travel – Page 9 – Life In A Word

Cream of the (Dessert) Crop

A week ago last Tuesday, Salt Lake City hosted its first ever drone show of “fireworks”, replacing the traditional explosives residents have come to expect over the downtown park. The drones create colorful shapes and animations in the sky – even giant words – as well as a pretty good impression of the blooms and starbursts of fireworks. But let’s be honest: drones don’t replace fireworks. The same can be said for the frozen treats aiming to be more popular than, say, a simple serving of ice cream.

On the heels of Independence Day, America has another celebration coming up. National Ice Cream Day is the third Sunday of July in our country (and July itself National Ice Cream Month!) The “holiday” was signed into public law in the mid-1980s when Congress apparently had nothing better to do. So how do you and I “celebrate” ice cream? No clue, other than a Google search to figure out where to get a free scoop. And if you think ice cream is a poor excuse for a holiday, consider, the first Saturday in February is Ice Cream for Breakfast Day… which pretty much confirms every day of the year is some sort of “Day”.

A stroll past the freezers of ice cream in any grocery store boasts an impressive variety of spins, including cones, sandwiches, pies, and bites. Ice cream is split by bananas, cherry-topped into sundaes, blended into shakes, cloaked as “gelato”, and even fried into crispy-covered bites. I ask you, who buys all this stuff? Sure, as a kid I had a thing for Eskimo Pies (because my mom bought them) and later on I ate my share of Dove Bars (because my dad loved them). But feet to the fire, I’d rather spend my pennies on the best version of plain ol’ ice cream. I have my favorite brand (and you have yours) and time and again it ends up in my grocery cart instead of any of those other treats.

For a few years there I got caught up in the Cold Stone Creamery concept, where your serving of ice cream is placed on a marble slab and combined with “mix-in’s”. It was (still is) a trendy take on ice cream. But after just a few visits I realized the draw was the mix-in’s more than the ice cream. Safe to say Cold Stone doesn’t use a brand of ice cream anyone would consider “gourmet”. They know what brings people through the doors: marble slabs and mix-in’s. Cold Stone’s rival is even named Marble Slab.

For anyone growing up on the West Coast in the 1970s, the one-on-every-corner ice cream parlor was Baskin-Robbins. Their ever-changing selection of thirty-one flavors guaranteed slow perusing, even if the final choice was vanilla or rocky road nine times out of ten (okay, I’ll grant you peanut-butter-and-chocolate too). Today, Baskin-Robbins is still going strong, but I think most people prefer the flavors of whatever local parlor is closest to their house. And let it be said for the millionth time: Vanilla is and will always be the king of ice cream flavors. Simple, delicious, and versatile.

As for the commercial brands in grocery store freezers, Dreyer’s “Grand Ice Cream” is trying very hard to make its offerings your favorite. They smartly purchased www.icecream.com and dressed up the website as a tribute to ice cream, but let’s be real: they’re just pushing their own products here. My favorite brand is still Haagen-Dazs but get this: Haagen-Dazs is now a subsidiary of Dreyer’s. Whoa. Give it a few more years and Dreyer’s may turn into the Amazon of ice cream.

If you like to spend big on ice cream like I do (Haagen-Dazs is not inexpensive!) you might consider Cellato, a brand from Japan. Cellato makes particularly fragrant gelatos, mixing in white and black truffles from Italy, champagne, and caviar. Their “white night” flavor is topped with an edible gold leaf, two exquisite cheeses, and a sake-like paste. The price of a single serving? $6,380 USD, making it the most expensive ice cream in the world. Might as well make the airplane seat to Japan first-class for a dessert like that.

In closing, a very happy National Ice Cream Day to you! However you choose to celebrate this Sunday, you don’t need Cellato. You don’t need Coldstone Creamery either. For me, the entire ice cream aisle at the grocery store might as well be reduced to the Haagen-Dazs flavors. Those, and the choices at my local ice cream parlor satisfy my craving. In other words, forget about the drones. Traditional fireworks will always be better.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Don’t drop it: World’s most expensive ice cream costs $6,400”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Once in a Red Moon

I try to keep my blog topics timely, inspired by the come-hither headlines of my news feed, shouting, Click me! or No, click ME! But it’s not often – once in a blue moon, in fact – where I talk about what happened last week and what happens next week inside of the same topic. The calendar positions us perfectly today to do just that. So let’s talk rubies.

My first introduction to the four “precious gems” was probably when I started going to the movies. Diamonds Are Forever was as much about the title jewels as it was about James Bond. Romancing the Stone – the first movie my wife and I ever saw together – was a swashbuckling pursuit of a giant emerald in South America. The “Heart of the Ocean” pendant from Titanic was the biggest sapphire I’d ever seen (until someone reminded me it was actually a blue diamond). And rubies, of course, became something magical through Dorothy’s red slippers in The Wizard of Oz.

Last week, the largest ruby ever mined – 55.22 carats – came to the auction block at Sotheby’s. For a cool $35 million it could’ve been yours. Named the Estrela de Fura – Portuguese for the Mozambique mine where it was discovered – the “Star of Fura” was twice as big in its native form a year ago, then cut down and polished to the glistening red rock you see here.

Rubies aren’t made to be broken but world records are, and this one was shattered. The previous largest ruby, known as The Sunrise, was “only” half as big (25.59 carats). To me, The Sunrise looks about as big as a red M&M. The Estrela de Fura looks like a strawberry. The most expensive strawberry in the world, that is.

If rubies are your thing, keep an eye on Mozambique. Ruby mining is relatively new to this country in the south of Africa, with the first significant discovery of the gems made in 2009. Less than fifteen years later we have the record-setting Estrela de Fura. Surely an even bigger ruby can’t be far behind.

Moving on. This week begins the month of July (and the second half of 2023) which means we have several reasons to see red. America’s Independence Day includes a lot of red, whether the flag or the fireworks. Sunbathers will see the color on their skin more often than they’d care to. Strawberries are ripe and in abundance. The month’s zodiac sign is cancer (the crab) and crabs are often red. And July’s birthstone is, of course, the ruby.

Now’s a good time for some ruby trivia, the fun facts you most likely don’t already know. The first one is my favorite for your next social gathering:

Rubies are actually sapphires by definition (all mined from the same crystalline form of aluminum oxide known as “corundum”). In other words, rubies are simply rarer, red-colored sapphires.
Don’t touch!
Rubies have symbolized power and protection throughout human history, as with decorated warriors in battle (or slippered Dorothy in the Land of Oz).
“The Hope”
You’ve heard of the (blue) Hope Diamond but how about the (red) Hope Ruby? The Hope is 32 carats, cradled in a ring and highlighted with just a few diamonds. Same name, yes, but different gem, color, and setting.
The most desirable (read: costly) rubies have a hint of blue in them, which contributes to the rich deep color known as “pigeon’s blood” red.
A 10-carat ruby is typically more expensive than a comparably sized diamond. Why? Supply (and demand). You just don’t find as many large rubies as you do diamonds.

So there you have it: everything you need to know about rubies just in time for the month we celebrate them. I’d be remiss (translation: “in trouble”) if I didn’t mention my wife’s birthday, which is next week as well. Yes, her birthstone is the ruby, and “darn it all” I had the perfect gift idea if I’d only known about last week’s Estrela de Fura auction sooner. These opportunities come along but once in a red moon. Sorry honey, I need to be a little more on the ball. Guess I’ll hang onto our $35M for next year’s birthday present.

Some content sourced from the CNN.com article, “Largest ruby ever to come to auction sells…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Rolling in the Isles

With the world “opening up” again, my wife and I often talk about places we’d like to visit. Some of them are more accessible now that we live near the East Coast. One in particular is further away. But coincidence or not, the five locales tempting the travel bug in me have one thing in common. Every one of them is an island.

Let’s get my first choice out of the conversation straight away, because it kind of stretches the definition of “destination” and “island”. I want to go see a round of The Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia. If you’re not into golf you won’t understand the fuss, but trust me, when you’ve watched this competition on television every April since you were a kid, the place becomes a shrine of sorts. The Masters never played into our decision to move to South Carolina, but the course is suddenly only forty-five minutes from my new front door. So why is it an “island”? Have you been to Augusta? The Masters is like finding a bright green emerald in a bowl of gravel. Let’s just say it would be complimentary to describe the rest of Augusta as “plain vanilla”.

Now for the real islands. The first two fall on a lot of must-see lists: Hawaii and Ireland. Hawaii is no less appealing even though South Carolina makes it three hours further than from where I used to live. I’ve only seen “The Islands” on my honeymoon and on family trips (decades ago) so I know this time around would be decidedly more adventurous. Not that I want to bungee-jump into a volcano or anything; rather just take a closer look at all Hawaii has to offer.

As for Ireland, it feels a lot closer when you live up against the East Coast. If I had x-ray vision I might see the Blarney Stone from these parts. My wife and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary with our first trip to the Emerald Isle, where we saw a lot of Dublin and only a wee bit of everything else. We tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain to be sure we’d go back, and… oh wait, right… that’s Rome. Anyway, something we did in Ireland back then – whatever it was – instilled the yearning to go back someday. And we will.

Island #4 – Mackinac – sits neatly between the two peninsulas of the state of Michigan. The “Crown Jewel of the Great Lakes” has been on my must-see list ever since I watched Somewhere in Time in college in the 1980s. Yeah the movie’s a little corny, but it’s utterly romantic and it stars Jane Seymour, so cut me some slack. More importantly, Somewhere in Time shows off Mackinac’s Grand Hotel in all of its past/present glory. No, I can’t afford the stay at the Grand (rooms start at $500/night) but I’ll settle for one of the B&B’s on the island and spend my money on other stuff instead. Like a horse-drawn carriage tour with my wife (Mackinac has no cars). Or a round of golf on the only course in the country where the trek between the front nine and the back is, again, by horse-drawn carriage. Or a brick of Mackinac’s famous fudge. Whatever the draw, I’ll endure two connecting flights, a couple hours of driving, and a quick ferry ride, just to experience Mackinac’s throwback delights.

I’ve saved the best for last (well, at least, I think it’s the best). If I ever make it to France, I’m heading straight to Mont-Saint-Michel. “St. Michael’s Mountain”, which I’ve blogged about here, first captured my imagination when professional sandcastle builders (yes, there are such people) built a replica on the beach where I grew up, and again when I studied architecture in college.

The whole island setup is just so remarkable: nothing but a walled village of shops, restaurants, and other structures, connected by cobblestone streets ascending up, up, up to the Romanesque church and abbey at the pinnacle. Only 29 residents at last count. The surrounding tides ebb and flow, so at times Mont-Saint Michel is an island and at other times not so much. And about that abbey on top. The first cornerstone was laid in 1023, making Le Mont 1,000 years old this year. All that time and I’ve never ever seen it? Mon dieu.

If I make it to my five “islands”, I might have to add just one more. Ireland is paying people almost $100k for the “gift” of an island off the western coast of the country. There are twenty such islands. The catch: you have to refurbish whatever structures you find and you have to live there. Shelter yes, but food, water, power, and fellow humans are maybe’s. Yeah, I won’t be rolling with any of those isles. Let’s just start with that golf course down the street from me, shall we?

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Ireland will pay you $90,000 to move to a beautiful island home”

Boundaries

My wife and I took a “triangle trip” last week to see her family and then our son, flying from Augusta (GA) to Denver to Dallas, before returning to Augusta again. There’s nothing round-trip about an itinerary like that; just three one-way flights in a row. Like any other frolic in the friendly skies however, the journey served up easy fodder for a blog post. Hectic airports? Uncomfortable turbulence? Delayed flights? Yes, yes, and yes. But for today’s post, step up to the podium my fellow passengers, for it is you who have earned my writing wrath.

We’re in familiar territory here. I’ve written about my flying annoyances in Sitting in the Catbird Seat and First Class is now un-American (among others). But those musings focused on airplane seats and airplane sections. Today is about airplane occupants. Some of them are making the national headlines for their ridiculous antics. The others all seem to have ended up on my flights. Allow me to introduce my new “friends”.

On the flight from Augusta to Denver, a family of three filed into the row directly in front of us; wife on the aisle, young child in the middle, husband on the window. As they settled into their seats, the kiddo started rapid-firing questions: Dad, when are we going to take off? Mom, where do I put my jacket? Dad, I can’t get my seat belt on! Do we get snacks? Dad? Hey, DAD!!!

Kids are loud. I remember my first flight too, and the drive-you-crazy curiosity of a six year old. But I certainly didn’t expect the parents to answer in baby talk. Oh Stevie, the biggy wiggy pilot way up in the fwont of the plane decides when we get to fly up, up, up in the sky! Maybe if you’re a weely weely good boy he’ll give you a wittle pair of wings to put on your backpack!

Or how about… Now Stevie, yelling at Mr. Seat Belt isn’t very nice. Look, there’s a wittle buckle and a wittle other end! Let’s make it a game! See if you can snap those bad boys together!

This is why I never leave home without noise-cancelling headphones.

On the flight from Denver to Dallas, we had our choice of “uncomfortable”. First, we trudged to the back of the plane, in front of and back of a large group of men who a) chose to be loud and laughy, and b) chose to speak across the aisle/rows in Spanish (even though the smattering of English made it clear they were fluent in both). At first I thought my nearby amigos were just being a little obnoxious. But the longer they kept it up, the more I thought I probably ought to know what they’re saying just in case…

This is why I never leave home without Google Translate.

Also on Denver to Dallas, a small child several rows forward spent the whole flight wailing I want Mommy! I want Mommy! I want Mommy! We were too far behind to see or hear what her traveling companion was doing (if anything) to make her feel better, but eventually some kind of alarm went off in my head. What if this child was being abducted? After all we were heading to Dallas, which could be considered a gateway to the world for that sort of thing. I alerted the flight attendant, who assured me everything was okay. And it was. Turns out the child belonged to one very overwhelmed father, solo-parenting (or not) a total of three kids.

This is why I never leave home without my wife.

I haven’t even mentioned the usual annoyance. Since my wife prefers the window seat I graciously accept the middle. So why is it my neighbor in the aisle seat always takes the armrest? Doesn’t he or she realize I’m squeezed between two bodies? Over the last two decades the average airline seat width has shrunk from 18.5″ to 17″. If the passenger on either side of the middle takes the armrests that means I’m reduced to 15″, while each of them gets 18″.

This is why I never leave home without my elbows.

If you ever fly with me, I’m the guy with his head down reading his Kindle. I’ll be polite and, for the most part, leave you alone. But don’t be fooled. I’ll only have one eye on my e-reader. The other – and both ears – will be tuned into whatever you’re up to in your seat. Please respect your boundaries.

The Cheese Stands Alone

Back in his days of stand-up comedy, Bill Cosby did a great routine on golf. He talked about the frustration of watching the game on TV, trying to locate a little white dot as it flies through a screen of blue sky. I can still hear his puzzled description of playing the game, where he’d say, “You had the ball right there in your hand, but then you went and hit it away! Now you have to go get it!” It’s the sort of “play on play” I thought of when I heard about cheese rolling.

Humans thrive on competitions and we’ve come up with some weird ones over the years. Wife-carrying. Fruitcake tosses. Pole vault. Or just about anything from the Scottish Highland Games (caber toss, anyone?) But the Cooper’s Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake may be the weirdest one of them all. Seriously, who willingly signs up to sprint down a seriously steep hill, in hot pursuit of a rolling, bouncing wheel of cheese, where the grand prize is… the cheese itself?

Here’s a video of one of this year’s races at Cooper’s Hill (near Gloucester in England). I dare your jaw not to drop as you watch these contestants spill into view at the top of the hill. Notice the leaders have already left their feet and are literally falling down the mountain. It reminds me of the ad where the tire goes over the cliff, starts rolling down a steep incline, and then bounces high off the rocks and terrain as it gathers speed before disappearing below.

🧀 Canadian 🇨🇦 Delaney Irving won’t remember much of winning the Woman’s race at #cheeserolling.

After being knocked out on her way down, she was unconscious for a period of time but told us it was all worth it.

⚠️ WARNING: Contains graphic images pic.twitter.com/yxwk0YaGUE
— Greatest Hits Radio Gloucester (@GHRGloucester) May 29, 2023

The cheese really does stand alone at Cooper’s Hill because it’s never actually caught. A rolling wheel of Double Gloucester is simply too fast. Instead, the winner is the runner (“faller?”) who makes it to the bottom first. Just about every participant sustains injuries. In last week’s running, with the usual nod to the hospital emergency room, the winner of one of the women’s races knocked herself unconscious just as she crossed the finish line. Revived in a nearby recovery tent, only then did she realize she’d won.

Organizers expect “damage to participants” at Cooper’s Hill. A first-aid service is at the ready, as are several ambulances. A local rugby club volunteers to be “catchers”, positioned on the hill to rescue anyone who finds themself out of control. In a quote from the Sydney Morning Herald (yes, this event gets global attention), a participant described the race as “twenty young men chasing a cheese off a cliff and tumbling 200 yards to the bottom, where they are scraped up by paramedics and packed off to hospital.” Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it?

Here’s my favorite quote about cheese-rolling. Matt Crolla, who won one of this year’s men’s races, was asked how he trains for the event. He admitted, “I don’t think you can train for it, can you? It’s just being an idiot”. That about sums it up in my book.

I tried to think of similar sports to cheese-rolling and drew a total blank. Golf, shot put, and javelin all start by sending an object on its way (like a rolling cheese) but in none of them do you race after it. Then I thought about hoop rolling. Remember that game? No, you don’t – you’re too young! Nobody rolls hoops anymore! But there was a time when kids did just that, using a short stick to propel a wooden hoop along the sidewalk, trying to keep it upright as long as possible. Sounds about as boring as cheese-rolling is dangerous.

In the timeless nursery rhyme The Farmer in the Dell, one of early lyrics includes “the child takes a nurse”. Several lines after that, “the cheese stands alone”. Maybe the song was a nod to cheese-rolling. After all, most participants are going to need a nurse whether or not they win this crazy race. Maybe even a wake.

Some content sourced from the CBS News article, “Women wins chaotic UK cheese race…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Seaweed Sarge

With the U.S. Memorial Day holiday in the rear view mirror, the 2023 summer season is officially upon us. According to surveys from American Express Travel, sun-and-fun seekers prefer New York City, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles this year. Las Vegas raises an eyebrow (after all, summer in Sin City is broiler-setting hot) but notice something else: Florida didn’t make the top three. Maybe – no, probably – it’s because Seaweed Sarge is already wreaking havoc on the Sunshine State’s beaches.

If you don’t know Seaweed Sarge, it’s because 1) you deliberately avoid the news these days – an increasingly popular trend – or 2) like me, you need a more creative label for sargassum, because it’s a weird name for the seaweed intent on taking over the world. Sarge is a little intimidating, if only for his size. Picture him as a belt of algae 5,000 miles long (I can’t picture anything 5,000 miles long, can you?) Now consider: Sarge will double in size by July, the peak of his “bloom season”.

Sargassum is a particularly annoying form of seaweed. It’s rootless, which means it can reproduce while simply floating around on the ocean’s surface. Its rapid growth is bolstered by nutrients leached into rivers and oceans from land-based agriculture. Once it makes shore sargassum rots immediately, releasing irritating hydrogen sulfide and the stench of rotten eggs. And trying to remove countless tons of seaweed begs the question: where the heck do you put it all?

Florida’s gonna have to figure out the answer to that last question, and fast. Sarge is already littering beaches from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West and we’re just getting started. Come July and August it’ll be virtually impossible to walk along the shoreline.

My own visits to the beach have been blissfully Sarge-free. Most of my sun-and-fun takes place in San Diego, far from Sarge’s primary Atlantic Ocean residence. The only real nuisances on San Diego beaches are the occasional jellyfish or stingray, and a once-in-a-blue-moon shark sighting (which stirs up more anxiety than actual sightings). Admittedly, Sarge washes ashore in San Diego as well, but mostly just here and there as a remnant of off-shore harvesting. Seaweed does have its upsides, in foods, medicines, and fertilizers.

Ironically, I have fond memories of Sarge as a kid. He’s built with giant flappy leaves reminiscent of a mermaid’s fishtail. He’s got countless air sacs to keep him afloat, which make a popping sound as satisfying as squeezing bubble wrap. If I’d thought to take pictures back in the day, I could show you Sarge as an adornment to many a childhood sand castle.

An army of beach tractors could work all summer in South Florida and barely make a dent in Sarge. The seasonal maintenance of the single half-mile beach in Key West alone is in the millions of dollars. But a better solution may be in play. A prototype robot has been designed to do battle at sea. “AlgaRay” cruises slowly through the water, hooking tons of Sarge’s strands in a single pass. Once at capacity, AlgaRay drags Sarge underwater to a depth where all of those air sacs explode. No longer buoyant, Sarge sinks to the ocean floor; a “watery grave” if you will. AlgaRay has been likened to a weed-eating Pac-Man or a vacuuming Roomba. Either image works for me.

Let’s have one more look at those tourist surveys. One in ten say they’d cancel or reschedule a trip to Florida if they knew Sarge was coming ashore. Maybe that explains why landlocked Las Vegas ranked #2 on this summer’s most popular U.S. destinations. Not that Vegas doesn’t have its own threats. Three years ago a swarm of locusts descended on the Strip, blotting out casino windows and streetlights. An annual migration of tarantulas passes by in the surrounding desert. So take your pick: hordes of flying/crawling bugs or a giant mass of inanimate algae. Maybe Sarge isn’t so bad after all.

Some content sourced from the NPR.org article, “Giant blobs of seaweed are hitting Florida…”

State Flyovers

The heavy-duty bracket I purchased to display our American flag sits patiently on the garage shelf. The flagpole and flag stay wrapped in the plastic they came in. I hesitate with this little DIY project because I’m mounting the bracket onto a rounded wood column on the front porch. If the column isn’t solid throughout, it may not support the Stars and Stripes. Or the Palmetto State flag, for that matter.

If you’re not familiar with the South Carolina state flag, you are now. Not very exciting, eh? A white palmetto tree in the middle and a white crescent to the upper left, on a rectangle of deep blue. Okay, but what about why the flag has this look? That’s a little more interesting. All of it is a nod to the Revolutionary War. The crescent could be found on an American soldier’s cap, palmetto logs were used to build the forts they fought from, and the deep blue was the color of their uniforms. My assumption was simply, “Oh, our state has a lot of palm trees and a lot of clear moonlit nights.”

The same could be said for the state of our former residence. Colorado’s flag is likewise simple, with a big red “C” for Colorado surrounding what I assumed was a yellow nod to the state’s bountiful days of sunshine (300+/year). Nope, I only got the sunshine part right. The “C” represents “columbine” (state flower) and “centennial” (Colorado became a state in the hundredth year of America’s independence). The red represents the state’s distinctive sandstone soil, the white its ever-present snow, and the blue its endless skies (which really are an amazing blue). More than meets the eye with this “state flyover”, am I right?

Not content with just SC and CO, I decided to give a few other state flags a whirl… literally. I flicked my mouse wheel the way someone might spin the bottle, for an unsuspecting ~~kiss~~ choice from the list. Up came ME. There’s a lot going on with Maine’s state flag, including a couple of proud characters and a moose that looks rather cartoonish. “Dirigo”, from a long-ago-but-now-defunct language of the region, means simply, “I lead”.

Here’s a further sampling of U.S. state flag trivia:

Arkansas was the first of the fifty states to produce diamonds.
Hawaii was once under British control, so their flag includes a small version of the “Union Jack”.
Montana’s motto is “gold and silver”.
Ohio’s flag is not rectangular and includes a “swallowtail” notch (which can’t be said for any of the others).
Oregon’s flag has a different design on each side.
Utah’s flag changes in 2024, to better represent the makeup of the state’s residents.

If you live in an American state, you should play this game yourself. Scroll to the image of your flag in the article: The state flag for all 50 states… but before you read the written description, make your best guess on the colors and symbols. It’s fair to say most Americans don’t really know our state flags.

South Carolinians love to fly flags. You’ll see the colors of colleges and universities from all over down here (including the red/black of those nearby football champion Georgia Bulldogs). You’ll see a lot of those “garden flags” designed to represent the year’s seasons and holidays. But mostly you see the Stars and Stripes, and the Palmetto and Crescent. South Carolina’s forever nod to the Revolutionary War means I’ll never look at our flag the same way again. Now I just have to get the bracket where it belongs so I can hoist the banner same as every other resident.

Some content sourced from the USA Today article, “The state flag for all 50 states…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Hail, Caesium!

I acquired a taste for Caesar salad later in life. After decades of boring lettuce/tomato and franchise salad bars, I learned to branch out a little. Caesar, with its romaine, croutons, Parmesan, and distinctive dressing, has become my go-to at restaurants. But I always double-check my “hold the anchovies, please” because even a thimbleful would put a damper on things. Kind of like caesium-137.

You probably don’t know much about caesium. Pronounce it just like the salad (or like “seize” in Seize the day!). Caesium-137 is a nasty little byproduct of nuclear fission, deadly enough to turn your life into a… uh, half-life with just a brief introduction. So here’s the story of the little caesium capsule – a.k.a. Little Caesar – that could get away, and did.

It’s a simple enough task, really. Transport an item from Point A to Point B, like the new washing machine we just had delivered from Home Depot. But let’s make the job a little more challenging, shall we? The distance you have to travel shall be almost 900 miles. The journey itself shall be on the oft-barren Great Northern Highway of Western Australia, which isn’t always the smoothest of rides. Finally, transport a potentially lethal substance… without dropping it.

You’d think radioactive caesium-137 – no matter how small an amount – would be literally welded into the delivery truck it rides in. Instead, the pill-sized capsule – already parked inside the density gauge equipment it was a part of, was placed in a “package”, then attached to the truck with four mounting bolts.

Now then, imagine you’ve just completed the long and boring four-day drive to the nuclear waste treatment facility in Perth. You hop off the truck, walk around to the back, open the doors, and discover not only a broken gauge and a missing mounting bolt, but no caesium-137 capsule. In fact, the delivery truck wasn’t even inspected until nine days after arrival.

This scenario raises a half-life of questions for me. First, just how bumpy was that Great Northern Highway? Second, even if the gauge broke open and the capsule got loose, how the heck did it escape, not only out of the package but out of the entire truck? Finally, we’re talking about lethal goods here. Wouldn’t some sort of alarm go off if Little Caesar skipped town? I’m guessing someone is answering these kinds of questions as we speak, and his/her seat is a little warm.

imagine being a member of the ad hoc search-and-rescue crew. Not only are you looking for something that can kill you just by being in close proximity, it’s the proverbial needle in the haystack, only the needle is the size of a paper clip and the haystack is a highway longer than the coast of California. No matter, you’re handed a radiation detection device, the keys to a truck with flashing hazard lights, and off you go. Oh, and by the way, you can’t go faster than 30 mph or your detector can’t do its job.

This isn’t the first unintended release of Little Caesar. He escaped in much larger quantities from the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in 1986 and from Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi plant in 2011. You can read about nine other incidents involving “LC” here, including one in Seattle four years ago and one in Thailand in March.

At the time I saved this story in January, Little Caesar was still at large. Worst-case scenarios were running rampant. What if LC bounced to freedom on a populated area of the highway? What if a hiker happened upon the capsule and threw it into his or her backpack before returning home? Or, God forbid, what if a bird snatched the capsule in its beak and transported it to its nest in the middle of downtown Perth?

Three months later (this week), I caught up with this story. The run-of-the-mill conclusion is that Little Caesar was found just six days after his escape, off the highway in a remote area not far from the truck’s point of departure. The radiation detection equipment sounded the alarm and led the search team right to our little friend.

As for what happened once LC was found? A 20-meter “hot zone” was set up around him to fend off the inevitable lookie-loos. He was given a thick casing of lead in case he was feeling “radiant”. Finally, Little Caesar was scheduled to be transported to the county health facility for further examination. Yes, I said “transported”. No word on whether or not he made it to his final destination.

Some content sourced from the ABC News article “Missing radioactive capsule found in WA outback after frantic search”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Phantom Farewell

Tonight, hours after this post goes public, my wife and I will attend a local stage production called Lovesong. It’s our first foray into the offerings of our community theater so we’re really looking forward to it. Lovesong has a run of five evening performances and one Sunday matinee while it’s in town. A check of the theater website indicates about 20% of Thursday’s seats have been sold. By my calculation, that’s about 80% less than any Broadway performance of Phantom of the Opera.

Maybe you heard. After 35 years and 14,000 performances, last Sunday the curtain dropped for good on Phantom of the Opera. Its creator, Andrew Lloyd Weber, was on hand at New York City’s Majestic Theater to offer the cast and crew a personal farewell. He claimed their final performance as the best he’d ever seen. You’ll forgive Andrew for being a little sentimental after all these years.

Theater District, Midtown Manhattan, NYC

Whether the stage production, the 2004 movie, the glorious soundtrack, or even the books on which it was based, you’re familiar with Phantom. It’s a captivating story; part haunting and part romantic, with a lead character who has you wondering, “Is he real or imagined?”. Reading Phantom’s synopsis (which you can do here), I realize I overlooked some details of the story the one and only time I saw the show. No matter. The sets and the songs will stay with me for life.

Phantom took my admiration of stage performances to an entirely new level. The one time my wife and I saw the show, in San Francisco in 1997, it literally took our breaths away. The only shows we’d seen prior were the “off-off-off Broadway” offerings; the kind where they recruit locals just to fill out the cast. Phantom left us yearning for more of the best, including seeing something on Broadway (which we did years later with Les Miserables, deserving of its own blog post).

Phantom was also a technical marvel. What other show boasted a giant chandelier swinging out over the audience and threatening to fall? Or a staircase giving the optical illusion of descending several levels as the Phantom dragged Christine downward? Or the subterranean lake the Phantom rowed across, where you swore you were looking at a giant body of water right there on the stage?

Every Broadway production seems to have three or four unforgettable songs. Phantom was no exception. The show kicks off with an orchestral version of “Phantom of the Opera”, turns sweet with Christine’s solo “Think of Me”, and overwhelms with the duet All I Ask of You and especially The Music of the Night. The latter includes one of the most powerful notes I’ve ever heard, when the Phantom sings, “Close your eyes… and let music set you… FREE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E…!”

Deservedly, Phantom won the “Laurence Olivier Award” for Best New Musical in 1986, the Tony Award for Best Musical in 1988, and pretty much everything else it was nominated for. Besides the London and Broadway productions, Phantom enjoyed nine worldwide tours and one revival. Over its 35 years, Phantom employed 6,500 people and played to over twenty million theater-goers. Phantom even had a short-lived sequel, Love Never Dies, debuting in London but never making it to Broadway.

Sadly, Phantom’s closing can be considered a casualty of the pandemic. The show was suspended from March 2020 to October 2021 (when all Broadway productions ceased). After reopening, attendance was sporadic because patrons were still hesitant. Meanwhile, Phantom’s production costs continued at a staggering $1M/week, which eventually became unsustainable.

Phantom was originally slated to close in February but once theatergoers found out, the show experienced a brief resurgence and lasted another two months. I don’t expect Lovesong to extend its little run at our community theater. Thanks to Phantom of the Opera however, I’m simply excited for the potential of a wondrous stage performance.

Some content sourced from the CNN.com article, “Final curtain comes down on ‘Phantom of the Opera'”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Crescents and Con Artists

Every Christmas without fail, my family enjoys croissants as part of the morning meal. We pop them into the oven after seeing what Santa left in our stockings (but before unwrapping anything under the tree). So last week, as I loaded our Easter ham into the garage frig, a tantalizing thought occurred to me: the leftover Christmas croissants are parked right next door in the freezer. Could they possibly be as light and flaky as they once were, four months after their initial rise-and-shine?

If you know anything about authentic croissants, “rise and shine” is a fitting description. Thanks to some seriously active yeast, croissants rise to a soft, pillow-y consistency. Thanks to a whole lot of butter (and a little egg yolk), croissants finish with a pleasing sheen on their delicate, crispy crust. If there’s a more decadent baked good on the planet, my crescent-shaped ears are open and listening.

Croissants have been around a long time. They got their start centuries ago in ~~France~~ Austria as the more pedestrian kipferi yeast bread roll. Eventually the French stepped up the game using leavened laminated dough and butter, ending up as the light, flaky, many-layered version you know and love today.

Croissant means “crescent” of course (which is why I get hunger pangs whenever I gaze at the moon). Croissant also has an elegant pronunciation. Turn the “roi” into a “weh”, drop the final “t”, and keep the sound a little inside the nose. Cweh-saw. Congratulations! You speak French.

Even “crescent” has a dignified definition: a shape resembling a segment of a ring, tapering to points at the ends. Can you picture it? Sure you can, because now you’re thinking of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls. They’re so “American”, aren’t they? We take a centuries-old, meticulously refined shoo-in for the Baked Goods Hall of Fame and reduce it to sticky, doughy, fast food; vacuum-packed into a can you open with a spoon.

[Speaking of Pillsbury, here’s something you didn’t know about the Dough Boy, otherwise known as “Poppin’ Fresh”. He has a family! His wife is Poppie Fresh, his kids are Popper and Bun-Bun, his grandparents Granpopper and Granmommer, and his Uncle Rollie. Don’t forget the dog (Flapjack) and the cat (Biscuit). In the 1970s you could purchase the entire clan as a set of dolls.]

Pillsbury isn’t the only crescent con artist out there. Burger King made a name for itself with its popular Croissan’wich breakfast entrees. And Galaxy, the Williams-Sonoma mail-order croissants my family and I enjoy at Christmas, start out as frozen minis, rise impressively overnight on the kitchen counter, and bake to an excellent knock-off of the bakery-made originals.

The preparation of authentic croissants requires time and attention we Americans don’t have the patience for. Watch the following video (which is thirteen minutes long so… maybe not) and you’ll learn what it takes. At the least, you’ll understand why I pay almost $4.50 for a single croissant from Galaxy/Williams-Sonoma.

Most of us wouldn’t make it past the initial “pre-dough” step in the video, let alone the labor-intensive lamination (folding/flattening), forming, fermentation, baking, cooling, and storage. We’re talking hours and hours in the kitchen here, and that’s assuming you have the right equipment. No wonder we’d rather just whack a Pillsbury tube on the counter edge and produce “crescent rolls” hot out of the oven 9-11 minutes later.

Still, I implore you to watch the cweh-saw video. The star of the show is Frédéric from Boulangerie Roy Le Capitole, narrating the process in his beautiful native language. This man could be saying … and then we drag the smelly garbage out to the back alley for the cats to dig through and I’d still be glued the sound of his words. Or, listen to our lovely video host and her delightful French accent (with the occasional incorrect word sprinkled in).

I was so mesmerized by the French voices I really don’t remember much about the croissant-making itself. But it’s hard to forget the facts. Making an authentic batch takes three days. A croissant is 30% butter and can have as many as fifty layers. French bakeries have “bread laws” to protect their artisan products. Finally, you can “hear” the sound of an authentic croissant by pushing through the crispy crust to the softer layers inside.

To the matter of my Christmas… er, Easter croissants, I’m happy (and satisfied) to report they tasted just as good last week as their holly, jolly predecessors a while ago. Apparently four months isn’t too long to wait for good croissants. But three days is too long to make them from scratch so I’ll keep buying from con artists.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.