Top Ten Declarations of the 11th Annual Moms' Getaway Weekend

Anish Kapoor
Cloud Gate
Millennium Park
Chicago












From the home office @ the Hotel Burnham, Chicago:

10. "Crepes." "Grapes?" "Crepes!"

9. "I need socks." "Bill's not here." "SOCKS!"

8. "If you get A27, I'm going to scream."

7. "No one is answering your questions, Marcia."

6. "It's the pickle that you pickle, but it's not pickled."

5. "I almost put my underwear in the minibar."

4. "Nobody puts Rosana in the corner." "I just saw that show!"

3. "I don't want to be in the teddy photo."

2. "He'll have to pry me out with his baguette."

And the number-one declaration of the 11th Annual Moms' Getaway Weekend:

1. "Ladies, have you come to a decision?" "Yes." "But we're not going to tell you what it is."

Please touch the exhibits

One of the best things to do in San Francisco, whether you're a child or not, is to visit the Exploratorium. It is the most interesting science museum I've ever seen, perhaps because it subverts the traditional idea of a museum. It's more like a playground combined with an art studio and a workshop where you're allowed to use all the tools. Nothing says "don't touch."

To quote the Exploratorium's Web site, the place is "a collage of hundreds of interactive exhibits in the areas of science, art, and human perception."

You can watch a museum staffer dissect a cow's eye or fertilize sea-urchin eggs. Or draw a picture using a fixed marker pen and a three-foot square pad of paper on a pendulum tray.

Once the boys and I were fascinated by a time-lapse movie showing how the body of a dead bird decays. On this visit, we were spent a lot of time peering under the hood of a car and learning how mechanics diagnose mechanical problems by their sounds.

This playspace invited us to "stack the stars" and figure out how to best arrange them so that there was hardly any space in between. The best part, according to C, was the "tunnels" between the structure and the floor. I had to take his word on that, not being small enough to wriggle through.

(If anyone knows what this shape is called, please comment! I forgot the term. It looks like this stellated dodecahedron.)



The box of magnetic black sand always draws a crowd. It feels almost like stroking a smooth furry animal.













The "Mind" portion of the museum explores how we think and feel. Stand in the middle of a bullseye and look up as directed, and you'll see that a grand piano is hoisted directly overhead, hanging by a single cable. How do you feel about this? Maybe you don't care. Or maybe you feel a little strange, like a target, even though your rational mind knows that you're perfectly safe.

I love watching people approach this exhibit's unusual water fountain. It works as you'd expect, but the water spout is attached to a toilet. The display assures you that this is a brand-new fixture, never used for its apparent purpose. Will you drink from it? (I make a point of doing so whenever I walk by, and every time it requires a tiny bit of mental effort.)

Since you're going to be here for a long visit, it's good to know that you can have a tasty meal or snack. If a young companion demands PB&J or pizza, you can get those. But I enjoyed spicy roasted chicken served with wild rice pilaf and an organic mixed greens salad with a wonderful shiitake-mushroom vinaigrette. And a Haagen-Dazs ice-cream chaser.

Slumgullion by the sea

Mo's Restaurant
Florence, OR

I'd planned to have a big bowl of clam chowder for lunch. But why just have chowder when you can dine upon slumgullion?

It sounds like something from "Jabberwocky," but results from a little Web-surfing indicate that slumgullion is any sort of thin, hodgepodge stew, usually with beef.

Mo's menu helpfully adds that their version of slumgullion is "chowder with shrimp." I tasted clams and some smokiness (bacon?), and the bowl was topped with a small mountain of plump shrimp. Little slicks of melted butter converged around the edge of the bowl. All it needed was some crumbled saltine crackers. Filling and satisfying.

Sandboarding

Heceta Head Beach, on the southern Oregon coast

Refueling

"Coffee in Motion" served as breakfast one day when we wanted to get a quick start on the road outside of Portland, Oregon.

The red double-decker bus with "The London Eatery" painted in faded letters on the side used to serve corn dogs and fish 'n' chips.

The side of the bus says "seating on the upper level," but alas, this is no longer the case. It's strictly a drive-through.

We pulled up to the window for a "shot in the dark" -- a shot of espresso in a cup of brewed coffee - and a latte.

The menu also listed a six-shot, 44-ounce espresso drink. I can't even imagine that.

Why are there so few drive-up espresso stands on the East Coast, with its plethora of Starbucks outlets? The pace seems much slower here in the Northwest, both on the road and in the way people talk. Drive-throughs would seem to belong on the other coast, where everyone is much more frantic.

Looking at Fremont

I spent my last morning in Seattle exploring Fremont, an interesting neighborhood near downtown. Fremont was once a center of the counterculture -- street signs say things like "Set your watch back five minutes," or "Throw away your watch" -- and now it's somewhat gentrified. But there's still some things you wouldn't expect.

Photos from the road

Somewhere off I-90, near La Crosse, WI



















Badlands National Park, SD


















Kadoka, SD



















Custer State Park, SD
(Yes, that guy is on a bike.)














Yellowstone National Park


























Going-to-the-Sun Road
Glacier National Park, MT

Everything you need

This compact store in West Yellowstone, Montana, has all the essentials, don't you think?

The woman at the window on the Fourth of July was very pleasant, even when five people in a row looked at the ice cream flavors and asked, "What's `Stuck in a Rut'?" (It's French vanilla ice cream with a caramel swirl and chopped chocolate-covered caramels.)

I chose Cream Coffee & Chocolate, which turned out to be very good coffee ice cream with a fudge swirl. B had espresso (the drink, not ice cream). We skipped the jerky.

What we saw @ the fireworks store

Fireworks Factory Outlet
Cody, WY

Country retreat

Claymont Court Mansion, Charles Town, WV

A few glimpses of Charles Town, WV, where I spent this past weekend. The occasion was a retreat at Claymont Court Mansion, a historic home built in 1820 by Bushrod Washington, George Washington's grand-nephew.

















The ruined garden


It's not exactly wilderness, but I enjoyed spending some time in a place where the vistas stretch a little farther than a city block.

Austin airport limits

If you have to be stuck in an airport for 3+ hours*, Austin is not a bad place to be. I found interesting food, curious souvenirs, good books, and decent coffee. And the music playing through the place made me want a playlist: mostly blues and country, nothing I could identify, definitely not Muzak or top-40.

At Schlotzsky’s Deli, B had an Original sandwich, which consisted of ham and salami; melted cheddar, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheeses; garlic butter, olives, onions, tomatoes and lettuce, topped with a vinegar hot sauce. All of this was served on a good chewy roll, a little like a foccacia.

I wandered by the improbably named Waterloo Ice House, the home of “breakfast, beer, burgers.” Indeed, I spotted single-serving cups of breakfast cereal, granola bars, Coors on tap, and several kinds of burgers, chicken sandwiches, tacos and more.

The rest of us dined at the Wok ‘n Roll, which an electronic billboard noted was “family owned.” The lure was the fresh-looking buffet, which allowed me to pick up steamed rice and fresh fruit for my choosy little traveling companions, plus my favorite fast-food indulgence, “General Tso’s chicken,” that deep fried, spicy-sweet stuff that’s never the same twice. When I told the genial man behind the counter that I was looking for chicken with broccoli, he suggested that I come back in a few minutes for a fresh batch. The broccoli was nicely cooked, still bright green, and the chicken was tender. Even my sauce-hating eldest child had a few bites and allowed that it wasn’t bad.

All four of us loved Amy’s Ice Creams. I had a “tiny” (reasonably sized) cup of “pineapple upside-down cake” ice cream, loaded with chunks of yellow cake and maraschino cherries. I was intrigued by the“white lightning” flavor, but the guy behind the counter wasn’t certain what “contains alcohol” meant. He thought it might mean rum, which was about the last thing I needed in my time-zoned, altitude-adjusted state. There were four kinds of vanilla: sweet cream, Mexican vanilla, “just vanilla,” and honey vanilla. I was tempted to ask for a vanilla sampler. The Belgian chocolate was rich and decadent, like a good chocolate bar. E’s raspberry sorbet was bright as the berry and full of seeds, proof of its authenticity.

The non-chain bookstore had quite a bit more than the usual airport assortment of self-improvement, spy-thriller and mass-market religious titles. I could easily have picked up an interesting book or three, but my carry-on bag was already stocked.

I couldn’t think of any justification for these porcelain wiener dogs. They looked sheepish.

I followed signs for an art exhibit and finally found it stashed behind a gift store, facing the restrooms. There were photographs and paintings by local artists. I think they deserve a better location.

* Why was I stuck in Austin? We’d just been skiing at Copper Mountain, Colorado, and our non-stop flight home from Denver had been cancelled. The airline rebooked us through Austin. At least we got home on the same day, albeit a little later than we’d planned. Other people were more greatly inconvenienced.

Playground entrepreneur

I'm used to seeing ice-cream vendors pushing handcarts through the parks here, but this fellow was quite the rolling convenience store.

Most people were buying corn on the cob, which he pulled steaming from a plastic cooler, skewered, and covered with flavorings. One customer had her corn brushed with mayonnaise and covered in grated cheese. Another asked for what appeared to be chili powder. He also had what looked like chicken soup, which he ladled into foam cups.

There were whole mangoes and shelled chunks coconut on skewers. The man would use the stick to keep a grip on a mango as he sliced it into a plastic bag. Then he sprayed the fruit with what looked like lemon juice and sprinkled it with chili powder.

There were whole cucumbers on the cart too, although I didn't see anyone eating them, and bottles of the colorful syrups used to flavor shaved ice or sodas. Another popular item, in a clear plastic bag, looked like pinkish cartwheel-shaped pork rinds.

This vendor did a steady business, for as long as I watched, while an ice-cream man nearby went unnoticed. Most of the transactions were carried out in Spanish, so I only understood a few simple words, like "queso" and "por favor."

Now I wish I'd asked some questions. It's interesting to feel like a foreigner in your own country.

On the street

It's a weekday afternoon in downtown San Francisco, on and around Market Street. It's been a while since I moved to the suburbs, and I have forgotten what it's like to be part of a racially and culturally diverse city.

I spy a laundromat clothes basket, a wire basket on wheels, like a grocery-store cart, with a rod overhead for hanging clothes. It's parked on the sidewalk, no laundromat nearby, and it's filled with bright red fire extinguishers. No one else seems to notice it; no one appears to claim it.

A middle-aged Asian woman passes me on the sidewalk, neatly dressed in a bright printed T-shirt and baseball cap. She is carrying an empty plastic bag and holding up a large pair of kitchen tongs. This mystery, at least, is partially explained when she pauses and uses the tongs to root through a trash can.

Someone is calling out, at intervals, "BAAH-dy oil!" Body oil? I think it's one of the street vendors set up at tables and tents in the plaza, but then I trace the voice to a man in black T-shirt and jeans, striding down the sidewalk ahead of me. He has no table or suitcase, nothing in his hands.

A group of young people, all in black and denim and metal and leather, cross the street. In the lead is a tall guy with long dreadlocks gathered at the back of his neck, topped by a black three-cornered hat, like a pirate.

My destination is the Market Street Gallery, currently showing "Reinventing Barbie - The 5th Annual Altered Barbie" show. Seventy-five artists are exhibiting photography, quilts, video and 3-D art described as "their reworking of the American toy staple." My original target was the Matisse exhibit at SFMOMA, but who could resist Altered Barbie? Not this girl.

The gallery is closed, with a note on the door, "Back in 30 minutes." Does that mean 5 minutes from now, or 30? I'm approached by a distressingly young woman who just wants 30 cents for a soda. I don't want to linger.

I pass a store selling sporting goods and Army surplus. A sign in the window reads, "Burning Man supplies - goggles - camo/desert netting - parachutes."

A few blocks away, the glitzy shopping malls begin, luring tourists. I pass a man who appears at first to be a maintenance worker, wearing a faded cap, a blue work shirt and jeans. He holds a long copper pipe, taller than himself, loosely under one arm, resting one end on the ground. In one hand, he clutches a used paper plate flat against his stomach. The other hand is outstretched, to no one in particular, to everyone.

Later in the afternoon, I see the lady with the tongs again, on the same block. Now she's lugging two stuffed plastic bags, still brandishing the tongs.

Getting out of town

Palo Alto is a nearly perfect place in which to while away the summer days. But every once in a while you have to get away from the gourmet bistros and the omnipresent Wi-Fi and go in search of something upon which to rest the eyes.

So first we drove to Big Basin State Park, less than an hour away in the Santa Cruz Mountains, to crane our necks at some redwoods.

It brings back great memories of childhood trips out West in our family's little motorhome: campfires and s'mores with bats swooping overhead, mountain snow on the Fourth of July, the first time I really saw moonshadow.



This "cave" is the upturned roots a redwood that fell in 1983, barely missing the park's amphitheater. The hollow portion in the center goes back quite a bit, at least as far as a nine-year-old carrying a six-foot branch was willing to go without a flashlight.



Last weekend we drove down Highway 1 along the shoreline to Big Sur. It was cloudy and foggy for most of the way, but just as we were heading north for our temporary home, the sun broke through to illuminate this edge of the coast.








Julia Pfeifer Burns State Park, Calif.

On the Boardwalk

Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk
Santa Cruz, CA
















I have not yet grown too old for amusement parks.





































No, I didn't try the deep-fried Twinkies. Even in the interest of research. I just couldn't.

What do I miss?

Living life out of a suitcase for seven weeks is an interesting experiment. (OK, four large suitcases and four backpacks, total, for our family of four. Not counting the furnishings of our rented apartment, which are more than adequate.)

Once in a while I recall that there is a houseful of stuff in another state, waiting for our return. Do I miss any of it? What part of it is really necessary?

It would be nice to sleep in my lovely firm king-size bed. Or to do laundry without having to scrounge for quarters.

Sometimes I wish for shoes. Right now I have a pair of sneakers, a pair of flat sandals, and sandals with heels. I’m not wearing the latter much, and sometimes I wish I had another pair with me, just for variety.

But these are passing thoughts, not important.

I think back to our stay on Kawai last month. We were at breakfast one morning at a lavish buffet set on a beautifully landscaped patio, next to a waterfall and a koi pond, with white swans gliding by. One of my sons asked: If you could live here for free, would you do it? I said that although the resort left little to be desired, it would be too far away from our friends and family, all the people we love.

Turns out that’s the only thing I really miss. Sure, e-mails and blogs keep us in touch, convey the facts, even some of the emotions. But when a friend called the other day, it was such an unexpected joy to hear her voice, to share a joke in real time and hear the laughter. And even a cell phone only goes so far.

It’s these connections that reel us back in from our travels, not the house or the car, or the shoes.

Denver was closed

Frozen rest stop, I-70, near Hays, Kansas, 12/22/06

WaKeeney, Kansas is exactly half-way between Kansas City, Missouri and Denver, Colorado. I didn’t know this on the morning of December 20th, when my family's scheduled flight from Baltimore to Denver was cancelled. The biggest snowstorm in three years had shut down the Mile High City, and our holiday plans were up in the air, unlike the planes.

(I was hoping for a good story to explain the unusual name of this little town in the middle of a lot of land. Alas, it is nothing exotic: a contraction of the surnames Warren and Keeney, two land speculators “looking for wealth in the middle of the `Great American Desert,’” according to the town’s Web site. Wouldn’t Warrenkeeney be a bit more graceful?)

B and I were determined to get to Copper Mountain before Christmas: there was a beautiful rental house and a family reunion waiting for us. We quickly booked another flight the following day, which had us changing planes in Kansas City. Within hours, there wasn't a seat to be had on any flight to anywhere in Colorado. Thousands of people spent that night at Denver International Airport.

On Thursday morning, Denver airport was still closed and our flight from Kansas City to Denver was cancelled. It's only a nine-hour drive from Kansas City to Denver, we told ourselves. We packed the portable DVD player for the kids and rented an SUV in Kansas City...

















I-70, near Lecompton, Kansas, 12/21/06

... where there wasn't a flake of snow.

But we didn't quite make it to the hotel room we'd reserved in WaKeeney. We drove for about an hour and half, enjoyed the magnificent sunset... and pulled off the road in Salina, Kansas, obeying the flashing highway signs insisting that the highway ahead was closed by ice and snow. We found a motel and vowed to start early the next morning, hoping for the best.

In the space of half an hour or so, I-70 turned from dry pavement to scattered dustings of snow to hard-packed snow under the tires. Glittering ice coated every vertical surface. Wire fences lining the road looked like tinsel, topping meringue snowdrifts.

It's obvious how Grainfields, Kansas got its name, but Hoxie? Gove? Mingo?

















I-70, near WaKeeney, Colorado, 12/22/06

For all the ice, the driving wasn't bad at this point. Soon we were passing through Denver, and our destination was in sight.

















Village of Copper Mountain, Colorado, 12/25/06


















Christmas morning on Copper Mountain, Colorado


















The little shredders head down Kokomo, Copper Mountain, 12/27/06