when Shirley MacLaine was performing at a hotel on Lake Tahoe, I got a magazine assignment to interview her. Arriving at the Reno airport after dark, I caught only the barest glimpse of the lake--which straddles northern Nevada and California--as I drove south into Stateline, Nevada, a Las Vegas wannabe, packed with mega-neoned hotels, casinos and gift shops. Very glamorous to many people; aesthetically, it gets three lemons. Checking into my hotel, I went downstairs to the nightclub to catch MacLaine's show, after which I interviewed her. The following morning, with six hours to kill before my flight home, I decided to drive around the lake to see what all the fuss was about. Zooming out of Stateline, I slipped across the border into California and felt transported to Switzerland. Night and day, as my mother used to say (To be fair, the northern Nevada side has some unspoiled spots, if you can overlook the ubiquitous slot machines). Besides being staggeringly beautiful, Lake Tahoe, the largest alpine lake in America--6,228 feet above sea level, 21 miles long and 12 miles wide--has the purest water in the world (99.9%, cleaner than the drinking water in most of this country's cities). But purity isn't the only lure, and what I saw on the northern part of the lake in the next few hours--aspen groves, wildflowers and sparkling beaches-- convinced me to cancel my flight and stay a couple of days. The dealclincher: When I was crossing a bridge over the Truckee River, leading into Tahoe City, I noticed, from end to end, the backsides of people leaning over the railing (to watch frolicking giant trout, I learned). They call it Fanny Bridge. This isn't a nickname; it's on all the maps. Warning: Avoid Lake Tahoe during the summer months, when, on an average weekend, as many as 100,000 tourists have been known to visit. The other three seasons are fine. And, if you're into winter sports, you can't do much better than the slopes of the Sierra Nevadas. Here are some things I did in early fall: Hiking on the Tahoe Rim Trail, from Watson Lake toward Tahoe City, and catching mesmerizing views of the Sierras and the lake, along with two deer and a golden eagle. Strolling through downtown Truckee, whose architecture is intact from its days as an old Sierra logging and mining town. Visiting the artifacts at the Washo Indian Cultural Foundation Exhibit. The Washos, the area's first known settlers, named it "Da ow a ga" (Edge of lake). Early pioneers mispronounced it, "Da ow," and, eventually "Tahoe." Riding the Squaw Valley Cable Car, from the valley floor to the mountains (an elevation of 8,200 feet), and landing at the High Camp Bath and Tennis Club where I swam and watched hardier souls bungee-jumping. What I didn't do for lack of time or guts: Mountain biking, water-skiing and underwater diving. My favorite memory: The Nevada slot machines didn't get one nickel out of me. ******************************************************* TAORMINA, SICILY By Lawrence Eisenberg Published In New Choices Magazine, April 1996 The guide on the bus taking us from the port of Messina to Taormina gave us a lecture about the history of the Mafia. While it had its roots in Sicily, he said, over the years it had spread throughout the world, especially to China, Russia, Japan and the U.S. For all intents and purposes, he concluded, it no longer existed in Sicily. Right, signore, and if I don't agree, tonight I will sleep with the fishes. Actually, besides being the birthplace of Don Corleone and some of his godchildren, Sicily is one of the most beautiful islands in the world. Taormina, its best known resort, has many hotels, restaurants and gift shops, and, from April 1 to October 1, is packed with tourists. But the plundering hordes can't erase the charm of this little hill village, because its medieval palazzos have never been touched by a wrecking ball. The trick is to go out of season (October and late March are best), where you'll find a town suspended, like a glorious balcony, from a cliff 675 feet above sea level. Founded by the Greeks in 385 BC, this tiny metropolis, facing the crystalline Ionian Sea and Mt. Etna, is bedecked with olive, jacaranda and lemon trees and so many bougainevillea (90,000 vines, I'm told) that their scarlet, magenta and lavender blossoms often tumble down from the ochre walls of the town's ancient buildings. Along the coastline beneath Taormina--accessible by cable car--are exquisite beaches, grottoes and coves, where you can swim or sightsee on rented boats. The town's leading sight is the Greco-Roman amphitheatre, within walking distance of anywhere. Glancing from the top row to the stage's soaring columns and arches, I could almost see Medea slaughtering her family. Later, we visited the 15th century Palazzo Corvaia; the Gothic-fronted cathedral on Piazza del Duomo, outside which is a charming Baroque fountain; and the 12th century Torre dell' Orologio (clock tower). Another day I strolled through the Giardino Pubblico (public gardens) awash in every color of blossom. And, on Via David Herbert Lawrence, I saw the pink villa occupied by D. H. Lawrence during the '20s. Sightseeing is actually everywhere in Taormina, from sidestreets so narrow that if you stretch out your arms you can touch buildings on both sides, to the Corso Umberto, the town's main street. Here, set into 14th and 15th century palazzos, are classy antique and pottery shops, mingling with must-miss shlock stores hawking souvenirs and jewelry (yeah, right) set with black lava stone. My favorite activity: sampling the ravishing Sicilian ice cream (about a buck for a cone) and sipping iced coffee drinks at cafes in the piazzas while munching on marzipan cookies, a local specialty. Bakeries all over town sell them in a variety of shapes, including bananas, prickly pears, lobsters and tiny provolone cheeses. We didn't see one shaped like Don Corleone, but that's probably because the Mafia no longer exists in Sicily. ******************************************************* CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Published In New Choices Magazine, July/ At 8:05 on a recent weekday morning, a man in a business suit boarded Chattanooga's free downtown electric shuttle, fretting that he'd left his office keys at home and was afraid he wouldn't be able to get to work because nobody was in at that hour. He figured he might as well get off at the nearest coffee shop. The shuttle's driver, a bright, charming woman named Mary, said, in her velvety Tennessee voice, "Or else ya could just rahd around with me for a whahl." They chatted about the drizzle outside and then the passenger said, "Ahm 'onna git out at the next co'ner if that's alright." "That's fahn." As he was about to step off, he told Mary, "Thank ya, mam, have a good one." "Y'all have a good one, too." I tried to picture this same scene in a big city bus, say, New York: PASSSENGER: I left my office keys at home and I'm afraid I won't be able to get in. DRIVER (Turning into Robert DeNiro): "Are you talkin' to ME?" Graciousness and Southern charm are only a couple of the virtues that attract anyone who heard "Chattanooga Choo Choo" the first time around, when it was performed by Glenn Miller and his orchestra in the 1941 film, "Sun Valley Serenade.” The song's inspiration dates to March 5, 1880, when a train made its maiden voyage from Cincinnatti to Chattanooga, opening the first major public transportation link between the North and South. Since the 1970s, the city has spent millions to restore its original graceful look. Some of the newer buildings are the vertical ice-cube-tray eyesores you see in most of the world, but the majority are charming old red brick buildings and tasteful modern structures. Here and there, you'll spot street sculptures and at the curb in front of the Hamilton County Department of Education is a strikingly beautiful red brick bench shaped like a couch. The delights of Chattanooga seem tailor-made for adults traveling with children: Top attraction: the spectacular Aquarium, set on the Tennessee River and dedicated to fresh water environments. Here you see sting rays, their mouths in their bellies, looking like Casper, as well as a blue crab holding onto a rock, a 100-year-old alligator snapping turtle, piranha and a 61-pound blue catfish, the largest in the U.S. (One wonders who does the weighing). Outdoors, when they're in the mood for an appearance, river otters hurtle through a rocky pool, looking like swimming cats; elsewhere is a pool of Dabbling Ducks, one of whom looks as though he's having a bad hair day. Nearby is the Creative Discovery Museum, featuring a dinosaur exhibition, including a "Field Office" where children sit in a giant sandbox and dig up simulated dinosaur bones. It may be the noisiest place on earth, but you've never seen kids having more fun. Visitors will also get a charge out of Lookout Mountain, where, if you stand in the right spot you'll see seven states: Tennessee, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina,Kentucky, Virginia & Alabama. Civil War afficionados of all ages can't do better than a visit to the Chickamauga and Chattanooga National Military Park. The Visitor Center, whose displays of Civil War weapons include a rifle with a coffee grinder in its stock, offers a superlative audio-visual program about the war and its after-effects on both sides. Following this, we did a driving tour through the battlefields, dotted with 666 Union and Confederate monuments, many topped with sculptures shaped like acorns, the symbol for the 14th U.S. Union Army Corps. Though this area is a remembrance of violence and slaughter, a feeling of peace and tranquility came over me. Civil War Fact: One prominent Union General, Joseph Hooker, maintained a staff of ladies of the evening to raise the morale of his soldiers, thereby creating the name "Hookers." My favorite place in Chattanooga is "Horsin' Around," a school for students who carve merry-go-round horses. (2003 UPDATE: Proprietor Bud Ellis, commissioned by the city, supplied 50 hand-carved animals—horses, tigers, fish, ******************************************************* TAOS & SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO By Lawrence Eisenberg Written For Website As a tourist, I’m used to entering stadiums, plazas and train stations around the world, all packed with people who can't resist appraising you, some with attitudes so obvious as to make you want to push a pie in their faces. Nothing was further from this one night in Taos, New Mexico, when I attended a Pow-Wow, a regular social event held by the local Taos Pueblo tribe. I paid my $1.00 admission, entered the large public hall and felt embraced by the smiles of tribal members who—even though my clothing wasn’t much different from theirs—obviously knew that I was a tourist. I was immediately part of their family. For the next couple of hours I joined them in having a great time as tribal members in multi-colored costumes--with fringes, beads, feathers, ribbons, headdresses and mocassins--danced and, accompanied by drums, sang Indian songs (Yes, many of them refer to themselves as “Indians,” not the PC “native Americans”). Between numbers I chatted with other audience members, most of them related to the performers. Neither naïve nor patronizing, all seemed sincerely interested in my origins, my work, my family. The evening’s highlight: a group of children, several of whom had probably just learned to walk, held up colored paper stars on sticks and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” in the Tijua language. It was not only the highlight of a three-day visit to Taos, but one of my all-time travel memories. Here are others: “This is a native American five-hold traditional flute. It’s an instrument of love, and the legend is that when a man was smitten he would carve a flute and play it for the woman of his dreams,“ said jaunty-jolly Roberta Courtney Meyers, a performance artist and guide, who played a sweet melody, alternating with guitar accompaniment, for a group of us in the lobby of Taos’ Fechin Inn. Next, as we tried not to get distracted by New Mexico’s incredibly blue sky, she led us to nearby Kit Carson Memorial State Park. Kit and his family are buried there, amidst a 200-year-old juniper tree, yacking crows and a background of imposing green mountains. It’s as quiet as a cemetery should be, though one wonders what went on when the movie company for “Easy Rider” shot scenes here in 1968. Now Ms. Meyers led us along a 4,000-year-old Indian trail until we arrived at the formidable Mabel Evans Dodge Stern Luhan house, an adobe masterpiece that looks as though it was sculpted. If you never heard of Mabel, which I hadn’t, she was a socially active heiress from Buffalo, New York, who, with two rich husbands behind her (one dead, one divorced) came to Taos in 1916, married wealthy Maurice Stern, then quickly fell in love with a Pueblo Indian, Antonio (“Tony”) Lujan. Divorcing Maurice, she married Tony, immediately changed the spelling of their name and, in 1922, hired local Indians to build this house, along with seven guest houses, whose windows faced north for the special light Mabel felt her houseguests would appreciate. They included: Georgia O'Keeffe, Karl Jung, Alfred Stieglitz, Willa Cather and D.H. Lawrence, who stayed here with Frida, Baroness Von Richtofen, whose father was “The Red Baron.” Georgia O'Keeffe, our guide told us, slept on the roof of her house because she loved night light. Our last stop of the day was at the Fechin House Museum, situated on the Inn’s property and named after the Russian artist/ The following morning, our group headed to the Taos Ski Valley, whose base is 9200 feet above sea level (Taos is 6950 feet above sea level and Santa Fe is 7,000, so If you’re susceptible to altitude sickness, don’t leave home without medication). Though the mountainside was packed with snow, trees managed to poke out mischievously. The parking lot provided the first amusement, with a sign that read “Armadillo Parking.” I didn’t even want to know what that meant. As we headed to the mountaintop, our guide told us that, among visitors to the Taos Ski School’s annual “Learn To Ski Better In a Week,” are a couple from Hawaii, in their ‘90s; also that a visiting international travel club for members over 50 is called the “Over the Hill Gang.” I didn’t ski, because I don’t know how and, besides, I was half dead from the altitude. At lunch in Rhoda’s, on the mountain, a grey-haired woman in a purple outfit dropped by our table, held out her ID tag and said, “You get free skiiing when you reach 70. I’m 72.” Good luck, lady. After we came down from the mountain, a member of the local Taos Pueblo tribe took us on a driving tour. Highlights: White, puffy clouds hanging over mountain tops that feature aspen, cottonwood, evergreen and juniper trees. Adobe houses all over the sides of the road (some of which are headquarters for Radio Shack and Allstate). As we passed a herd of buffalo, the guide told us that the tribe kills about seven per year for meat. "The Pueblo Elders, who are all men-- though many women rule and make decisions--don't want land to be developed and you must get permission from their council to build a house," he said. "You may be turned down if you haven't participated in activities like native dancing. “ As almost an afterthought, he gave us a tribal rule: An elder who embezzled more than $100,000, was not punished. “You forgive and forget,” he said, as he accompanied us inside the Pueblo, “the oldest continuously inhabited Pueblo village in the United States, possibly the world” (Construction is estimated to have begun in 1000 AD). As we strolled around this historic home to 2,300 tribe members, including 30 families, whose adobe dwellings, our guide said, "range from one to nine chambers." Residents, he added, have no electricity (they use candles and kerosene lamps) or plumbing (they get water from the local, rather narrow, Rio Pueblo, and use porta-potties). Why do they do this? He shrugged. Next he led us to the local graveyard, where, among the many wooden crosses, we saw the remains of the original church, on top of which is a bell brought from Spain in the 1500s. Our final stop was the San Geronimo Chapel, whose altar walls were filled with niches and paintings of Jesus and angels. An apple-green coffin-shaped structure just past the altar, he explained, represents the tomb of Jesus. “Inside is a wooden skeleton. “ A last memorable Taos moment: As we drove away from the Pueblo, we noticed, up ahead, what looked like a huge, brown, twirling cylindrical force that rose from the ground and headed toward the sky. Our guide explained that it was created by the wind swooping down on loose soil . They call it a “dust devil.” ACCOMODATIONS: Fechin Inn, 227 Paseo del Pueblo Norte, Taos 87571. Telephone: (505) 751-1000; Fax: (505) 751-7338; Website: http:/ 84 rooms, including suites, in creative Taos Southwest style. $109-308 December 19- January 3, 2003: $179-488). DINING Stakeout Grill & Bar-Stakeout Drive, Highway 68, Taos. Telephone: (505) 758-2042. Smashing white adobe building, open 7 days, from 5:00 P.M. Recommended: Gravlax, lamb chops, napoleon, bread pudding. Menu also includes duck, king crab legs, lobster, pasta dishes. DIVERSIONS Taos Ski Valley-Telephone:1-800-347-7414 Website: http:/ Ski season is usually November-April. ******************************************************* SANTA FE We arrived in Santa Fe after dark and saw little of the place, except for the Inn on the Alameda, an adobe-style hotel that’s so authentic it looks as though it grew here. Almost immediately, we headed for a restaurant, and as we got close to the center of town, we passed wall to wall shops, hinting that the city had been kidnapped by the international Gap-Starbucks-McDonald’s mafia. At dinner, a local said, “Santa Fe is like nowhere else.” I responded, “It looks like everywhere else. All I saw were stores.” “Wait until daylight. You’ll change your mind,” she said. Well, I did the next morning, as soon as we got to downtown’s captivating Plaza, whose park features benches with bright green wrought-iron backs. It was a Saturday and, surrounding the Palace of Governors, the oldest building in the country (constructed in 1610), were locals selling the usual run of junk souvenirs, many that looked as though they were made in Asian countries. But, in one small section, local tribe members sold gorgeous, fairly-priced turquoise and silver jewelry, which, according to a local “is the real stuff.” Strolling around the neighborhood, we passed the only Romanesque church in New Mexico, the Cathedral of St. Francis, (constructed in the 1870s), whose doors feature 16 incredibly beautiful historic motifs, illustrating the history of Santa Fe. Many of the streets were authentically, reassuringly western and rather beautiful, and I tried to ignore the mall-like appearance of other areas. Sensing my reaction, our guide said, "Have you been to Taos? It looks like Santa Fe did 25 years ago." As though to illustrate the uneasy battle between the old and the new, the town's Court of Appeals has a sign to the right of its enrance:“No Skateboarding Allowed.” One of the day's high points: the Museum of International Folk Art's Girard Wing, which features a formidable collection of miniatures and dolls: a Mexican village, with trains, a dance hall and a church; Senegalese folk art, including ceramic animals; Eskimo dolls; charros (Mexican puppets); Palek boxes from Russia; a 19th century U.S. town with houses, gardens and cattle; English pottery and dolls representing Queen Victoria and Lord Byron; and the Plaza de Toros, a miniature Mexican bullfight arena, featuring, along with the matadors and bulls, hundreds of tiny spectators. Next, we visited the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, where I was entranced by “Street New York” (1926), a painting dominated on both sides by vaguely threatening stone canyons under a somber sky; in the distance is a lone street light. The artist, who died in 1986 at 99, seemed to have invented new colors, especially in her paintings of lilies, many of which had more than subtle sexual overtones. Our last stop of the day was the Tin-Nee-Ann Trading Company, named after Tinian Island in the South Pacific, where, during World War II, Navajo code talkers were stationed; theirs was the only code the Japanese couldn’t break. Skipping by the usual tourist junk, I focussed on the imaginative collection of jewelry, Navajo rugs, Kachinas, beadwork, wooden Indians and totem poles. I bought an electric light switchplate shaped like Kokopelli, the mystical 2,000-year-old Anasazi flute player who turns up in lots of western artifacts. It’s on my office wall, greeting me every time I flick on the lights. The following morning was spent at the Santa Fe School of Cooking, where, under a beautiful wooden-beamed ceiling, we sat at round tables while a chef, Allen Smith, talked about local foods: Many festivals are held during chili season (end of August-early September) and the entire town smells of roasting chilis. Also, if you want to buy or order red and green chilis, you say “Christmas.” As he talked he cooked our lunch, which consisted of wonderful chicken and cheese enchiladas (with Christmas sauce; I’m a quick study), pinto beans, posole (corn) and capirotada (to-die-for pecan bread pudding). In the afternoon, we went to Ten Thousand Waves, a lavish,Japanese-style spa/ You gotta love the place. ACCOMODATIONS Inn On the Alameda, 303 East Alameda, Santa Fe 87501. Telephone: (505) 984-2122 (Toll free: 1-888-984-2121) Fax: (505) 986-8325 Website:http:/ 69 rooms and suites, with handsome cabinetry, fireplaces & terraces. Rooms:$129-222; Suites: $210-350, including continental breakfast. Children under 16 free of charge. Pets (under 30 pounds): $20 per night, when space is available. DINING Maria's, 555 West Cordova Road, (505) 983-7929. Classic northern New Mexico dishes. Entrees from $8.50. Recommended: Guacamole, Quesadillas, steak & onions, flan, mousse, chocolate cake. Specialty: 100 different margaritas (90 tequilas), from $5-42. SHOPPING Tin-Nee-Ann Trading Company, 923 Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe. Telephone: (505) 988-1630. DIVERSIONS Santa Fe School of Cooking Telephone: 1-800-982-4688 Website: www.santafeschoolofcooking.com Ten Thousand Waves, 3541 Hyde Park Road, Santa Fe 87501. Telephone: (505) 992-5025 Fax: (505) 989-5077 Website: http:/ # COPYWRIGHT, LAWRENCE EISENBERG, 2008. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. # ***************************************************** SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS By Lawrence Eisenberg Originally Appeared In New Choices Magazine, July/ So many places, so many faces. I’ve sailed through the Panama Canal, nodded at the Sphinx, circled Michelangelo’s David, strolled along the Great Wall of China, faked a samba at Rio’s Carnaval, traipsed through Machu Pichu, the Grand Canyon, the Amazon Jungle and the Roman Forum, run under Niagara Falls and sipped champagne on the Champs Elysees. And, while I never leave home without meticulously planning a trip weeks in advance, there are a few destinations that could lure me on two hours’ notice. Let’s start with San Antonio, Texas and New Brunswick, Canada. SAN ANTONIO San Antonio’s mammoth Far West Rodeo Club was throbbing with sexual tension, beer-swizzling, a mechanical bull and a braless woman in a T-shirt that read, “Wrangler Butts Drive Me Nuts." Packing the dance floor were twentyish, good-looking couples in cowboy gear, doing a serlous Texas two-step that seemed courtly, almost like a minuet. One dancer had tiny twinkling blue lights in his teeth. After an announcement that the live bullriding competititon was about to begin, I strolled into an arena, easily 50 yards long. From the speakers came a voice that told of the awesome contests we were about to witness. Then, following the “Star Spangled Banner” and a prayer for the safety of the courageous riders, came a recording of the Village People's "YMCA." Most of the tough, fiftyish cowboys in the audience, the guys with tall hats, killer boots and guarded eyes, sang along. When the songfest was over, I tapped the hombre next to me and said, "Do you folks know that song is a favorite of America's gay population?” Chomping hard on his cigarello, he said, "Get outta here!" He whispered something to his pal, an even steelier-looking dude, who shot me a disgusted look and said, "No way, Jose!" After that, all the violent tossing of riders by bulls seemed tame, and I realized that unpredictability is probably San Antonio’s leading quality. AND LET’S NOT FORGET WISECRACKING –Set in south central Texas, San Antonio, with a population of around a million and a half lively citizens, offers 600 churches and shrines, a Mexican marketplace, a flock of antique shops and 33 golf courses. At "High Tee," the 11th hole in the Westin La Cantera course, a tourist swung, slicing the ball off to the right, never to be seen again. As though to dismiss this, he groused about his luggage, mislaid by an airline two days earlier, and still not located. Brushing off his outfit, which resembled an old key lime pie, he said, "The truth is, I'd rather lose my clothes than my golf clubs." A member of his foursome commented, "That's no surprise, considering your taste." THERE’S ALSO SIGHTSEEING: "All the plants in this section appeared in the Bible," said the guide in San Antonio's Botanical Garden Center, as I touched papyrus, summer snow, henna bush and spider lily. While a winged dove soared over my head, I passed through a courtyard of tropical fruits and into immense biospheres, duplicating the ecosystems of a rain forest and a desert filled with cacti called strawberry, chocolate drop and Peruvian apple. Outside, a mockingbird landed near a pondful of quacking mallard ducks. Two white ones, the guide said, had been dubbed Fred and Ginger. Nice that they still remembered who Fred and Ginger were. Another must: the Texas Institute of Cultures, which honors the city’s 27 different cultural and ethnic groups. Here you’ll see a Chinese dragon, there a traditional black Wendish (Slovakian) wedding gown. Also icons from Greece, an Afro-American sharecropper's cabin, the stuffed remains of one of John Wayne's longhorn herd and a French-Castroville Hearse--a favorite of smugglers because it had a trapdoor. The San Antonio Museum of Art, housed in what was once the Lone Star Brewery, features a Greek sculpture gallery and incredible collections of historic silver, including beer steins, a “Vinaigrette” from 1844, which held strong perfume to counteract what was then a strong public stench and a lancet for bleeding onesself. The Buckhorn Saloon & Museums dates from the late 19th century, when political correctness didn’t exist, so try not to be shocked when you see 3,500 mounted heads—animals, that is. In the evening, catch any performance at the Majestic Theater, which opened on June 14, 1929 and is arguably the most beautiful playhouse in the country. Its fantasy motif is Spanish Baroque and Moorish, with a ceiling that resembles a sky with twinkling stars. If the San Antonio Symphony is in attendance, run. While touring the building one day, our guide led us to a conference room that had shelves high up on the walls, filled with dolls. One was Santa Claus, in a red skirt. I asked the guide, “Why is Santa wearing a dress?” She shrugged and said, “Oh, it’s a mythical thing.” I suggested, “Don we now our gay apparel?” The rest of the group broke up, but she didn’t get my reference. Finally, there’s Texas’ most famous landmark:The Alamo--one of five San Antonio missions, built in the 18th century as towns to house Indians under Spanish rule (The other four, set in a 482 acre park, away from the center of town, are worth visiting for glimpses of glorious ceiling paintings, looms, a granary, blacksmith shop and eloquent little churches). The Alamo, right in town, presents an initial shock, because all that remains of it is a tiny building, the original chapel of the Mission San Antonio de Valero, site of the victory in Texas' 1836 war of independence from Mexico. The Mission got its nickname from the cottonwood trees in its gardens ("Alamo" is Spanish for "cottonwood"). Imagine Sam Houston shouting "Remember the Cottonwood!" What ties the city together is the San Antonio River, which flows for 2 1/ AND THEN THERE’S PARTYING, ONE OF SAN ANTONIO’S LEADING ACTIVITIES. As though locals need an excuse for a party: every January they hold a "Mud Festival," when they drain and clean the river, with a lot of alcohol poured on the shores. In February the Rodeo comes to town and what seems like half the population of Texas, in cowboy gear, is whooping, drinking beer and ODing on Tex Mex snacks as they watch: a Palomino march, bareback and bull riding, steer wrestling and sheep mounted by little boys and girls. Most awesome: a march by eight Clydesdales doing choreographed twists and turns as they pull a beer wagon. I was only slightly distracted by two cowboys in the row behind me. One said, "My date doesn't like me." His friend replied, "Nobody likes you." Fiesta, held over 10 days in April, celebrates the heroes of the Alamo and Texas' independence. Highlights: mariachi, jazz and blues performances, a festival of international foods and a San Antonio River parade with 40 floats. On sale everywhere are cascarones--colored eggshells filled with confetti. People break them over each others' heads for good luck. I once said, "The Eggs of Texas Are Upon You"--and someone smashed four onto my scalp. In October, there's an international food and wine festival and, in December, it's Las Posadas, a monthlong preparation for Christmas, with lights flickering all over the city and musical candlelight parades. My favorite moment occurred two years ago--on our fifth trip to San Antonio--at a lively mariachi mass in one of the five Spanish missions. At its conclusion, the presiding priest summoned all birthday and anniversary celebrants to the pulpit, where we were blessed; and, since my wife and I were the only anniversary couple, the mariachi band played the "Anniversary Waltz" and we were asked to dance for the congregation. Embarassed at first, we quickly twisted and twirled and finished up with tears of joy, realizing that this was our first Catholic mass and, like the ducks at the Botanical Gardens, we had been turned into Fred and Ginger. LODGING LA MANSION DEL RIO, 112 College Street (210) 518-1000. Spectacularly beaufiful 337 rooms & suites: $129-259. ADAM'S MARK RIVERWALK, 111 East Pecan Street (800) 444-ADAM)-410 Southwestern-style Rooms: $179-244. DINING ZUNI GRILL-223 Losoya (210) 227-0864-Smoked duck quesadilla, camarones de Jose, grilled ribeye; huge margarita menu (Entrees: $10-25). MARBELLA (ADAM'S MARK HOTEL)-Roasted corn & wild mushroom chowder, paella Marbella, rack of lamb (Entrees $15-31). LAS CANARIAS (LA MANSION DEL RIO HOTEL)-Escargot in puff pastry, barbecued duck breast, pecan flan (Entrees: $19-30). *********************************** |
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