I’m overdue in writing about Switzerland. It’s been three weeks since beer cost $6 and chocolate was so omnipresent it was actually nauseating, and maybe that means I get some perspective on my recent exploits in the Helvetic Confederation. Doubtful as since then, I have been in: Chicago, Cincinnati, Louisville, Indianapolis, Orlando, Cleveland, and of course, that foray into Texas, known as Houston. But all these places offer a jarring contrast to the whims and ways of Zurich and the mountain towns surrounding the financial hub. Zurich is not the party of Amsterdam nor is it loaded with touristy sites like Paris. It’s a banking town, a secretive banking town, the kind of place that Jason Bourne loses his crap in before hitching a ride from a flighty girl in the US Embassy.
Names like Credit Suisse and UBS are bit more ubiquitous, okay, sleazy to Americans today, but I suspect most freedom-huggers and Wall Street types get a big kick out of the way Zurich has made money downright pornographic. Still, for those who look, this city has gems, but I’m an eater, so I’ll start with food.
If I rolled out of bed into a restaurant, (don’t think too long on that one), I’d roll into Hiltl. It’s the neighborhood restaurant-meets-smorgasbord I’d almost never get sick of, or at least not of talking about. I’d take friends there and they’d marvel over the huge buffet of everything from tandoori to deviled eggs—and then, we’d come back in the evening when the place turns in to a chic club. (The first time I walked in the music act was setting up: direct from Nashville and Philadelphia). All the while, I’d gladly pick up the tab—looking ever so gentlemanly in the process, knowing full well that the proprietors of Hiltl have not gotten the memo about Swiss inflation. Ah, Hiltl. Seriously one of my favorite ‘spots’ in all my travels for the way it does so many things right: it’s at once a great coffee spot/cafe, a self-serve by-the-pound buffet with the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten off a bar, a white tablecloth full service restaurant, and a nightclub. I don’t think Hiltl is by any stretch a secret anymore (mornings could be sleepy, but brunch time was a veritable mob scene), but just steps off the Paradenplatz and the Bahnhofstrasse, Hiltl is a prime spot to eat and relax in the midst of it all.
Wow, I love the Kunsthaus. It knows it’s a big deal and it doesn’t let you down. I spent a little while fixated on watching crew take down an exhibit—and then trapsed through an extensive collection that is seriously committed to fun. That statement makes little sense until you remember, this is Zurich, an austere, monied town, and everything is done with a Lexus style relentless pursuit of perfection. The Monet, Cezanne, and Van Gogh exhibit was up: comprehensive, but I’m not losing my sleep over any of these guys. Ears and ponds aint doing it for me in 2010. There is a sharp precision to the architecture, itself a kind of 1970’s Rem Koolhaus with a 90-degree angle addiction. Okay, that sounds less appealing now that I said it. But, it lets you focus on what you’re there for: less Haus, more Kunst.
Zurich, Switzerland
As you may already know, I wrote a research paper that was (somehow) selected for presentation at the European meeting of the Association of Public Policy Analysis and Management—wonky, nerdy, economic-data driving researchers who love ‘p-values’. The conference happened to be centered on migration as a study of analysis, and well, despite my lacking said math, I happen to have a bit to say about asylum adjudication.
So the conference is in idyllic college town of Maastricht, Netherlands. And you’re asking, where is Maastricht? It’s about equidistant to Brussels and Koln, a city of 100,000 or so in the Limburg region in the south of the Netherlands. And, fittingly, the city is split down the middle by a river, the Maas—see how that works?—and, more to the point of my being there, is home to the many faculties of Maastricht University (UM).
Maastricht is not the kind of city you’re likely to visit on your Perillo Tour, but it’s brimming with the European charm (read: cobblestone streets, drinking beer from cans on the street, BMWs for taxis) you likely went to Europe for in the first place. Because the UM is mainly English-speaking, the town is friendly and easy to negotiate. Because it plays host to university kids, it’s also a bit easier on the wallet than much of Europe. The University brings a certain amount of traffic and culture—art museums, regular train service, 24-hour food carts—but still prides itself on not being Amsterdam (xenophobia, weed as cultural tourism, prostitutes). Two hours by train away, Maastricht is decidedly more austere and inward than its’ big sister to the North, but the result is a clean, safe, education and culture driven community that runs on a heap of coffee and books. Travelers that meander to Utrecht, Holland’s arts university hub, will find similarities between Utrecht and Maastricht, but where Utrecht paints and sings and creates, Maastricht types and leafs through Kant.
My presentation itself went well, despite my worries. I did stay up the night before at my hostel (totally a swanky and full-featured hostel, I must say) and tore apart my entire powerpoint to build it back up again. I awoke disheveled, noticeably addled, the combination of reading American law decisions searched for on Norwegian Google and prosecco from our conference social the night before. A rockstar professor confided in me, at the peak of my anxiety to present, that the objective was trying not to put people to sleep or be the worst. I’m fairly animated so the sleeping wasn’t a concern but objectively offering up a lousy talk was still a possibility.
In the end, people liked it. I presented in front of professors and graduate students from all over the world—and managed to hold my own. I celebrated by tearing open a pack of stroopwafel and people watching along the pedestrian bridge over the River Maas. A deep, contemplative, sigh. This is the life.
Maastricht, Netherlands
Bruxelles, Belgium
“Politics is show biz for ugly people.” — David Cameron, Conservative Party (UK) leader, at TED 2010.
Now that I have your attention, I can talk about the acting, writing and directing of one Thomas J. McCarthy. Or Tom McCarthy. Or Tom J. McCarthy. The point is, aside from recognizing this guy as a character in mainstream American entertainment (everything from stints on Ally McBeal to Law & Order), little has been said about this guy as a writer. With three seemingly different films to his credit (Up, The Visitor, and The Station Agent), the blogosphere has not truly appreciated how each contributes to a narrative voice—a story of outsiders, of lost souls, of friendship in the oddest of places. His films were good, some even great—but when appreciated together, a larger context emerges and makes each of these films its own wonderful treatment of loneliness, of friendship, and in rebuilding when all seems lost. I spent part of my snow day (that’s snow day 1 of 2 and counting, friends!) revisiting these films, so I’ll spare you banter about his supporting roles on sitcoms, and I don’t think I’m grasping at straws when I say there is poetry in the strains that connect these disparate moments of Hollywood together.
I assume you’ve seen Up. By assume, I guess I’m just hoping you’re humanity, love of Ed Asner and Disney cartoons lead you to the theatre. Or maybe I’m just guessing you were part of the $725 Million the film made by the time it left the screen. I left Up crying, and there’s a pretty good chance you did too. I loved the opening sequence—the nerds who seem to devour loving glances from each other from youth to old age. And there was the improbable friendship of the now curmudgeonly old Carl and the hapless cub scout of Russell. We as an audience know what’s going to happen—the old man will soften and the travails will teach Russell—they will grow into one another’s fondness. Nothing about “Up” feels particularly saccharine; there’s death, illness, and corporate corruption right up front (and we’ll figure out later where Russell’s parents are in all this). As a result, we let down our defenses and trust that such a relationship—from disdain and grumbling to affection and care can happen in real time, all under two hours.
The Visitor was one of those movies that culled a perfect cultural storm of anti-immigration politics, the decline of the academy, and our Baby Boomer-led reflections on aging. Again, the curmudgeon: Richard Jenkins (though with his comic training, we know the icy exterior would have to melt) as widower and economics professor at Connecticut College, caught off guard by an immigrant African family residing in his New York City crash-pad. Professor Walter Vale’s shock and horror gives way to an unlikely friendship—immigrants Tarek and Zainab bring the crusty and contemplative Walter in to their friendship, replete with drum circles and spicy food. As Walter spends more time in New York, he begins lugging his bongo and Tarek shows him the city he had long ago ran away from. Their friendship is incredibly unlikely and wholly tested—pushing Walter off his defenses and his immigrant friends to find love and family in the man who once pushed them to the street. Again, I was misty-eyed. This is a movie of challenges and an investigation into what drives us. When we’ve lost it all, what do we care about? Tom McCarthy argues again and again, each other.
Within his trinity of what I’m dubbing “outsider romances” (I’m thinking of the term ‘romances’ not as Harlequin sap, but closer to the Shakespearean sort—that is, the tragicomedy, with a heavy dose of reunion and redemption), The Station Agent is the fringiest of the lot. Still, it secured BAFTA and Sundance awards for McCarthy’s screenplay, and a host of honors for Six Feet Under star Patricia Clarkson’s portrayal of Olivia, a forty-something wrestling with the death of her two sons and the dissolution of her marriage. McCarthy’s characters here are all in some way outsiders; all living around an abandoned train station in Newfoundland, New Jersey, but it is the curmudgeon, once again, whose narrative arc first brings us to the train station and in contact with this group of social misfits all trying to start over and make good. Here, the thorny outsider is Fin McBride—a train hobbyist and unmarried man with achondroplasic dwarfism. He’s inherited the train station from a friend and heads out seeking solace from the city, where his visible disability causes glares and stares among the urbanities. Like Walter Vale and Carl, Tom McCarthy doesn’t fully allow us to ‘like’ Fin at first; he’s brash, frosty, impersonal, socially awkward, and there’s a detectible anger to it all. This isn’t a Ricky Gervais style of unlikeable. It’s not goofy and it’s not looking for a laugh. It’s much more real. There is a raw humanity to catching people mid-suffering, to appreciate that their social graces fade as they’ve been sucker-punched. Ah, but Fin comes around. We grow to like him as he finds pleasure in the company of a ragtag pack of new friends.
What does this all mean? Thomas McCarthy gets people. His films get to the core of personality and relationships in a way that is pretty spectacular. True, I’m unlikely to fly away in a balloon-guided house, find squatters in my New York apartment, or inherit a dilapidated train station. That’s where the movies are the movies and offer us the chance to imagine and dream. But, wrestle with my place in it all? Juggle friendship and an intense inner monologue? Find peace among the company of others? I absolutely hope so. For that, Tom McCarthy possesses an awareness of the human condition that makes him all too important not to know by name.
After the New York Times published an updated 36 Hours survey of Nashville, featuring sustainable eating, live music, cowboy boots, and a boutique hotel fit for a Nobel laureate, I’ve been gunning to go back, and specifically, to check out this hotel of lore, the Hutton, an 13-story eco-friendly boutique hotel along West End Avenue, steps from Vanderbilt, Belmont and the fun coffee shops and local business that dot Broadway and West End (With extra love for Fido, the coffee shop cool enough for pagers, and SEE, my favorite eyewear boutique). It puts many of the fun, eclectic, and quirky areas of Nashville at your doorstep. Props for that. So, here I am, in Nashville—hunkered down in snowstorm—eight inches of snow and the warmth of my duvet and minibar liquor is feeling pretty comfy.
Hotels fall into two major schools of thought, and I spend my time in both: hotels that shower you with unnecessary indulgences that you’d never reasonably have in your everyday life, and places that advertise their TV lineup. Sure, the Hampton Inn has free breakfast, the Embassy Suites even has free booze if you’re willing to trot downstairs in your pjs for the reception, but grandiose and fun luxury needn’t get bogged down on eggs and toast. Winning the luxe hotel wars is about great design, impeccable service, and thinking about what you didn’t. Like surround sound in the bathroom. (Conan in the shower!)
The Hutton excels as one of these places that anticipates your every whim and then playfully (calmly, with a Southern casual hospitality), surpasses your expectations. Al Gore has the hots for this place because it represents eco-friendly building in his hometown—toilets with 2 button flush options, lights controlled by keycard keep rooms cool and lights off when guests are gone—but the cultured traveler will love Hutton for the seemingly effortless way they make the hotel a getaway all by itself. (As I stare outside at a city engulfed in the most snow it has seen in decades, this is a fairly easy proposition, but still.)
Visually interesting and packed with charm, the lobby is like a well curated exhbit—heavy on art reflecting both a twangy-Nashvillian quality and an earthiness that lets you know these are cool people who like saving the environment. I slunk into a robe, cracked the spine on a good book, and trotted down the hall to the communal Nespresso machine—where I dialed up a latte in the wee-hours, not because I needed it, not because I should, but because I could.
(With my apologies to Robert Cormier, whose batshit insane books informed at least a hearty sliver of puberty, and as such, my most nostalgic of chocolate eating days.)
photo: Scott Beale/United Hemispheres, Jan. 2010
It seems like everyone is talking chocolate lately. Chocolate, like beer and burgers before it, is the latest consumer product to be run through an intense marketing sieve—netting a whole crop of ambitious artisanal upstarts. All well and good, the question for me is, “Five bucks for chocolate?!”
San Francisco-based TCHO is that $5 chocolate bar, the latest entry to a mass-tege market that has come a long way from Godiva. United’s Hemispheres Magazine dedicated serious real estate in this month’s issue to wax poetic on the company’s science-meets-art approach to chocolate making. And, that’s true: TCHO isn’t your traditional chocolatier: founded by a former NASA engineer and in San Francisco, they don’t tweak; they beta release. Where other factories run on cranks and pulleys, they use an iPhone application. In developing release 1.0 as they called it, they ‘crowd-sourced’, just like lousy news agencies do on twitter. They gave the chocolate out to everyone and gathered opinions and observations. The prevailing theme: ‘chocolatey’, which is painfully useless, given the product they were asked to survey, is, uh…chocolate. Still, crowd sourcing, iPhone apps—that’s cool, absolutely. Tons of nerd love for all that. To me, however, the most important thing isn’t some sleek package or a confusing name.
How does it taste? It is quite good, and it grows on me. There’s a fruity, bitter, dark chocolate bite that gives way to a milky, almost malt-ball aftertaste. The lingering taste in my mouth far surpasses the first bite. After the chocolate breaks down in your mouth, you get this taste vaguely reminiscent of brownies—the chocolate, yes, but that almost fudge or cake-like quality brownies can have.
Where the trend in boutique chocolate seemed to slamming crap into our chocolate a la Vosges (bacon and cheese in your chocolate, anyone?), TCHO is about a fetish for purity; no hiding the chocolate with flavors or nuts. Just really high quality, fair-trade chocolate.
Overall, $5 is a touch on the steep side for chocolate, but this is slow food. Scarfing down the whole chunk won’t satiate your appetite nor will you have a chance to appreciate all the nuance they’ve managed to stuff in here. Consider it a special treat—as chocolate always was growing up, and know that this is a chocolate that takes itself very seriously.
So, I headed out to Cincinnati this week for a soiree of sorts, a gathering of friends, hosted at a small storefront gallery in the East Walnut Hills neighborhood. The gallery, a project of three friends Phyllis, Annie, and Cate (hence PAC), has only been open a year, and had some interesting stuff up when we stopped in. Of note is the Russian propaganda exhibit they are running—big sweeping vistas of workers in the fields, happy children, and of course, Lenin. Not like I have any plans of buying Communist propaganda for over my mantle anytime soon (nor do I have a mantle, you know better), but there’s a lot of fun to be had in looking.
My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2010-1-24) -
Imported from Last.fm Tumblr by JoeLaz
My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2010-1-17) -
Imported from Last.fm Tumblr by JoeLaz
Portland is a foodie’s paradise. No secret here. And with a prime location close to the coast, wine country, and mountains, localvores can rejoice at a bevy of tasty local treats, even in the dead of winter. After all, we need something to eat with all that coffee.
Lovejoy Bakers: In the heart of Northwest (and all the yuppifying condo construction that’s been going on), a new bakery cafe has sprouted up. Service was a touch frosty, but is quickly forgiven—this is a place that takes bread seriously. The stuff on the bread has to match up. The Lovejoy Deluxe is a light and fluffy ciabatta roll packed with blue cheese, bacon, egg, frisee lettuce, and a touch of balsamic vinegar. It’s a somewhat off kilter taste: at once decidely sloppy breakfast (eggs, bacon), and a crunchy lunchtime treat (blue cheese, balsamic vinegar, lettuce). It’s wonderfully filling, the kind of sandwich that you keep eating as much to feed your appetite as because it piques your interest. As you munch, enjoy contemplating a snack (or two) from the playful wall of samples. 939 NW 10th Avenue lovejoybakers.com
The Lovejoy Deluxe is a sandwich to be reckoned with.
Samples! On Spoons! Betcha can’t eat just one.
Por que no: Up in Northeast Mississippi, in a tiny storefront, is a quaint cave of Mexican grub. It meets all my criteria for dining: it’s cheap, it’s tasty, it’s made of real food. Por que no is a bit off the beaten path, but folks from all over the city were pressed in to the 20 seat eatery when my friend Jennie and I stopped in. Unfussy, quirky, if not unpretentious, the low ceilings feel ready to fall down with all the bric-a-brac they’ve stuffed on to the walls. Sure, living in Chicago, I’ve had more authentically Mexican food—and one could argue that with Akon blaring on the speakers and fruity drinks on offer, this is Mexican for white people. More aptly, it’s accessible, fresh, and tasty, and for that I left stuffed, happy, and my wallet, only $7 lighter. 3524 N. Mississippi. porquenotacos.com
Serious fixin’s: Plenty of ways to deck out your taco.
Voodoo Doughnuts: Nevermind the fact they spell ‘donut’ funny. Everything about Voodoo is a bit theatre of the absurd, bit college humor, and a heavy dose of irony in the form of ugly looking donuts. There, I said it. These aren’t donuts that you look at and go, “Damn, I really want a cake donut covered in Fruit Loops” or “Shucks, that Bacon-wrapped Maple Log is going to spoil dinner!” But, likely, I, and the 30 minute line we were slogging through hadn’t heard of Voodoo because of Fruit Loops. No, their fame was more likely assured upon creating the cock ‘n balls doughnut. Yes, you heard me. (Allison Weiss and Lauren Zettler made a video devouring the dessert dong during their Pacific Northwest tour last Spring). A few observations, having now consumed my first chocolate-frosted phallus:
After waiting in line for twenty minutes, my friend and I smelled like donut. And if the stink of fried dough on your sweater isn’t enough to make you queasy, the folks at Voodoo will sell you a bucket, a heaping bucket, of day old doughnuts for $5. I’m thinking this would be great for parties and entertaining, but the folks rifling through buckets in the shop didn’t seem quite as socially inclined. It’s fun, but there’s a huge kitsch-tourism element here. Something to cross off my list? Two locations, but less crowded at 1501 NE Davis. voodoodoughnut.com
A Bucket of Day Olds, $5. The fat ass that follows is included at no additional cost.
Some of the offerings: Yes the donut penis does say “EAT MEAT”.
Greetings from Portland—and onward to Hood River, the Columbia River Gorge, and the Timberline Lodge, where I will, for the first time ever, ski. Of course, the Gorge has been a bit less serene than this picture (taken on my last trip in 2008), as demonstrated by this epic newscast from the Vista House two days ago. Ugh.
My ultra-cheapo ticket to Portland—$120 r/t has a few strings attached, notably, my needing to fly out of Indianapolis. And then connect. And connect again. Whatever. Those are valuable segments in the quest toward frequent flyer royalty.
I’m pretty excited to see my friend Jennie, who I worked with 4(?) summers ago. Four, yeah. Jennie’s been living out in Portland, and never without a sense of adventure. And a great taste for micro-brews and being a foodie. There are some Portland haunts I’m looking forward to, perhaps none as much as Canoe—a tchotchke shop for me. Canoe is minimalist, heavy on walnut wood, and mid-century aesthetics. I have no use for most of the stuff they sell—$18 notebooks and wooden bird statuettes—and yet, presently so seriously, so significantly, I can’t help but want it all.
And then there’s the phallic doughnuts. Seriously. More to come on this later.
