Chasing Martinis

"One martini is all right.
Two are too many, 
and three are not enough."
                            - James Thurber

I suppose we must each find hobbies in our lives that make some sort of sense to our view of the world. Amateur photographers want to document the world around them, as painters do but in a different way. Other people collect those works and (hopefully) display them as some sort of commentary about themselves as art lover

Austin, TX

Doll collectors and paraphernalia enthusiasts want a tangible thing that some how, in some way, has meaning for them. Sports enthusiasts keep themselves in shape and endure that competitive side of their nature. In essence, they collect muscle tone and good health. (And sometimes broken bones.)


Among other things, I collect martinis. Images of them, I mean.

Maybe I ought to start from the beginning.

As a traveler, over the years I have several things and collections which I indulge when I'm on the road. They would be called hobbies in most cases. For example, I collect shot glasses. Lots and lots of them, it turns out, as the years have gone by. 

Each glass represents a destination and adventure, some more than others. I have more than a hundred, a total which does not include those places I visited prior to collecting. Yes. I get around.

Auckland, NZ

San Diego, CA

(For the first few years of traveling the world as an adult I was collecting coffee mugs. I discovered, after a year or so, that the mug collection was becoming pretty unwieldy. When I switched to shot glasses my wife voiced utter and complete approval. But I digress.)

So collecting shot glasses became a hobby, which I happily indulge pretty much upon arrival at any given (new) destination. 

Separately, however, as a photographer and aspiring travel-writer, I found myself fascinated with documenting our adventures in various countries. One of my favorite categories became focussed -- excuse the pun -- on wine. One of our favorite activities in places like France, Australia, the Napa Valley, Virginia and elsewhere is the tasting of local wines. In fact, tasting wine in each of the world's top wine districts has become one of my Life List ambitions.

Rapid City, SD

Naturally I began documenting those tastings with my camera. And while I think it's a little unsettling for the wine pourer,  I have several portfolio-level pictures which were taken as a result of a casual wine-tasting session. Particularly of the pour. (It's a naturally photogenic moment.)

I've also photographed rum drinks in the Caribbean, Mai Tais in Hawaii, and tequila in Mexico. Bourbon in New Orleans. But collecting images of various mixed drinks, while interesting, never caught my artistic imagination the way the martini has. Or maybe it's just because I love martinis and it's a sneaky way to order them without appearing to be a borderline alcoholic. ("It's for my Art".)

So how did I end up collection martinis --or more accurately, images of martinis -- more than wine and other mixed drinks?

You have to go back quite a few years, probably into my childhood. The martini, during the days I was in my formative years, was an icon. Of glamor. Sophistication. (And, in doing research for this blog entry's quote, above, I discovered I was far from alone. It seems the martini influenced many a mind and imagination of people growing up in the sixties and seventies.) It represented an image I wanted to aspire to -- that of Hollywood parties, Vegas. Washington DC and New York sophisticates, and of course, James Bond himself.

Las Vegas, NV

The martini as all that and more.

Port Douglas, Queensland

So, in college, when drinking was both a required social activity and at a times a competitive sport, I developed a taste for vodka martinis. Well. And Long Island Iced Teas, Tequila Sunrises, Screwdrivers and rum and Coke.

Yeah, well. Picky I was not.

But the martini is what stuck with me. Not for everyday drinking any more, but as an echo of that one-time fascination with the glamorous life. Now, when it travel, I like to relax in the evenings with a martini or two.

One thing leads to another, and one fascination combines with another, and sooner or later in this visually-oriented world, I began photographing my martinis. For the last three years it has gone from a mild "every once in a while" sort of thing to a hobby. It gives me something to do during my down hours, and I've managed to build up a decent collection of martinis worldwide.

Honolulu, HI

(One lament is that I was not yet serious about it the last time I was in Europe, and therefore missed the opportunity to photograph one in Monte Carlo. Given the influence of all things 007 in my life, that would have been an important addition to the collection.)

Some photos are low quality. Whether a result of low-lighting conditions, my lack of skill with the camera, or the low image quality of the camera I was using (the iPad, for all it can do, is not a good photographic tool, though it lets me post my martinis in a real-time basis.)

Some are naturals: Las Vegas. Del Mar. New York. Washington. Some are less so: El Paso. Rapid City. Honolulu.

(You haven't lived until you order a martini in El Paso. And you may not live long after doing so. Just sayin'.) (And you may note the Honolulu martini -- to the right -- is in a plastic wine glass. The waitress happily brought it, but apologized for the glass saying "we don't get a lot of requests for martinis.")

Some hobbies are fun. Some hobbies are full of memories, of emotions. Some hobbies are healthful. Some make no sense to an outsider, but have meaning to the collector.

And some, like collecting martinis, are just damned indulgent.

Cheers.

Whistler, British Columbia

Road Trip: WALL DRUG

  

"...there's absolutely no place on God's earth that's Godforsaken. No matter where you live, you can succeed, because wherever you are you can reach out to other people with something they need."
                         - Ted Hustead, Wall Drug


I love a good story.

For me, when I’m on the road, I want to be entertained. Enlightened. I want to have an experience which is unique to an area and representative of its environs. This means there’s a story.

How did it get there. Who brought it there. What were they thinking?

Throughout the world there are, as they used to say, eight million stories in the naked city. And millions more in the small towns and rural areas of this country.

I was recently driving — for the first time — along Interstate 90 in the state of South Dakota. As with other interstates to the south of 90, there are dozens of stops along the highway designed to attract visitors and their dollars to what is usually a small town. Forty or so miles heading to the east of Rapid City — known as the gateway to such wonders as the Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse sculptures — I began to see relatively small billboard signs for something called Wall Drug.

The signs were maybe eight by eight feet, or some small variation on those dimensions, with only a handful of words and a painted image of something. I put it that way because the images ranged from “5 Cent Cup of Coffee” with a painted image of a coffee cup, to “See Our T-Rex”, with an image of a predatory dinosaur. And a half dozen other of these sorts of messages, including home made pies and donuts and other foodstuffs -- ranging to promised adventures worthy of the best roadside attractions.

As I drew closer to exit 109 the signs became more and more frequent to the point, just a few miles out, when the same hillock might have an older sign just yards from a newer one. 

So I knew I had to check it out. I pulled in, discovering an entire main street in the middle of the town of Wall (hence the name Wall Drug), and found that my target occupied an entire city block. Across the street other businesses had opened, but by far the monster in town was Wall Drug.

Brief aside: I am fortunate to have discovered Wall Drug completely unaware of its background. 

I was, in a way, uncovering a Very Cool Thing without any kind of preconception or expectation. In that way, I was able to feel just a smidgeon of the adventure of someone fifty, sixty years ago crossing the prairie and running across the town of Wall in what must have been a very pleasant surprise. To me, that’s often the most fun way to find these things: without expectations.

Since I had purposefully left my hotel early enough to grab breakfast on the road, I grabbed my camera and iPad and went in to discover exactly what the story was behind Wall Drug. 

I grabbed a menu, itself including the story of how Ted Hustead acquired an impressive Western art collection. and ordered some eggs, sausage and potatoes…and a five cent cup of coffee (see, I paid attention). Sitting down in the main dining room, surrounded by other tables boasting a mix of both tourists and local diners. (At one point a woman greeted a newcomer with “Good morning, pastor”, so you have to assume this is both a tourist joint and local community gathering spot.)

As I sat sipping my coffee and waiting for my number to be called out I reread the menu and opened up the brochure I’d pulled from one of the counters. Not only does the brochure cover the background of Wall Drug itself, but contains a good piece on the nearby Badlands National Park. How they were formed, what the current conditions are, with some geological and fossil history thrown in for good measure. 

As I said above, I love a good story. A background which makes a place unique and special. 

And what I have found is that those places that have such a history are usually proud of them and want to share it with their customers. I like that.

Wall Drug is no different.

Going back to the brochure, I found out the store was originally purchased in 1931 by a pharmacist names Ted Hustead, Inside the brochure is a reprinted 1982 article from Guideposts Magazine detailing the history of the store and why (and how) Hustead and his wife came to create the roadside attraction.

The town was on hard times when they moved in. The interstate passed far enough from the downtown area that few tourists ever braved anything beyond a jump off the highway for gasoline. It wasn’t until one very hot day, when Dorothy Hustead hit upon the idea of offering free ice water to anyone who came into the drug store. Ted and a boy from town set about putting the up the first of the how hundred or more signs along the highway, in the hopes it would convince people to stop in. The idea worked. The hot travelers flocked to the pharmacy, often ordering lunch or purchasing other items — like ice cream — to smooth their overheating bodies.

And the tradition continues to this day. You can still get a glass of ice water, or a 5 cent cup of coffee. The pharmacy has expanded dramatically to include a variety of shops, a buffet, several roadside attraction exhibits in a large courtyard, and a smile for the weary traveler.

In the 83 years since Hustead purchased the property the town of Wall has grown a bit, and is far more prosperous than it was when Ted and Dorothy moved there to open his little pharmacy. Reading the Guideposts article you cannot help but love the little piece of history, and the dedication of a few good people to turn things around. A little ice water, and a lot of signage, made Wall Drug a cultural way station along I-90.

Author Bill Bryson once wrote of Wall Drug: "It's an awful place, one of the world's worst tourist traps, but I loved it and I won't have a word said against it."

Every place has a story, if you pay attention. 

For more, please read the entry at Roadside America

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/2216

and at Wall Drug’s official website

http://www.walldrug.com

Wall Drug’s Wikipedia entry

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wall_Drug

Aloft

I am certain the poets could more readily describe what it is I feel and see when aloft and flying over the world. At the moment I write this, I am 34,000 feet above the fields and farms of South Dakota, gazing down upon the checkerboard colors of greens, tans, browns and a vague reddish shading here and there.

In the distance is a thunderhead, looking light and puffy from above, though its dark shadow likely portends some drizzle down below. The ground in this part of the country is saturated after weeks of torrential rain. I've just left Minneapolis, where violent storms struck every night, waking me at 2:30, 3:00 in the morning with rumbles and flashes as if some disoriented band of paparazzi had found themselves  on the Red Carpet.

But here, over the plains, it's calm and serene. Sunlit, if even for a single day.

The view from up here is why I enjoy travel. It's a chance to look down and see things from a neutral level. No politics, no borders, no traffic. No noises of the city, no arguing or loud voices. No confusion. Only a steady buzz of airliner white noise and the occasional clack of the service cart.

Soothing.

The Little Things, Part 2 - SUSHISAMBA

"A jazz musician can improvise based on his knowledge of music. He understands how things go together. For a chef, once you have that basis, that's when cuisine is truly exciting."

Charlie Trotter

Las Vegas is a town becoming renowned for hospitality. Yeah, I know. That seems self-contradictory, but it’s true. The bad customer experience...and I've written about a few previously...is a surprise these days. A far cry from the impersonal buffets and indifference service staff, today’s Vegas is becoming highly dedicated towards individualized service. 

They have to. 

The competition for dollars has become intense, perhaps more than ever before following The Great Recession, which saw Las Vegas go through difficult and perhaps eye-opening times. Those challenges forcing service providers from hotels to tourist attractions to restaurants into a strong focus towards the customer experience. No longer is the attitude Old Vegas’ “we’ll put it out and you figure out how to enjoy it”, it’s largely become New Vegas’ “how can I make this better?” 

But perhaps more startling is when someone goes above and beyond, demonstrating a true dedication to the customer experience.

One of our favorite restaurants worldwide is the SUSHISAMBA in Las Vegas. Located at the Palazzo Hotel, it's a nice getaway with delicious food regardless of the occasion. Despite the fact it was involved (unknowingly) in the notorious nosebleed event of 2012*, it remains a must-do with every trip. 

(SUSHISAMBA, as the name implies, is a terrific fusion of Brazilian, Peruvian and Japanese cuisine and culture. The menu alone is an experience in cross-border/oceanic design and flavor. We have yet to have anything there that wasn't delicious.)

In the times we've eaten here, we've seen the staff under a variety of conditions, from swamped and chaotic on a Saturday evening to virtually empty on a Sunday night. 

In each circumstance the employees worked hard, presenting the food beautifully and keeping the water (and martini) glasses filled. It's not hard to return to a restaurant with that kind of a performance record. 

Needless to say, we highly recommend this place, and it would be hard to identify a way they could improve our customer experience. Las Vegas aims to achieve these days, and it's this sort of establishment that raised the mark.

We were a few bites into our appetizers — delicious of course — when the manager, Drago, approached our table to do the customary food and service quality check. How was the food? (Excellent.) How is the service? (Terrific.) Did we need anything? (Not at the moment.) Was this our first time? (No, we had been there several times and visit every time we're in town.)

In other words, a return customer.

Upon hearing this Drago smiled, expressing his appreciation for our return business, thanking us for the kind words about the food and his staff. What I picked up immediately was his enthusiasm. It seemed quite authentic and sincere. We started talking with him about the various things we've had, as well as the two or three must-haves every time we visit -- our favorite is the yellowtail sashimi tiradito. (We tend to stick more to the sushi end of the menu, but the sea bass and churrasco choices are also excellent.)

He took the time to chat, making us feel warmly welcomed and our interaction with himself and his staff personalized rather than “operational”. After a moment or so, having heard our favorites and taking the time ti get to know us, he leaned in rather conspiratorially and asked "do you have any allergies to seafood or shellfish?"

We shook our heads no.

"Ah. Okay, I have just the thing for you to try."

Not telling us what it was, he smiled conspiratorially and thanked us again, excusing himself to go check on other tables — no doubt making them feel as important as he had done for us. A few minutes later a plate of two scallop shells arrived, beautifully plated with Peruvian Bay scallops presented with a shiso lime butter crust. As amazing as it sounds, and a little amuse bush for us to enjoy. It was a thoughtful gesture, and appreciatively received. It was a small gift and the grand scheme, but certainly made a large impression.

The rest of dinner went equally as well. Our server was attentive, the food arrived regularly, was presented well and tasted brilliantly good. (The best sushi is a sensual, visual and textural experience in addition to taste --  SUSHISAMBA fires admirably on all four cylinders.) Drago checked in periodically, pleased that we were enjoying ourselves completely.

It was, to be brief, one of those dinners you remember for all of the right reasons: ambience, food, location, and most certainly the people who serve you. SUSHISAMBA hit all of the right chords in all the right order, and not for the first time — which is why we continue to return there each time we’re in Sin City (three or four times a year).

The staff, and particularly Drago, took the time to treat us as individuals — not just the next check at a busy table in an uncaring town. I should note that at no time did I ever mention that I am a professional traveler, nor that I write a blog related to my experiences. For all anyone knew, my wife and I would simply thank them and never comment publicly about our experience. The important thing for the employees was simply that we enjoy ourselves and come back to see them again.

And that’s seriously cool.

We have been to Las Vegas — no exaggeration — a hundred times or more. We’ve eaten at every level of eatery, ranging from the iHop and Peppermill, to SUSHISAMBA, Tom Colicchio’s Craftsteak, Picasso — and the late, lamented Renior. We eat at local favorites (Nora’s and The Firefly), as well as the tourist spots on the Strip and in the big casinos.

In any tourist town it's easy to become jaded as a service person. You see the worst in people, and often bear the brunt of it. The same can go for customers. All too often we're seen as "the couple at table 3", or just another seating.

Which is why SUSHISAMBA is and will continue to be a regular stop for us. To be the sort of team who not only likes what they do, but can convey that in a way that allows the visitor to feel warmly welcomed and appreciated is a genuine talent. 

Especially in Las Vegas.

* (Nosebleed incident recounted in my 2012 Year-End review found here.)

 (A photographs in accordance with SAMBASUSHI's stated camera policy.)

A (Belated) Birthday Essay

(partially reprinted from another site, dated 2-1-2014)

"Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing... A new Hedonism--that is what our century wants."

        -- Oscar Wilde, Picture of Dorian Gray



I noted a few columns ago that my primary pursuit in this place is to convey my sense of passion for photography and travel. It's a fundamental part of my life. Since that time I've added Montana and Wisconsin to my list of now 44 states I have visited (outside of the airport). By the end of 2014 it's highly likely I'll be at 47.

But what I have found is that it isn't the marks on the map that count. Nor is it the distance traveled.

It is the experiences those marks represent. The memories and, yes, the photographs and descriptions. But photographs cannot convey the taste of Wisconsin cheese curds, tasted fresh-at-the-source for the very first time in the small town of Ellsworth. They cannot convey the sensation of driving rapidly through the mountains and valleys of the Glacier National Park, through trees and glacial rivers and sights that command your attention. 

Of being awakened by violent yet beautiful thunder and lightning storms outside my window in Minneapolis at 2:30am.

On my birthday this year I printed the below essay on my thoughts on my life, having reached the age of 53, which at one time I would have considered "old" and on the downslope of life.


Not so much, however, when one is looking back over the intervening years -- and labeling that younger version of myself as "perhaps too young to fully understand".

I get it now, at least better than I once did.

While the below doesn't deal a whole lot with travel or photography, both are core to what I have become.

"As of 2:30-ish this afternoon, I will have completed my 53rd rotation around the sun.

This is astounding to me. Yesterday my wife Cris and I were looking at our dining room table trying to remember when we bought it. It was our first piece of truly nice decor -- Ethan Allen -- and represented a change for us. We were, at the time, freshly into our first purchased home, a large condominium in Long Beach. It was a momentous occasion, signaling that we had finally made that transition from financially struggling young couple to a more stable and comfortable one.

2014 will also see our celebration of our 29th Anniversary. 29 years. I can recall vividly the early years of our marriage wondering who we would be, what we would be like at this stage in our lives. I think we've done rather well. We have wonderful friends who add texture and feeling and perspective to our lives. We have loving families on both sides of the aisle. And we have each other.

The years have given us challenges, the majority of which we have overcome, and those things we have not yet done away with will be dealt with in time.

This time last year I was miserable in my job. Highly stressed and frustrated. And angry. Very angry. In the last twelve months I've made a transition to a rewarding position that takes me to many places and allows me to deal with interesting people and organizations. At 52 I hated my job, at 53 I love it. The adage noting the difference a year makes is exactly right. At 24 a year was a long time. No more. It's barely enough time to appreciate what we've got or those things we need to change. We cannot take those good things for granted -- things may change tomorrow for the worse -- in the same way we cannot allow ourselves to think that any situation is hopeless and insurmountable. Time changes everything.

 

Two years ago at this time I was in Las Vegas to celebrate my 51st birthday. Little did I realize just what a wrong turn that trip was going to take. Right after a sumptuous dinner with my wife, I developed a bloody nose that simply would not stop. Two hours later I was packed into an ambulance and rushed to a nearby hospital where they struggled for another three hours. It was a night of brutality. The trip ruined, with my tail tucked between my legs we came back home and the next day I went to see my doctor. Diagnosis: I had been systematically thinning my blood by heavily over-using "healthy" supplements over the course of many years -- literally starving my body of oxygen. It explained so many things which were physically wrong with me at the time. I was always short of breath…even the tiniest task wore me out. I would sweat doing the smallest of things, and hated the idea of walking even a block or so. At work I parked on the fifth floor of the parking structure, driving all the way up so as to reduce my walk to the smallest distance every day.

Upon the diagnosis I stopped the supplements. I stopped the things I was doing which caused my body so much grief. It changed my life. You do not understand, fully, what the word vitality means until you have experienced its opposite and then come back across the line. I was effectively reborn, stunned by the energy and what I could describe only as "solidity" to my physiology. I could breathe again.

In many ways the last two years have been a sort of rebirth, from a world I am not sure I would have described as requiring it, but in hindsight it was not only necessary but essential. Often we are too close to something to see what damage it is doing -- even when the damage is done with the best of intentions. This is true of not just physical damage, but emotional damage and mental damage. And in each case we have to take that step back and realize when something is not healthy for our lives, our outlook or our happiness. Ultimately only happiness is what we can have in this world. The pursuit of it is even enshrined in the American Constitution.

In order to be happy, we have to be content with our lot in life -- always seeking to improve it, but not making that improvement our sole definition of getting us to that "Happy Place". If we're not at least content with where we are, we will never achieve that contentment by getting to some other goal in the future.It's always about forward momentum, not being weighed down by things in the past or things we cannot change (fittingly, many of those unchangeables are things in the past).

I am happy where I am. At 53 I can look back and note the potholes in the road and the ruggedness of the terrain, but I am confident that my 24 year old self -- fresh from the wedding ceremony -- would be happy and relieved to find where we are at now, at more than twice his age. I have "grown older" (not old!) with a lovely woman at my side. She makes the sun rise every morning, and is with me when it sets in the evening. We have a life together that is comforting, warm and full of love.

In 53 years, I've discovered that the true secret in life is never giving up on exploring the world, never give up in loving with all of your heart, and never think that you have come to a standstill and cannot move forward.

We are blessed with a great many possibilities."