A Chance Encounter (or "How I Met My Wife")

"Please Baby... Let's get it right
I don't think I can take it...one more night.
I know I love you, I love you, I love you as though the stars are mine
So please Baby, show me you are mine."
- Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, "Please Baby" (1998)





In the late 90's I worked as a bartender at the Broadway Grill on Seattle's Capitol Hill. Capitol Hill is an eclectic, sort of arty, bohemian neighborhood - or it tries to be. It's where I lived, and it's also the predominant gay neighborhood in Seattle. The Broadway Grill was one of the main hangouts to see and be seen. 

I was good friends with another bartender who worked across the street at a bar called Charlie's. She would come in to the Broadway and drink when she was off work, and I would go to Charlie's and drink when I was off and she was working. At that time she was also dating one of the female servers at the Broadway, and we would hangout for cocktails and whatnot occasionally.

On Valentine's Day of 1998, my bartender friend was sitting at my bar in the late morning. It was a Saturday and she had just had breakfast and was nursing a Bloody Mary. Her girlfriend would stop by and talk to her (and nibble off her plate) while she was working her own section of the restaurant. At one point they asked me what I was doing that night - since it was Valentine's Day. I laughed and told them I had no plans, since I wasn't dating anyone at the time. They invited me to go out with them to the Re-Bar that night. The Re-Bar is a gay (or gay-friendly, at least) bar downtown, just down from Capitol Hill. That night was Lesbians in Love night to celebrate the holiday. I laughed again and asked if they were serious. They both nodded and said that they were just going to hang out and play pool and they wanted me to go along. Since I had no plans, and would be able to hang out with two beautiful women, I decided to do it.

We got there around 9 or 10 pm, got some beers, and retired to the pool room to shoot a few games. After a while I wandered out to the main area, which had a large dance floor and a long bar at the back. I stood off to the side, leaning against the wall and nursed my beer. I watched the dancers and sighed at all the beautiful women who weren't playing for my team. There were a few men there too, in couples or by themselves - so I didn't completely stand out, but was certainly in the minority as a man, and even more so as a straight man. I noticed in particular a redhead dancing by herself at times, and with a few friends at other times. I have a particularly strong attraction to redheads (a compulsion really), and so I watched her with keen interest.

After some time the redhead broke away from her friends and walked directly towards me. She stopped in front of me and said, "Can I ask you something?"

Surprised, I stammered, "Sure."

"Are you gay or are you straight?" she inquired.

I laughed. It was a question I got a lot working at the Broadway. Most everyone assumes you're gay if you work there. But after they'd see me eyeing the female customers or comparing notes with the lesbians (we would give each other a 'head's up' if a particularly striking female would come into the restaurant) - they would often ask me exactly the same question.

"I'm straight," I replied.

"Thank you," she said, and immediately turned around, took a couple steps and yelled to her friends across the bar, "I TOLD you so!"

I stood there stunned and amused as she made her way back to her group of friends. I wasn't sure what to do next. She was beautiful and so I was certainly interested. But I realized with a smile that now I didn't know if SHE was straight or gay. I wandered back into the pool room to discuss the strange happening with my friends. They both demanded that I go talk to her, at the very least to see what persuasion she was. After a couple more beers and some more convincing (I'm a bit shy) I decided that I didn't have anything to lose and that I should at least find out her name and what her forthright question and odd response to my answer was all about.

I made my way back out to the bar area and scanned the crowd. For a moment I was afraid she might have left. Then I spotted her standing near the bar.

I approached her and said, "Can I ask you a question?" She smiled and said, "I'm straight. I'm just here with my friends dancing."

I smiled back and said, "What's your name?"

"Stacie," she replied.

"I'm Kevin, would you like to dance?" It was the only other thing I could think of to say.

It should be pointed out at this time that I do not dance. Or at least, if I do dance, I don't dance well. I would be the visual definition of the stereotypical non-rhythmic white-guy. I'm probably not as bad as Elaine Benes from Seinfeld - but I'm really (really) not a good dancer. But I had nothing else at that moment, so we danced. I do like to dance, if I'm tipsy enough not to feel too self-conscious. So we danced. And it was fun. She had a great smile, and she, at least, could dance. I shuffled and flapped about and watched her move smoothly to the beat of the music.

The night got late and I had to open the bar the next morning - being there at 7 am. Gotta be ready to serve the morning drunks their Bloody Mary's right on time at 8 o'clock. Even had one guy who would be there at opening to have a straight shot of Rye whiskey. I decided to try to play it cool, and so I told her that I had to go. I told her I wanted her number, but that I probably wouldn't call her. I told her that I would love to see her again and that I worked at the Broadway Grill and that if she came in while I was working I would buy her a drink and we could talk. Then I left.

It was a good walk home, as I felt exhilarated and alive. Happy. The cold February chill sent shivers through my body as I smiled and thought of the redhead.

It was a few days later that she came in to the bar. It was a weekday evening and I was tending alone. She came up and sat at the first stool and said, "Hi, do you remember me?"

I said, "Sure, Stacie right?"

She nodded and I held out my hand and said, "Kevin. Nice to see you again."

She stayed there for a few hours and we got to know each other a bit better. I had one ticket to see "Big Bad Voodoo Daddy" that Friday night at the Fenix Underground, a club downtown. I asked her if she wanted to go with me. She said she would and we made a date to meet at the J&M Café in Pioneer Square that night before the show.

Friday night at the J&M, and she was right on time. We had a couple cocktails (Tanqueray & Tonics - it would become our signature drink) and made small talk for a bit. Then we walked over to the Fenix. I had my ticket and had planned on just buying one for her at the door. When we walked up I saw, to my dismay, that the show was sold out. I asked the door guy if there were any tickets left and he shook his head.

At the spur of the moment I surreptitiously slid a twenty dollar bill onto his clipboard and asked him to check and see if she was on the "guest list." (I think I even used air quotes). He stared at me for a moment, probably saw the pleading look in my eyes, looked down at his clipboard again, and said, "Oh yeah, here she is."

I was astounded. It actually worked. It was like a scene out of a movie. A river of relief flooded my veins. He stamped us both and we went inside. The band was rocking and we danced, laughed, and partied through the night. To this day I still crack a smile when I hear Big Bad Voodoo Daddy play "You and Me and the Bottle Make Three Tonight."

And that, my friends, is the story of how I met my future wife.

KJT - Seattle (1998)

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Amateur Hour

"Another New Year's Eve,
lost in obscurity,
lost in melodrama..."
- Wordblender, "Another New Year's Eve" (2003)


I generally loathe New Year's Eve.

But I wasn't always this way. I remember when I was younger I always had such high hopes for New Year's Eve. The barrage of images and stories from TV and movies always had the New Year's Eve Party as the 'be-all, end-all' party. The BIG one. The Ultimate. The party for the ages. In reality, this just never happened. I've been to a few OK New Year's Eve parties, some lousy ones, but never a knock-down, drag-out party like Hollywood led you to believe would materialize. For years I kept trying, to no avail. I slowly began to realize that there are several reasons for this.

The first, as I've explained already, are the unreal expectations foisted upon us (well, at least on me) by Hollywood. Nothing could ever really live up to some of the parties shown in the movies.

Next is the fact that there are way, way too many Amateur Drinkers out on New Year's Eve. My friends and I sort of considered ourselves professional drinkers. We were well-seasoned and practiced. We savored anything vinted, brewed, or distilled. Tipping them back throughout the year. I was always amazed at the amount of lunatic drinkers out on New Year's Eve going absolutely nuts. It seemed as if they waited all year to let loose all at once on one night. Recipe for disaster. Practice makes perfect.

Another factor in the Meh-New-Year's-Eve mix, is that fact that most of the time there were too many options. I remember a few years of flitting from one party to the next all night long (searching for the motherlode). With that many options, it's too difficult to get everyone together in one place, so you end up missing some of your best friends, or only seeing them for a brief moment.

A final nail in the coffin is the driving. You certainly don't want to be drinking and driving ever - but especially on this night. Not only does every police force in the country have increased patrols and checkpoints, but remember all those Amateur Drinkers I was talking about earlier - well invariably a large percentage of these idiots climb behind the wheel after being well into their cups and careen around the city. They're lucky if all they do is get arrested or crash into a lamp post or parked car. Every year far too many people die on the roads on New Year's Eve. It's a busy night for the Reaper. 

41 percent of all traffic fatalities during the New Year's period occurred in crashes involving a drunk driver or motorcycle rider. This compares with 31 percent for the year as a whole*. Even if you have a designated driver you still have to watch out for the drunk behind the wheel meeting you at the same intersection at the same time. And taxi cabs? Whew, that's a job in itself on New Year's Eve. I've waiting almost three hours for a cab on New Year's Eve. And if you're trying to get one on the street downtown it's survival of the fittest. Fist-fights are not uncommon.

All this has led me to believe it's better to leave this night to the fools and clowns. A couple of years we've just watched movies at home, stepped out onto the back deck at midnight to watch the fireworks over Capitol Hill, then slip back inside for another glass of wine. One year Stacie and I were in New York City over New Year's Eve. We had plans to go to Times Square and watch the ball drop and ring in the New Year with about a million other people. The city began gating off Times Square early in the morning and people were lining up to get in by 9AM. This meant that you would have to either wait in line or wait inside Times Square for over 15 HOURS before the ball even dropped. We quickly decided we had better things to do in NYC all day long than stand in line. By early evening the lines were over 12 blocks long. Times Square is on 43rd & Broadway. Our hotel was on 56th. By about 8PM we weren't allowed to go back down 56th to our room - the block was closed because the line for Times Square was taking up all the room! We took the subway to the Village, had some pizza, and went to a movie. We rang in the new year in NYC inside a theater. It was one of my favorite New Year's Eves. By the time we got out the madness was much subdued and we hopped into bars and cafes all the way back to our hotel.

Another time or two a good friend of ours had wine and cheese parties at her place on New Year's Eve. A wide selection of artisan cheeses paired with great wine, fresh baked breads & crackers, olives, prosciutto, and other delectable antipasti. These have been great, mellow parties that I very much enjoyed. But again, trying to get a cab home from these parties was a chore.

I'm just not a fan.

KJT - Seattle (2008)
(Martini-Eye painting by artist Rick Klu, from Wordblender's "Tainted Ambrosia" CD, 2003)

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Lamb Souvlaki

"Show me another pleasure like dinner 

which comes every day and lasts an hour." 
- Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, French diplomat (1754-1838)

This evening's repast: Lamb Souvlaki, Greek salad, fresh made tzatziki, fresh made tyrokavteri, Trader Joe's hummus, Retsina wine.

I'd been marinating the lamb cubes since yesterday afternoon: olive oil, diced red onion, crushed garlic, fresh rosemary & thyme, a bay leaf, lemon juice, lemon zest, sea salt, ground pepper. Skewered them and roasted them on the grill so that they had a bit of char on the outside but were still quite rare inside.

Bought some Greek yogurt and mixed it together with some lemon juice, crushed garlic, English cucumber, a bit of dill, pinch of salt to fold together for the tzatziki.

To make the tyrokavteri I put some roasted red peppers into the food processor along with fresh Feta cheese, olive oil, lemon juice, one jalapeno, and pureed until smooth & creamy. (I just realized I hadn't taken a picture of... which is fine, because it somewhat resembles pink hummus.)

The Trader Joe's hummus is so good, I decided not to concoct that particular dip tonight. They didn't let us down - a great hummus (for store-bought).

A fresh made Greek salad (a bit of Romaine, chopped green pepper, red pepper, red onion, tomatoes, cucumbers, and Kalamata olives, Feta, sea salt & ground pepper) and sesame pita rounded out the meal. 

Topped it off with a few glasses of Retsina - a special, resinated Greek wine that can only be made in certain areas of Greece, to the established recipe which goes back to the traditions of 5000 years ago. They used to store this wine in vessels sealed with pine resin. The wine picked up a bit of the distinctive flavor of the resin and voila, Retsina. A unique and wonderful taste addition to a great dinner. Takes me back to Ios... the only thing missing was dolmathes. Next time.

KJT - Seattle (2008)

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Shrimp Scampi

"After a good dinner one can forgive anybody,

even one's own relations."

- Oscar Wilde, Irish poet, author, playwright, critic (1854-1900)

A good dinner: Angel hair pasta with caramelized onions & Chanterelle mushroom tomato sauce. Shrimp Scampi, fresh bread, fried eggplant, vino.

Began by caramelizing a whole onion for over an hour. Then dropped in the Chanterelles. Sauteéd for bit longer, then added crushed tomatoes, some tomato paste, fresh rosemary, fresh thyme, fresh basil, sugar, ground sea salt, ground black peppercorns, a bit of the wine. Simmered.

Meanwhile I had shrimp marinating in crushed garlic, finely diced red onion, olive oil, fresh rosemary, fresh thyme, salt, pepper, a pinch of cayenne. Before cooking I added a dollop of real butter, a splash of dry vermouth, and a squeeze of lemon juice along with a bit of the zest.

Sliced the eggplant lengthwise into strips, salted, let sit in colander for an hour, rinsed, dried. Eggwash and breaded and fried in vegetable oil, sprinkled with Asiago. Served with some of the tomato sauce for dipping.

Quick-cooked the shrimp under the broiler.

Topped off with red wine and a loaf of fresh bread I bought at the bakery at the bottom of the hill on Madison (along with olive oil & balsamic vinegar). Stacie had to forgo the wine, for obvious reasons.

Delish.

KJT - Seattle (2008)

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Vegas Sucks:Observations from Interbike

"Such a muddy line

Between the things you want,

and the things you have to do..."

- Sheryl Crow "Leaving Las Vegas" (1994)

1. Vegas Sucks.

I used to love Las Vegas. From the time I was 21 through about 27 or 28 years old. Now, not so much. I used to think Vegas was the epic party place (and it was/is) - 24 hours of debauchery: blackjack, roulette, craps, drinking all night, drinking all day, strip clubs, rock shows, no sleep, over-indulgence, etc. Now while I had a blast doing that, and I don't regret it, as I'm nearing 40, I find that it appeals to me less and less. Especially now that I've been to Las Vegas probably 11 or 12 times in the last decade and a half, five of those times just with Raleigh for Interbike. I can safely say I'm over it. The last four times I've visited the city I haven't gambled a penny, and I didn't have one hangover this entire trip - and there were plenty of opportunities. Walking through the casino on the way to the convention center every day, seeing the same sad, vacant people plugging money into the slot machines over and over left me with a depressed feeling. Because I live in Seattle I've gotten to where I take it for granted that there is no smoking inside. The smell and the smoke in the casinos and bars sucked. And don't get me started about the heat. 100 degrees at the end of September with no humidity - that sucks. You wince when you step outside, like you've been hit in the face with a hot cast-iron skillet. You have to use the air conditioner all the time, and that sucks too. 

Fake plastic city for fake plastic people.

2. Alaska Airlines Sucks.

They used to be a great airline, easily one of the best. I don't think I've flown on an Alaska Airlines flight in the last 5 years that has left on time - including both flights this jaunt. WTF?

3. Flying Sucks.

I don't like any of the other airlines either, and I have a special hatred for Southwest and their goofy, cattle-call boarding. Ridiculous. Flying gets you where you are going fast, but that is THE ONLY redeeming feature. I wish we had bullet trains in America. Please vote for that, California! (link)

4. Upper respiratory/Sinus Infections Suck.

Vegas hates me back. Not sure what it was, but from day one my sinuses were killing me, my nose was running, my throat felt like I had gargled broken glass, and I generally felt like shit all week. Friday night, the last night there, was really the only night I felt half-way decent. Was able to stay up till all hours and witness some extreme stupidity.

5. The Interbike Tradeshow went great for Raleigh. Our bikes rocked, our catalogs rocked, our graphics rocked, and everyone seemed pretty jazzed on all our stuff. The Raleigh Rainier Cross bike, with my graphics, really seemed to draw a lot of attention, even landing on the VeloNews website. (link)

6. I went to the CrossVegas Cyclo-cross race on Wednesday night, and that was a blast. Jeremy Trebon won, and Lance Armstrong raced. This was the second time I got to see him race live. (I was on the Champs-Élysées in Paris in 2000 when he won his second Tour de France.)

7. After the show wrapped up on Friday, our V.P. took about 20 of us out for a celebratory dinner at a restaurant called Rum Jungle in Mandalay Bay. The food was amazing - a full-on meat-o-rama. Unlimited skewers of spit-roasted meat carved right at the table. Marinated beef, bacon-wrapped chicken, chorizo sausage, habanero/mango-glazed turkey breast, roasted lamb chops, grilled jumbo prawns, bacon-wrapped scallops, and broiled salmon. The meal also came with a killer chop salad with a creamy mint-cilantro dressing, and Cuban rice, black beans and fried plantains. Epic feast.

8. More than ready to get back to my comfortable routine with Stacie and the dogs (just got back from a long walk with all of them).

9. After an entire week, I can't wait to get back on a bicycle.

10. I LOVE 64 degrees! Thank you, Seattle!

KJT - Las Vegas (2008) 

Lance photo: Kurt Jambretz/Action Images; Raleigh Rainier bike photos: Matt Pacocha.

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Surprise, surprise, surprise...

"The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. 

It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us."

- Ashley Montagu, British-American humanist (1905-1999)

So my wickedly clever and wonderfully devious wife leads me to believe we are throwing a surprise party for a friend of ours. It's going to be at our house, in our backyard, and we are having a huge New Orleans buffet feast: red beans & rice, andouille sausage gumbo, fried catfish, shrimp/bacon/cheese grits, seafood enchiladas, macaroni & cheese, strawberry cake, peach cobbler, and we hired a bartender to work the party too.

I'm up for it, sounds fun, etc. Then she tells me that I have to go to the airport and pick up our friend's brother. I grumble at this, whine a bit, but end up going out to the airport. I'm slowly cruising past the arrivals and I see this guy pointing at me and smiling. As he starts running towards me I realize it's an old friend from my Colorado days, who has lived in Tennessee since the early 90's. We still communicate fairly often, but I've only seen him once or twice in almost 15 years. My first thought is, "Wow, he must be out here for business - how random that I see him at the airport." Then he opens the door, throws his bag in the back, and climbs in. "Surprised to see me?" he laughs. I just stutter. "You'd better call your wife," he says. I just mumble, "What, uh, what?" I'm completely confused at this point. He laughs again, "Just call your wife."

Turns out the 'surprise party' is for me, for my 40th birthday. This is quite a surprise, since my birthday is at the end of December. Told you she was devious, and the weather out here in Seattle is much more conducive to parties in September than in December. We had 40 or so of our best friends, including my mother and a few old ones I hadn't seen in ages. Great food (my wife is an amazing cook), beautiful weather (upper 70's), great bartender, lots of mojitos, way too many shots of Jameson and Bushmills (not one for religious discrimination am I), numerous beers, the dogs and cat, the sweet sounds of Dr. John, Rebirth Brass Band, Big Sam, Professor Longhair, and the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. We were all in our cups late into the night (early morning actually).

It was a blast. Wish my sister could have made it too, but she's on secret work detail for the government (very hush, hush!). She called and laughingly wished me an 'early' happy birthday. Good times...

KJT - Seattle (2008) Kaiser guarding the food, pre-dinner drinks as the sun sets...

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Loch, Stock, and Two Fingers of Scotch

"Give me but one hour of Scotland, Let me see it ere I die."

- William Edmondstoune Aytoun, Scottish poet/writer (1813-1865)

Nine hours by bus. We should have taken the train, but the bus was much cheaper. London to Edinburgh via the overnight coach. A contortionist's dream. For a 6´5˝ clown, a cramped and brutal nightmare. I couldn't get comfortable, couldn't fully stretch out, and on a bus I feel obligated to not get up and move around, as I like to do on a train if I'm feeling stiff. It was a long, tiring journey.

We arrived in Edinburgh, checked into a small back alley hostel, and immediately began medicating the kinks with Tennents & Scotch. We tooled around Edinburgh for a couple days, partying with fellow travelers, wandering the old streets, and then it was up to Inverness. I had a longing to gaze upon Loch Ness, that mysterious body of water that had conjured up so many hours of wonder, fear and intrigue in my imagination as a young boy. Even the name sounded ominous to me. We stayed at a comfortable B&B in Inverness and made our way down to the Loch.

I was suitably impressed. The Highlands of northern Scotland are a beautiful, rugged, rough country. Cold and hard in February, the trees barren and gnarled, but the land still lush and green. The wind sliced through our jackets and we could feel the tail end of winter in it's icy fingers. Loch Ness had small white caps on its surface and the sky was harsh and grey. 23 miles long and a mile across, because of it's great depth the Loch holds more water than all the lakes and rivers in England and Wales put together. Due to it's high peat content, the visibility of the water can be as little as four inches. Just a few feet from the shore and the earth abruptly drops away to depths of 90 feet or more. The deepest part, "Edwards Deep," is estimated at 787 feet below the surface. We wandered through the remains of the 11th-century Urquhart Castle for a while, then, as a few small flakes of snow began to swirl and the afternoon deepened towards twilight, decided to head back to Inverness to sit in front of a fire and warm up with a little bit of Glen Ord 12-year Single Malt & some Caledonian 80/- (a wonderfully hoppy red-brown ale).

We never did catch a glimpse of the monster.

KJT - Urquhart Castle & Loch Ness, Scotland (1996)

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Diablo Lake

"I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling."

- Jack Kerouac, "The Dharma Bums" (1958)

We're a couple weeks away (Oct. 2) from the 40th anniversary of the formation of North Cascades National Park Complex here in Washington state. My own 40th is coming up in December, and PN's 40th was just celebrated (wildly) last Friday night. Interesting timing then, that found myself, PN, and RJ camping last week in a small corner of the NCNPC, nestled up in the mountains, just off the shores of Lake Diablo.

Just a few hours from Seattle, up the beautiful, scenic State Route 20 (the North Cascades Highway), the Park is a wilderness wonderland - kept so pristine partially by the fact that it has just the one highway running through it (good work there, Park people!) We weren't too far from Desolation Peak, on the far side of Ross Lake, where Jack Kerouac sat watch in the Forest Service Fire Lookout Station back in the summer of 1956 - producing the stories in "The Dharma Bums" and "Desolation Angels."

It was a brief, but much-needed respite from the city grind that all three of us love, but at the same time need to distance ourselves from now and again. To regroup. To reset the counter back to zero. To sit near a noisy creek in the dark of the night, the tall trees surrounding you, a million stars overhead, the smell of pine and fresh air - it brings you a little bit back into balance. It heals some of the aches and pains of living. It is a salve for the psyche. We camped for three nights, got in two nice day hikes (one to just below the appropriately named Pyramid Peak), and I swam in the chilly, glacial Diablo Lake - it's hyper-blue/green waters reminding me of the river Inn winding through Tyrol in southern Austria. Burgers and brats were grilled, much beer consumed, labyrinthian conversations woven around the fire pit, and once again a bit of tequila was passed around. We also had Guatemalan cigars to celebrate the recent addition to RJ's family - the wonderfully named Ziya Zappa. 

With all the beer & tequila, the cigars were a bit much and went right to my head. I quickly had to revert back to the liquid barley. No one's soul melted this trip, but the rejuvenation of the spirit was certainly felt by all three.

KJT - Diablo Lake & Pyramid Peak, North Cascades National Park Complex, WA (2008)

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El Aniversario

"A wedding anniversary is the celebration of love, 

trust, partnership, tolerance and tenacity. 

The order varies for any given year."

- Paul Sweeney, American writer

We rented a villa on a cliff overlooking the bay. It had five different levels, nine bedrooms, a swimming pool on a wide balcony, a pool table, and came with a cook and a bartender/housekeeper. We invited a small group of our closest friends to fly down and celebrate with us. It was June, the rainy season in Mexico. We were lucky during the days, the sun was out and it was hot. Every evening the clouds and wind would roll in from the west and there would be fantastic lightning storms out over the bahía de banderas. We would all sit out on the balcony in the warm rain, drinking margaritas, Mexican beer, mojitos, and watch the white sheets explode out over the water and slash down to strike the surface. It was beautiful and terrible. The days were spent snorkeling, shopping, deep sea fishing, swimming, and just lounging about. We would read for a bit, and then the housekeeper might ask if we wanted a drink or a shrimp quesadilla and perhaps some guacamole? "Splendid idea," we'd say. 

On the afternoon of the 19th, we all went out to Le Kliff and Stacie and I were married in a semi-traditional Mexican ceremony. She wore a beautiful pale pink sun dress and I had on hemp cotton pants, a Mexican shirt and sandals. The short, succinct ceremony was on a promontory out above the water of the bay. Afterwards we all traipsed up to the restaurant above and had a gigantic feast. Lobster, shrimp, chicken, and pork along side fresh flounder, snapper, tuna, salmon and scallops. Margaritas and Sangria in bowls the size of your head. G got drunk and made an ass of herself. We all laughed. She played the fool quite well, and wandered off with a taxi cab driver. Back at the villa, we were all in our cups, jumping into the swimming pool, cracking more beer, laughing, playing, and watching the storm show out over the dark water as the warm rain washed us clean. 

Best week of my life.

KJT - Puerto Vallarta, Mexico (2004)

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St. Michael's Mountain

"I believe in nothing, everything is sacred.

I believe in everything, nothing is sacred."

- Tom Robbins "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" (1976)

Paris > Rennes > Pontorson. Trains are the only way to travel.

We headed out from the City of Light, pilgrims to witness the splendor of Le Mont Saint-Michel: a small stony island in the tidal flats of the mouth of the Couesnon River, on the coast of Normandie. An abbey was built on the island around the year 700, and repeatedly added-on and built-up over the centuries. It had been used as a monastery, a site of pilgrimage, a fortification during the 100 Years War, a prison, a church again, and finally a tourist trap. We booked a hotel in Pontorson, whose only claim to fame is that it is the closest train station to the abbey. We missed the last bus out to the Mont so had to share a taxi. We wandered through the snake-like lanes of the abbey, stopped in at several cafés for cocktails, and had a quick dinner of agneau de pré-salé (salt meadow lamb), a delicious local specialty. We stood out on the high parapets and gazed over the countryside. In years past the Mont had been connected to the mainland only during low tides by a narrow causeway. During high tides it was completely cut off. The tides could come in at an alarming 6 1/2 feet per second and vary by 46 feet between low and high. A permanent land bridge had been constructed in 1879.

 

We watched in amazement as the water rushed in, and what was a vast field moments before was transformed into a churning, frothy sea. It was well past dark when we decided to depart. We began walking back along the causeway with our thumbs held out. Very soon a car pulled over and a nutty Italian couple leaned out the window. Eliano & Cinzia asked us in an absurd mix of broken English, bad French and frenetic Italian if we needed a ride. We laughed and jumped in. The trek back to town was a chaotic journey as we all tried to communicate with one another and succeeded only minimally. But they were great fun and we asked them if we could buy them a drink when we arrived back in town. We stopped at a small café and continued the ridiculous attempt at conversation over wine, Ricard, and Sambuca. They lived southwest of Rome and were on their honeymoon. We laughed long into the night and made plans to see them again when our journey took us south into Italy.

KJT - Le Mont Saint-Michel, Normandie, France (1998)

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Two Pints

"Hold to the now, the here, 

through which all future plunges to the past."

- James Joyce, "Ulysses" (1922)

We had the weekend off from studying at La Sorbonne so I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to make a much needed solo voyage. I filled a small backpack, pulled out the credit card, and bought a round trip ticket from Paris to Dublin on Aer Lingus. I was soon on the way to Ireland, the land of my grandmother. On arrival I made my way to the south bank of the River Liffey, to the Temple Bar neighborhood. I checked into a somewhat seedy hostel and proceeded to sample as many pints of true Guinness from not only the St. James's Gate Brewery, but also from as many pubs as were within walking distance. I proclaimed them all to be superb, and found 

that a wee nip of Jameson was the perfect accompaniment 

to a "pint o' the black." 

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of coffee and Advil, I caught an early train headed west. After some hours and a bit of a nap, I found myself all the way across the country in the City of Galway, sister city to my beloved Seattle. Nestled up against the River Corrib and Galway Bay, the city is beautiful and vibrant and known as Ireland's Cultural Heart. 

Once again I found an economical hostel, this time a dorm-style room with six bunk beds. My roommates were all fine Irish lads and lasses, who upon learning my first name welcomed me as a long lost brother and quickly shortened it to "Kev." During another evening of pub roaming, I found myself saddled with a new nickname: Two Pints. 

As the lines at the bars were all quite long, I had taken to ordering two pints of Guinness at a time. That way I could drink the first while becoming further acquainted with my roomies, and the second I could nurse as I stood in the long lines awaiting a refill. An old trick we had perfected in my college days. Prevents one from running dry and the frightening possibility of becoming parched. They proclaimed it genius, and the moniker was given. Sláinte! (Cheers!)

SIDENOTE: Today, June 16th, is Bloomsday (Lá Bhloom), celebrated in Dublin (and elsewhere) to commemorate the life and work of the great Irish writer James Joyce, and especially his magnum opus "Ulysses," whose protagonist is named Leopold Bloom.

KJT - Galway & Dublin, Ireland (2000)

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Friday Farmer's Market

"Let the stoics say what they please, we do not eat for the good of living, but because the meat is savory and the appetite is keen."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson, American philosopher/poet (1803-1882)

"I am not a glutton – I am an explorer of food."

- Erma Bombeck, American humorist writer (1927-1996)

Stacie and I walked down the hill to our local farmer's market last night. We took Kaiser along to sniff and nose about. We browsed for something spectacular for dinner. We already had quite a full larder of vegetables, so unfortunately we had to bypass some wonderful offerings. We decided upon fresh homemade egg pasta: one package of Duck Ravioli (with carrot, onion, spinach, Parmesan & herbs) and one package of Goat Cheese and Veggie Ravioli (with bell peppers, zucchini, ricotta & bread crumbs). We also picked up some sourdough bread, some organic radishes to put on our salads, and a cup of fresh made marinara sauce. For a future lunch we also grabbed a package of homemade Jalapeno & Cream Cheese Tamales, and a small brick of Chile Chive Onion Gouda cheese.

Along with spinach salads we shared both pastas, the goat cheese & veggie ravioli with the marinara, and the duck ravioli with a tasty sauce of melted butter, sautéed garlic, lemon zest & lemon juice, oregano & basil. I caramelized a large onion to add to both dishes. Along with the fresh bread and a bottle of Dunham, it was truly a transcendent dinner.

KJT - Seattle (2008) 

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The Big Easy

"There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God, I know I'm one..."

- The Animals, "House of the Rising Sun" (1964)

It was late. We were all quite "in our cups" as I liked to say. We had made the introduction of the Mint Julep, the Ramos Gin Fizz, a Hurricane, and numerous beers. We'd been imbibing since dinner 

(red beans & rice/crawfish po' boys) - and it was now well past midnight. We had roamed from one bar to the next inside the French Quarter. Our only criteria: live music. And we'd found a smorgasbord. All evening we'd been treated to the best the Crescent City had to offer: a rich musical gumbo of funk, jazz, blues, cajun, and second line sounds all liberally seasoned with as much trumpet, sax, tuba, trombone, and stride piano as we could stomach. Now, as we stumbled along Decatur street some distance from Jackson Square, we could smell the Mississippi just over the levee. We were making a roundabout way back to our hotel as a vague light in the eastern sky was slowly erasing the dark. Suddenly P stopped short. "Wait," he hissed. "Listen." In the distance we could just make out the high, thin wail of a lone brass instrument. "BONE!" P cried. "I hear trombone!" He had a huge, Cheshire grin and a wild, manic light in his eyes. He raised his finger and pointed. "This way..." He turned north and began to follow the music, being led by the pied piper once again. We looked at each other, shrugged and then followed willingly, realizing that this night would not end with the dawn...

KJT - New Orleans, Louisiana (2003)

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Georgetown Art Attack

"The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls."

- Pablo Picasso, Spanish artist (1881-1973)

(PAINTINGS and PHOTOS by DORIK DOWNING)

My good friend, Dorik (Double D), is having an ART SHOW this Saturday, June 14th, 2008 from 4 to 9 pm. 

It's at Earl Harper Studios in Georgetown (Seattle). 

Should be a good weekend. 

It's the Georgetown Art Attack on Saturday night, 

and the Georgetown Music Fest Friday and Saturday.

Harper Studios is located just south of downtown (sort of near the stadiums - well, south of Spokane Street) on Airport Way South, two doors south of Stellar Pizza. Address is 5531 Airport Way South, 

Studio B, Seattle, WA 98108. Phone is 206.763.9101.

He'll have paintings for sale, there are numerous bars, coffeeshops and cafés right there, live music, food, fun, etc. 

Hope I see you there...

SUPPORT LOCAL ARTISTS!

KJT - Seattle (2008)

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