We made it to Uncle Frank's, the land of roses.  This guy doesn't just grow a few bushes, he cross breeds, hybridizes, has a greenhouse full of starters, and plants hundreds and hundreds of varieties about his grounds.  Besides being such a fabulous host, Aunt June has a green thumb herself, complementing the rose beds with sprays of bright colored wildflowers.  Cousin Jane and Karen joined us for a dinner which Aunt June insisted was just a “throwing together of things” that consisted of a nut and cheese appetizer tray, then a main course of lasagna, meatballs, ham, salad and her special zucchini chocolate chip brownies topped with ice cream.

I promised to blog about my travels, but this week it looks like I’ll just have to blog about eating!  We roll through New Jersey to reach Uncle Ed’s house, Fred Sr.’s childhood home.   After getting caught up and touring the old stomping grounds they take us to their favorite restaurant, which is not just a restaurant but a respite.  You haven’t experienced service until you go to Northvale, New Jersey and eat at Taste of Spain.  We begin with a platter of starters.  Garlic shrimp, mussels, chorizo.  There is not an expression to describe my Pollo Ajillo.  Melt in your mouth does it no justice.  I savor each bite, unwilling to swallow.  We drink blue sangria, Aunt Lynn’s creation that the proprietor then added to the menu, that’s the kind of place it is.  We saunter home and can’t seem to leave for looking at all of Ed’s gadgets and his many collections: coins, records, scrap metal, guns, spent ammunition shells, comic books, newspapers, floppy disks, even sunbeam convertibles parked in the backyard.  It’s a hands-on museum, something to interest you everywhere you turn.

Time to hit the midnight road to Syracuse.  Rory and Julie provide a true home away from home.  For example, our welcome: wine night in the hot tub, telling stories, relaxing after yet another wonderful meal.  They set us up in our own basement room and embody the phrase “Mi casa es su casa.”  They insist they don't mind that we'll be spending a whole week taking up their space, even encourage us.  We try to make ourselves useful.  I help our cousin Tara with her new novel, that's right, a complete book by our families youngest writer.  We crank out a pitch, a query letter, a synopsis.  Watch out agents, here she comes!  Fred helps Rory with some power washing and we get the bright idea of doing dinner, giving our lovely hosts a night off. 

12 house guests later...You should have seen it, too bad there weren't any cameras, we could so audition for hell's kitchen.  We shave nine eggplants, slice dip and batter the resulting hundreds of slices, then bake eight cookie sheets worth on a rotating basis in a glaring hot oven.  Remember each piece has to be flipped mid-bake.  A few burnt fingertips later, we have turkey meatballs slow cooking in a bit of oil, had already tossed the salad and were debating how to serve the bread.  Then came the layering.  In fear of running short (what do we know about cooking a big family meal?) we make two, industrial sized pans.  Sauce, eggplant, cheese, sauce, eggplant, cheese, sauce, egg...Oh, enough!  It baked up into a yummy eggplant parmesean and we called the family out of the pool to eat, while we jumped in to cool!

On Saturday they take us to camp.  Uncle, oops, Cousin Rick’s lake house.  We recline in beach chairs on the wide expanse of deck, watch the waves.  Rory, a.k.a. MacGyver, power drills a piece of steel, bolts on his new hitch and rigs up a winch to lower the wave runner down the new boat ramp.  It’s a blast skimming the lake and the sun stayed out long enough for everyone to have a turn.  I’ll spare you all the wonders that came off the grill (alright: steak, sausage, salt potatoes) before Rick and Kelly shame the neighbors with the most amazing home display of fireworks top off a great evening of fun with family.

The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Wall is inscribed with more than 58,000 names, but only two dates: a beginning (November 1, 1955) and an end (May 15, 1975).  Visiting the Wall, however, makes you realize that the pain and loss war inflicts has no end.  During our stay in D.C., Fred took the opportunity to visit the Memorial of the war our fathers' struggled in.  He found it powerful, overwhelming and was most struck how it is a living monument. The Wall changes, and grows.  Even today, Vietnam Veterans are dying from war causes.  A piece of shrapnel, deeply embedded shifts and severs a life giving artery.  An amuptee's kidneys, which have struggled for years to service a maimed body finally shut down.       

The wall began with 58,159 names, about 1200 of which were MIAs notated by a cross.  Anytime one of these missing soldiers is confirmed to have died in the war, his cross is overlaid with a diamond that marks all the other names.  The wall also comes alive because it honors such a recent event.  Hundreds of people who were direclty effected by the war visit the monument everyday, not just observers of a commemoration of a historical event, but emotional participants.  Vietnam Veterans volunteer on the grounds, can point out the date of a specific battle they were in by locating the group of soldier's names who died alongside them that day.       

Along with the emotional moments, we managed some wonderful quality time with a collection of friends.  I tracked down my new Wildacres buddy, Jill, we found our childhood friend, Jane, and my sister called her friend, Drew, and we all assembled at a pub for dinner and drinks.  Jill turned out to be the hostess with the mostest, having the crew back to her place for a night cap and the best tortilla chips!

Then Fred and I wished Karla well for the conclusion of her conference and headed to Baltimore.  Now as you know, this summer leg of travelling is all about catching up, remaining connected with friends and family.  Baltimore is a perfect example.  I worked with Nancy at the first job I got in Chicago. We both moved on, and she soon moved East.  We stayed in touch, and I even visited her once in Baltimore, but we figured out that's been 8 or 9 years ago.  When I found myself in D.C., only an hour away from Nancy's, I shot her an email and was greeted with an open invitation, just like that!  Nancy and her husband Dave live in the best neighborhood.  They can walk to everything: the harbor, federal hill, a market selling fresh seafood, fruit and veggies, and a great coffee shop.  You can't walk two blocks without seeing someone they know and let me tell you, Dave can cook!  He masterpieced a huge pile of ribs, corn on the cob, homemade baked beans that'll make your momma jealous, and had a bucket full of cold ones ready when we walked in the door.  This is what good food, good friends is all about! 
  
I sure won't be relying on a tortured writer shtick this the summer.  As if a fancy hotel in D.C. wasn't enough of a writer's luxury (wrote several scenes for my new novel!), I next landed on a free condominium in Connecticut for a long weekend of writing.  We were headed towards Philly, thought we'd stop to see our Aunt and cousins but they had a weekend wedding and some stuff going on so we didn't want to impose.  No problem, we thought, we'll work our way on into New Jersey, catch Uncle Frank and Aunt June, Uncle Ed and Aunt Lynn.  These are Fred Sr.'s brothers and a priority visit for Fred!  They were thrilled to have us, but couldn't do it until the next week, so we found ourselves with an East Coast weekend to kill.  We had friends in the Adirondacks we were hoping to catch, but since Syracuse was our eventual destination, we couldn't make sense of Upstate, NY, back to Jersey, back to Syracuse.  We are loving the meandering road trip, but all that doubling back didn't sound like fun even to us. 

Family to the rescue!  My brother and his wife, Codruta, are visiting their family in Romania.  Hey, Ben.  Would you like a house sitter?  :)  Trusty Greg passed us a key upon arrival and we camped out for days, planning, writing, reading, analyzing, writing...good fun.  Two days in, I kicked Fred out so I could concentrate on generating new material.  Having to really twist his arm, I sent him off to Foxwoods Casino, which I'd discovered on the internet hosts Texas Holdem' Sit and Go Tournaments all day.  Yes, poor Fred.  He enters, he plays, he wins!  Hours of entertainment, $200 in winnings, plus a free food voucher...Fred heaven.  Meanwhile, I wrote over 5,000 words, a new single day record!  We left CT two, satisfied UnTourists!

We hit I-77, figuring we’ll stop off in Roanoke to see our cousin Peanut before continuing North, but find out his wife is scheduled for surgery…not the best time for houseguests.     

“No problem,” I say as I open the handy atlas I’ve made sure to stock the car with. (Dad has taught me well!)  “Something else will work out.”  The UnTourist philosophy is given its first test.   

And it passes.  The phone rings.  My sister Karla is simultaneously driving to an airport.  Why?  To go to Washington D.C. for a work conference which puts her up in her own 4 star hotel room for the next couple of days.  It has a coffee pot (a.k.a. hot water), a mini-fridge and a pool.  That’s all I need to survive!    

“We could come to D.C.,” I’m exploring the idea in my own head.  Why not?   

“You should come, it’d be so fun!”   

“You don’t mind?”   

We divert course to get over to I-85, and we’re off.  Across through Greensboro, around Durham and up towards Richmond, at which point we’re faced with I-95.  Thanks to my Wild Acres East Coast friends (Jill and Gary) I’ve been forewarned, but think surely they exaggerate.  It’s crowded, yes, and it’s busy, yes, but we’re moving along, until, we’re not.  We are 90 miles from D.C. and crawling, not too mention getting bored.  It’s amazing how easy it is to get programmed into “get there” mode.  Today is the first real day of our big adventure.  We have no where to be at any particular time, but as soon as we hung up with Karla, we started calculating miles and estimating times.  We are toiling on the interstate with no view and exhaust fumes.    

“Let’s get off!”  It’s silly how liberating the thought is.  We feel like kids ditching math class as we peel off 95 to take Route 1.  It’s actually called 1.  Oh, I could go on with the symbolism.  The first road, the #1 road, the road meant for us to find on day one of our car journey.  We see diners, we see Quantico, we see military housing developments, we see a store where I run in to buy my sister the raffle tickets she needs for her conference but forgot at home, we see a little grocery store and buy some wine for our D.C. arrival.    

And we see strip malls.  America, in all it’s glory, can be ugly.  Boasting large, old growth trees that form a dense canopy, the few untouched sections of forest are a tease of the beauty that could be.  But mostly the hardwoods have been cleared, pavement poured, room made for mini-marts, gas stations, and fast food restaurants.  Driving at a leisurely pace, actually paying attention, the repetition is shocking.  Didn’t I just see a Subway?  How many Exxon’s do you need in a three mile stretch?  As if duplication is not enough, there also seems to be a gaudy contest.  Sit one time, at dusk, and just observe from afar a gas station.  The entire shop building is ringed with paneled lighting, the interior fluorescents glare through the generous windows, each pump has its own wrap-around bulbs.  The whole thing creates a great halo of light. Squint your eyes.  It’ll look more like a spaceship preparing for take off.

Among masses of chains, there are only a handful of Mom and Pop looking places.  There is no variety in the land of the free and this is, is in not, an oxymoron?  Still, I'm happy with our choice.  Route 1, after all, provided a steady flow, lots more to look at than interstate berm, and delivered us straight to the big, shiny hotel!

First stop, Little Switzerland. North Carolina, that is...but sounded exotic, didn't it? I am participating in a two week writer's retreat and workshop atop a mountain in the North Eastern part of the state. After taking a spectacular, weaved highway, you travel a mile or so on a climbing, twisting gravel path called Wild Acres Road. GM's new rally campaign could have used footage of me driving this route in the convertible and July sun. When you reach the top, you are greeted by a lovely, and not even too rustic collection of dorms, library, lodge, outdoor theater, indoor auditorium, canteen and dining hall that make up Wild Acres Retreat.

I usually say that San Diego is where God lives, assuming that's the town he'd choose for its consistent and prefect weather. I might have underestimated God, perhaps he'd prefer this mountain top. The mornings are moderate, warm enough for shorts but cool enough to take a jog. The sunny afternoons are breezy and the high moon lights the sweatshirt-cool evenings. Songs lift off guitar strums, float, and mingle with the rustle of leaves on thousands of massive trees.

The purpose here is to write. Connect with other writers, learn, relax, get feedback, generate ideas...and write. I've been doing all those things, but decided to throw in another objective. Some time ago, before his death in an ultralite plane accident, my friend Brian Kwan handed me a guitar after my expression of a wish to learn the instrument. I bought a book, learned proper posture, and never did even get the missing string! When evaluating what to take and what to ditch, I couldn't bear to abandon my guitar dream before I'd really given it a try. My idea was simple. I can't tell you how many times I've sat around a campfire (or similar gathering minus the fire) and someone plays song after song...impressive. But when I comment on their playing, the response is "Oh I only know a handful of chords." Well, I want a few chords and a whole evening's worth of songs...one chord at a time! I came to the right place. First night I met Freddie, Wild Acres Band Leader. This guy plays guitar and mandolin, has more songs memorized that I knew existed and writes at least one new song EVERY DAY. After shutting up the doubtful voice in my head I blurted out, "I brought a guitar and want to learn." Little did I know I was also speaking to a most enthusiast and patient teacher. It is now 8 chords and one whole song later. That's right, I'm a little slow on the chord changes, but I can play Buddy Holly's "It Doesn't Matter Anymore!"

Now, an update on the crate system. I've haven't come across a situation yet the crates haven't been able to handle, though I must admit to a heavy reliance on the miscellaneous box. I've been washing my workout clothes in the sink (more mountain retreat-like than heading into town to the laundry mat) and retrieved my jump rope to use as a clothesline. When I rounded up and convinced a group of folks to learn/play some Texas Holdem' last night, I retrieved the card deck. We debated what to use for chips until I remember our Stratego game (Fred swears it's fun and he'll teach me this summer.) Turns out that 40 plastic soldiers make fine poker chips! Probably the best choice was a single Cutco knife. It's become my scissor, bottle opener, nail clipper, and I'm sure I'll find more uses for that finely cut three sided patented blade design. Well, other than missing my sidekick, it's been a perfect start to Untoursim: lazy paced, swimming, writing, hiking, singing, and making friends.