New Yorker goes to the country

We were going to see a Christian group perform. At a venue with the word “Opry” in the title. In a building that has interior decorations resembling a barn. Where many a-banjos had been strum and acoustic guitars picked. The location being the heart of country music, Nashville, Tennessee. I was horrified.

In an attempt to brace myself for the ordeal that was sure to occur that Tuesday night, I must have asked my mom at least ten times, “Who are we seeing?” Yet, despite her repetitive attempts, the name of the group would not stick in my head. To this day, I could not tell you who headlined that night.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was in store for us that night at the Grand Ole Opry. After all, I was about to attend a show from the oldest continuous radio program in the United States, one that has been broadcasted on WSM since October 5, 1925. See, nothing could have prepared me, because it exceedingly surpassed any and all of my expectations.

I positively loved the antiquated atmosphere of the venue. It was a Tuesday night, yet it seemed like everybody dressed up, in their Sunday –best, and came out for a night of good music. It truly seemed like everybody attending the show knew one another (they likely were season ticket holders and did know one another), yet we, clear outsiders from New York, were welcomed whole-heartedly by smiling faces.

We found our seats in the auditorium, and I was astounded that we were merely 10 rows from the stage, for the low ticket price of about $30. And then the music began. The Christian group came on the stage. Let me tell you, any preconceived notions I had about Christian music were thrown out the window upon hearing these singers. What I experienced was less “Christian” as I would define it, and much more so “Rock.” Following this group were about three or four other acts, all falling under the category of “Country.”

Now I had never liked country music. I am a product of the boy-band era and loved my pop music hand-me-downs like Britney Spears, Smash Mouth, and the such. But my time as the Grand Ole Opry changed that. Although I don’t drink, have never so much as milked a cow, and don’t harbor an undying love for pick-up trucks, this music spoke to me. I loved the blatant honest and in-your-face humor that country music presents.

And as for humor, the night was infused with it. Being that the concert was recorded live and broadcasted over the radio, it was only natural that commercials be included in the program. And the commercials were the funniest, corniest advertisements ever. I am convinced that the products that were being pushed were the same ones that had been advertised the Opry’s entire history. I mean, where else is bar soap, belonging to a company other than Dial, spoken about six times in the courses of two hours? It was hilarious, because, by the end of the show, the announcer that was reading the commercials had to say to the audience, “I know guys, we just need to read this once more,” in reference to the bar soap dialogue.

In retrospect, what is so incredible about the Grand Ole Opry is the history that is engrained in the floorboards and recorded in the microphone of that sacred stage. Those planks have had all the famed country musicians walk across them. That microphone has captured the vocals of everybody who has ever made it big in Nashville. It serves as a living museum of all country artists come and gone.

My night at the Grand Ole Opry was simply an enjoyable, kick-back-your-heels sort of evening. After that night I began my intense love for country music. A very out-of-place love given I’m a New Yorker. How is that for irony?

Little Jimmy Dickens, beloved member of the Grand Ole Opry for 60 years

Photo from: http://www.morethings.com/music/little_jimmy_dickens/grand_ole_opry-jimmy_dickens.jpg

Slowed Down City Life

Even though we didn’t arrive in New Orleans in time for “Fat Tuesday,” the city still offered ample entertainment. Without flailing bodies and distracting garb to steal our attention that April 2005 day, we were able to take in the exquisiteness of Jackson Square, which in many ways resembled a typical town square, but on a larger scale.

Jackson Square, known up until 1814 as Place d'Armes, is historic park located in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the Place d’Armes’ bleak claim-to-fame was that is served as the preferred site for the public execution of disobedient slaves. Luckily, the dismembered bodies of slaves no longer serve as decorations for the city gates.

Currently, the plaza has, at its heart, a castle-like cathedral, the Saint Louis Cathedral. Coincidently, we were in New Orleans on the day that the new pope, Pope Benedict XVI, was being ordained. To honor this event, chiming church bells echoed through the district for nearly an hour. In front of the church, there is a great lawn with bordering gardens, all of which emphasize the monumental statue paying tribute to the Square’s new namesake, General Andrew Jackson.

The side-streets of New Orleans were equally as active as the Square itself. The walkways were speckled with local artists selling masterpieces, seeking inspiration from the metropolitan hubbub, and soliciting shoppers to sit for portraits. In spite of the fact that New Orleans is a municipality, it avoids many of the excesses that characterize other great cities. I found it refreshing that Jackson Square was remarkably clean, beggars weren’t prevalent, and people didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

Jackson Square, complete with Saint Louis Cathedral and Jackson statue

Photo from: www.inetours.com/New_Orleans/images/Tours/Jackson_Square_0466.jpg

"Tastes like Chicken"?

Four years ago, my family ventured to Louisiana to explore its hidden grandeur. Much to my brother’s dismay, we opted to schedule our vacation for April – two months after confetti speckled the sky and fluorescent masks roamed the streets – in hopes of bypassing tourist traffic. One of the first stops on our journey was the Bayou Pierre Alligator Park.

Blindsided by how simple the directions appeared on MapQuest, we were under the impression that to get to the Park we would just exit the highway and take a few turns. How wrong we were.

After leaving the reassuring blacktop of the express lane, we found ourselves in what only could be described as “backcountry.” With wide eyes, we observed houses peel away on either side of the street until there was only a scattering left. We became even more disconcerted when our car lurched and we discovered that we had left the paved street and entered, not a cobblestone lane or stone path, but a dirt road.

We were ready to turn back when we glimpsed a sign indicating the distance to our desired destination. Relief rolled over us as we entered the asphalt parking lot and noted the existence of other out-of-staters. Little did we know that we had entered the Crocodile Hunter’s greatest fantasy.

We found ourselves surrounded by ponds of turbid water that rippled when a swishing tail threaded its way closer to the wire mesh separating itself from visitors. A head would then appear above the water and glossy, narrow eyes would dare us to approach. As if these grimaces were not enough to cause us to retreat several steps, the agility with which the creatures attacked food thrown into their enclosures did.

Despite our initial anxiety, we meandered around the pens and found that the alligators weren’t as aggressive as they appeared. We even discovered one reptile sunbathing on a rock with a broad grin across its face.

We concluded our trip with a stop at the in-house café. The kitchen was serving everything from salad to salamander, or rather its cousin, alligator. My father was feeling daring and decided to try alligator-on-a-stick. The order arrived deep fried and brown. Despite his fervent appraisal, I found it hard to believe that it “tastes like chicken!”

The Mountain Has Eyes

Every once in a while it is the natural things in life, things that have not been tainted or compromised by the hand of man, that take your breath away. One such natural wonder, if you will, is the Old Man of the Mountain located in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

This Old Man, the resulting image of series of five granite cliff ledges, has served as the icon of New Hampshire in many ways. It has spent time on stamps, in short stories, and on the state’s commemorative quarter.

The Old Man made it so that if you are staring off into the distance, there was something staring back. But, alas, it stares no more. The Great Stone Face collapsed on May 3, 2003. But, while it lasted, the Old Man of the Mountain certainly was a rock with some character!

Composite image of the Old Man of the Mountain, as he stood

Photo from: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/28/Old_Man_of_the_Mountain_overlay_2.jpg

Don’t Forget the Flavor

Graveyards are supposed to be areas of somber reflection. They are hallowed grounds. They contain gravestones dedicated to the departed. This being said, why would a graveyard ring with chuckles, feature smiling faces, and be home to laughing voices? Because it is the Flavor Graveyard at the Ben & Jerry’s Factory in Vermont, that is why.

The Flavor Graveyard is, innately, an original attraction. This “graveyard” is the final resting place of flavors from days-gone-by. When select flavors (ranging from “Peanut Butter & Jelly” to “Miz Jelena's Sweet Potato Pie” to “Bovinity Divinity”) are retired by Ben & Jerry’s, they have a poem written about their lifespan, which is then placed on a gravestone. This gravestone serves as a lasting memento of the flavor’s time in circulation.

The Flavor Graveyard is only one of the many featured attractions at the Ben & Jerry’s Factory. The Factory also offers an informational movie in the “Cow Over the Moon Theater,” factory floor tour, and, the highly-anticipated finale, tasting booth.

I know that after my trip to the factory I will not think of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream the same. I mean, the history, as well as statistics, are startling. Ben & Jerry’s turns out 110 pints per minute. All milk and cream comes from family cows in Vermont. Unbleached paperboard containers are used to package the ice cream. And, did I mention, employees at Ben & Jerry’s are allowed to take home 3 pints of ice cream per day! Yep, the factory is that cool!

Two gravestones in the Flavor Graveyard
Photo from: http://littlebayroot.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/flavor-graveyard-ben-jerrys.jpg

Who needs fun in the sun, when you can experience the shocking pulse of the electric chair?

Don’t misconstrue the facts; I am not a masochist. That being said, one of my favorite and, needless to say, most memorable vacation destinations has been the West Virginia Penitentiary, located in Moundsville, West Virginia.

Everything about this building is cold. The Gothic, citadel-styled structure of the prison casts a shadow so large that it cloaks the entire property. The stone façade is so menacing that the building appears impenetrable from the outside. Gun mounts visible on the turrets, pointing outward instead of inward, cause a chill to run down your spine. So much as looking at the prison will cause you to quiver and hastily back away. Yet, on that August 2006 day, I could not wait to enter.

The Penitentiary is stuck in a moment in time. A moment when high-security inmates, that lovingly termed themselves “The Alamo,” inhabited the halls. A moment when prison guards dodged fecal matter being thrown at them as they patrolled the cells of criminals. A moment when the flip of a switch would determine whether or not you went home a killer that day. A moment when riots, fires, fights, and escapes threaten your life on a daily basis. A moment when a “high-security” prison was not too secure at all.

A tour of this now-historic-landmark is sickening and intriguing. I was disgusted when shown the electric chair, but felt compelled by the history behind it. I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t find it interesting that the chair was actually designed by an inmate? Doesn’t it cause you to wonder how that individual’s popularity must have gone downhill, and fast?

The West Virginia Penitentiary was something I had never experienced before (and not something I would necessarily like to repeat), yet it caused me to think. And the primary thought running across my mind was, “I will NEVER commit a crime. I’d be too terrified of the repercussions.”

West Virginia State Penitentiary
Photo from: www.marshallcountrytourism.com/wvpen-1.jpg