Playtime on the Pier

It's raining cats and dogs when we bolt from the parking lot into the Old Spaghetti Warehouse at Laclede's Landing. Historical Laclede's Landing in downtown St. Louis is minutes from the Arch, with clubs, restaurants, theaters, a brewery and even a casino.

The weather has been nasty here in Missouri including turbulent gusts from a tornado that touched down a little over 50 miles from us. But we're a hungry bunch and even the middle-of-the-road chain restaurant, Spaghetti Warehouse, appeals to our palettes. The OSW is housed in a building with handsome red brick, dark cherry poster beams and rich cornices. The interior and observant waitress make up for the lack of Italian staples like fresh parmesan cheese, a peppermill and al dente dishes.

While we wait for our order.... "Don't encourage him," whispers Rutherford.

I'm laughing not at but with Paul, our Executive Producer who can memorize, recite and tell a joke like nobody's business. Some jokes are better left for stranger company but the majority leave me in stitches, clutching at my sides and wishing I could contribute my own funny pages. Finally the food arrives and we plunge into the feast like ravenous vultures. Topping off the mediocrity we settle on 2 slices of decadent chocolate and espresso cake. Dripping chocolate and caramel these were a wise choice on a wet evening.

Kabobs and Calypso Salad in St. Louis

I'm back in the Gateway City shooting a documentary about family roots, American values and a couple who launched a pet food dynasty. Just outside our apartment is this dressed up fire hydrant in stars and stripes. I'm bunking in Benton Park in an adorable 3-floor Victorian home restored to it's original beauty.

There's 10 of us who would otherwise be squeezed into a insufficient hotel unless our boy Paul didn't do some digging for this find. And what a find it is! This palace would go for a few million in NYC but here in St. Louis the selling price is just under $350,000. Yesterday we spent the day roaming the good and the bad neighborhoods of St. Louis, both sides of the Missouri river.

East St.Louis is crumbling to pieces but a bright ambitious local by the name of Rocco is doing everything to save it. And it's working. He and the mayor, politicians and area residents are pulling out all the stops to denail boarded up windows and doors to places that have potential at future use again.

Later that evening we stopped at The Venice Cafe, a quirky, colorful, Caribbean bar with a bearded old hippie named Uncle Bill "Green" that both collects the door charge and sings like Johnny Winter . I dragged my Republican cohorts to this peace-loving dive where fountains spray bohemian pattrooli oil and mosaic tile envelope the stairways. They were reluctant at first until I scouted a location on the patio with a wacky speed boat-turned-table to dine at. The table, chairs, hanging paintings, mannequins, bottle caps, license plates, dolls and abstract mosaics were great conversation starters.

Tom ordered the jerk chicken (how apropo), Jay had the sesame pasta (too cold for his liking) and I went for the fried plantains (not bad). Good stuff with a great waitress to help us refresh our thirst but decidedly we all left hoping for a little whiff of something more than chili sauce and tabouli, if you know what I mean!

Clean Teeth, Dirty Mind

It was time for my bi-annual cleaning and guess who had to go to Dr.Simon Rosenberg on 399 East 72nd Street between First and York Avenues? You guessed it. He and his crew are my favorites and they'll be yours too if you need the world's best dentist, a professional who can make you laugh while pulling out your molars.

The 125 mile trip from Albany to NYC is so worth it, especially if your a photographer, straight chick or gay guy wanting to take in a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit. A voyeuristic journey awaits you at the International Center of Photography called "Notes in the Margin of the Black Book." This installation is a series of photographs exposing “the black man.” The images were highly controversial at the time they were taken because they forced the viewer to accept and/or critique the stereotypes of black, gay culture.

The lighting of each image isn't half bad neither!

The Ladder Theory

Maxwell lives in one of the residence halls on the sprawling 25-acre campus known as Pratt Institute of Brooklyn, NY. He's a senior at one of the most highly acclaimed industrial design schools in the country. In fact, Pratt receives almost twice as many applications as any other art school with over 5000 applications for 645 freshman spots.

In exchange for a messy dorm room to bunk Sunday night I took Maxwell to a fabulous Italian haunt on Myrtle, a stretch of road that, up until just recently, was littered with drugs and violence. Now, the neighborhood on historic and ethnically diverse Clinton Hill is one of the safest places in Brooklyn. Dozens of hip, funky bars, clubs and restaurants complement the tree-lined streets topped with Victorian homes. Maxwell knows this area well and took me on a tour of many 19th-century brownstone mansions and rare architecture. There's definitely an electricity and creativity here and it shows in Pratt's outdoor art installations, like this one called... hmmm.

Well, I guess you can call it whatever you like - maybe "Climbing the Ladder to Success at Pratt" or maybe "Jacob's Ladder," though this school isn't exactly known to quote a biblical patriarch. What they are known to do is teach graduates to go on to lead hyper successful lives in engineering, architecture, illustration and communications design. The library is another unique gem and Maxwell wasted no time escorting me up 5 flights of Tiffany-influenced glass floors and ceilings before closing.

90-Year Old Rips up Roads in Long Island

This weekend I'm in Nassau Eisenhower Park to shoot the Long Island Marathon, Half Marathon, 10K and 5k. I got the call late last night and because a large swath of roads get blocked off as early as 7a for the events I jumped in my own race mobile at 3a and got here by 6a. Whew! A draining ride but smooth sailing with zero traffic at that ungodly hour.

One of my favorite runners of the 5K this morning included a spry youthful 90 year old by the name of Emmanuel Cappello or "Poppy" as his kids call him. Donning bright red sweats and a custom blue tshirt that said "Poppy, 90 years Young", the former furniture store owner jogged lightly alongside his children and grandchildren for 3.1 miles. His oldest granddaughter, a runner herself, convinced him he could do it and she was right. Amid a cloudy chilly morning, I caught sight of him at the start line when police detail informed me that he was the oldest gent in the pack, nearly a Centenarian.

Sure enough - there was Poppy - gathered with his energetic family alongside his grandson holding a video camera to document for posterity and Poppy's wife, who, unfortunately, couldn't attend. Before the gun went off he sucked in as much air as physically possible and launched himself forward within a crowd of 400 runners. Soon after that I lost sight of him. Security and police presence laughed that he'd probably need an oxygen mask before the race was over but Poppy triumphed leaving dozens of others trailing behind him.

As he neared the finish line just under 51 minutes I jumped at the chance to jog with him the last 500 yards while my shoulder camera rolled on his smiling mug and bright red sweatpants. Surprisingly, he didn't look winded or exhausted or drained whatsoever.

After receiving a medal for his impressive participation I asked, "Poppy, what's the secret to your longevity?"
Poppy looked to the sky for a moment and then down at his sweatpants... "it's all in the genes, it's all in the genes."

Because this is Poppy's first but not last 5K something tells me it's much more than just genes.

Table Scraps on Wolf Road

Wolf road in Colonie, NY, never seizes to amaze me. How it continues to accommodate so many chain restaurants, many only six degrees separated in quantity and quality, without draining the pool of privately owned restaurants is a real blessing.

In a city with fewer than a million hungry mouths every parking lot at Chili's, Moe's, P.F. Chang's, Fuddruckers, The Fox and the Firkin, Cheesecake Factory and Buca di Beppo was full tonight. Full parking lots say a lot about the economic health and wellness of the Capital Region and while our waistlines stretch so do our wallets. I'm sure Mayor Jennings couldn't be more pleased that the recession isn't affecting our appetites.

Of course, this is not haute cuisine we're talking about. Chains offer cheap, greasy, dependable and convenient food with quick service. Generally chains are overrun with customers but that's never a bad thing for the bottom line. Waiting in line at Ruby Tuesdays, Ninety Nine or Old Chicago Pizza and Pasta is a privilege for anyone who loves deep fried mediocrity. The other problem with busy chains is the decibel level in conversations. Between the background music, babies wailing and general chatter, there's an assault on my earlobes and who do you know who's good at reading lips?

But chains serve a purpose and if some could make a small effort to serve intricately seasoned, fresh-tasting entrees with local ingredients, I'd wait in line as well. If not, I'll still go because there's always a boffo view of a hockey or football game at the bar counter.

Summer Thrill Seeking in Chamonix

I snagged this shot right before leaving the French Alps last Thursday. I love it because it shows how both extreme seasons, winter and spring, co-exist in higher altitudes like Chamonix. All on the same day you can be swooshing down vertical death traps and then swinging a nine iron into sand traps. It's dynamics like this that make the locals love this wonderful French village of 10,000 - until the summer that is, when 90,000 tourists discover what makes this town so unique. Let me repeat that: 90,000 tourists! That's more fresh faces than during the height of ski season! There's hiking, biking, climbing, parasailing, Nordic walking, white water rafting, canyoning, fishing, camping, tenting, golfing, donkey tours, tennis, archery, swimming and a thousand more activities to wear you down before you retire to your hot tub and chalet. And because the glaciers and pistes are omnipresent, even in the dead of summer, the cablecars and tramways stay open for beautiful balcony walks and breathtaking views over France, Switzerland and Italy.

A Biblical Plantscape

The Biblical Garden, established in 1973, sits on the grounds of the Episcopal cathedral at Amsterdam Avenue and 112th Street in NYC. The blossoms, a peace fountain and a live peacock welcome parishioners to Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, the mother church of the Episcopal Diocese of New York and the seat of its Bishop. Angela invited me for a stroll through this beautiful and tranquil place, right after stopping at The Hungarian Pastry Shop, last Friday. There we munched on fresh buttery croissants, admittedly better than those in France and sipped caffeine treats.

The Gothic Cathedral is an incredible but unprotected landmark on the upper West side. It claims to be the largest Anglican church and third largest Christian church in the world. It definitely competes with St. Patrick's cathedral in architecture and grandeur, even from the outside. Angie and I didn't get the chance to walk inside but from the photos online I'll need to return for a tour.

I don't know how I managed to miss it but high above the front doors is a window called the Great Rose Window. It's made of 10,000 pieces of colored glass and is the largest stained-glass window in the United States. I was probably too busy photographing the small whimsical figures circling the Peace Fountain along with the several dozen Crabapple, Pear and Dogwood trees, to notice. Behind the cathedral sits a water fountain and over 125 varieties of flowering shrubs, plants and herbs. The garden was founded by a deceased writer by the name of Sarah Larkin Loening who hoped that visitors would find meditation, inspiration and a quick study on horticulture. If your in the neighborhood, especially before the blossoms fall, check it out and count yourself lucky if you catch a glimpse of the rare snow white peacock. It sings a lovesick calling to its pretty partner but Angie and I couldn't track her (or him) down.

Feministing

No sooner am I back from the French Alps when reality sets in: laundry to wash, bills to pay, a lawn to mow and a dog to walk. It's frustrating being the man of the house but somebody's got to do it and, no offense Rocco (my Goldie), but your too old and too lazy to take the lead. And despite blackened fingers and a deep slice to my middle knuckle the lawnmower sputters back to life- no thanks to testosterone.

It's a proud moment - when the stuff I fix actually gets FIXED rather than merely bandaiding a problem back together. After the lawnmower, I set my sites on replanting tulip bulbs, hoeing the compost pile, taking the dog for a splash at Normanskill and checking out a late night flick with my "prego" friend Deb. She's busting at the seams but prettier than ever! Still, I'm lonesome for the protection of my Mountain Gods from Chamonix. Not that the French Alps could help transplant hydrangeas for me but I bet that beautiful sunshine couldn't hurt.

A French Chalet on a Slippery Slope

After my crash and burn episodes on Mont Blanc I abandoned the mountains for safer recreation. Our party shares a wonderful chalet that sleeps 18 but there's only 5 of us so we have the run of the place. There's a fireplace, outdoor hot tub, stocked kitchen with granite countertops, private baths and free wi-fi access. The hot tub is the ideal remedy for bumps and bruises.

At midnight we squeeze our way into the perfumed waters and soak up the peaks that surround us. It's a scene from a movie. How we manage to score such luxury is beyond me especially after dancing on table tops in the last resort. A private cook sneaks in every morning at dawn to prep us a European smorgasboard of croissants, baguettes, jams, jellies and fresh coffee. In the evening he returns to bake cookies, finger food and pop champagne corks. The owner of the chalet is a wonderful woman by the name of Colleen Olianti. She stops by frequently to say bonjour and offer advice on restaurants, museums, parks and apres-ski venues.


Last night was our last dinner together and we made it worthwhile enjoying a 5-course dinner with 5 British journalists, a Johannsburg writer, a Russian photographer/presenter and a French PR rep. It's a wonderful thing to listen to others viewpoints on politics, the environment, art and family when everyone knows English, an universal language that too many Americans take for granted.

Life is good in France - too good to leave but leave we must. This morning we drag ourselves to the airport envying lucky Kent who decides to hang back for another couple days while the weather is perfect. Kent will be hanging out in Chamonix and Lyon with stories to share so visit his blog for more vicarious living in France.

Ski Tripping in Chamonix

Blue skies, fresh powder, warm temps and a camera full of tape and batteries - what more is there in life? Donning 50 sun block to keep the burn to a minimum; Steve, myself, a gal from Russia and Jackie, our guide, head for the hills early this morning to tackle Grands Montets.

Grands Montets is part of the Chamonix Mont Blanc ski zone with a height of 4,810m it's the highest in the Alps. It's a world renown ski destination with spellbinding vertical drops and glorious pistes. The area has 5 glaciers, a couple of them skiable like The "Mer de Glace" (sea of ice), also the second largest glacier in France. The mountain remains open for only a few more days but still has several feet of the soft stuff.

Yours truly made a definite mockery of herself - falling flat on my face, back and derriere every few feet. I could almost hear the mountain Gods roaring with delight. After shaking myself free of snow and presumption we dined at a restaurant/hotel that Mary Shelly vacationed at to write Frankenstein. Due to the scary sounds of avalanches, breaking ice and howling winds she was inspired to write one of the best known novels ever.

Cuisine du Terroir

Even though the portions are smaller cuisine here is super rich, creamy and filling - that is if you like it. Right now, I'd do better with a good old fashion burger, french fries and a hardy bowl of French onion soup, none of which are available in France. What you will find is plenty of cheese and dairy products and if you pace yourself correctly, you may actually be able to make a meal out of it.

I found the Restaurant L'Etable d'Alain in Val d'Isere able to just that. It's an unique eatery with three windows peaking into the pens of several dozen cows hard at work supplying milk. The owner, Jean Luc, confessed that producing dairy is much more profitable than the ski industry. His products are sold to area restaurants, grocery stores and of course on his menu. His milk is all-natural: no artificial ingredients, additives or preservatives. I was impressed and asked which cow was his favorite. He pointed out a lazy silver bovine by the name of Comma (as in the punctuation) and gave her a quick head scratch.

After knowing how the cattle industry treats cows in America I felt like I had just clicked my heels three times and landed in Oz or the cow equivalent.

Torch Lit Parade after Wine and Cheese Party

My legs feel like jello and my nose looks like Rudolph. I'm short on breath, long on thirst and pock-marked from pelting sleet. To make matters worse, I've lost my magnificent seven, my crew of 7 international writers who ski far better than moi, especially since yours truly insists on breaking in the middle of every heady run for kodak moments. Oh, yah, and did I mention? My brain is still a bit soar from a pair of skis crashing down on my temple the day before.

Skiing the Alps is a challenge beyond anything I have ever imagined and Mother Nature is relentless - bursts of sunshine, blinding snow and icy precipitation. Still, we wasted no time conquering about 20 of 80 lifts (yes, I wrote lifts not trails) including a night torch run after a 3 hour dinner party.

My fellow journalists include Eve, a former ballerina turned ski extraordinaire that writes for Ski magazine, Steve from Men's Health (Abercrombie model look-alike with tree-trunks for legs), you all know fearless Kent from GoNomad, and Liz, a youthful Mom who's built up endurance and strength living with an athletic husband and 2 boarder boys. We are but 4 writers from a crew of 80 invited to ski Val d'Isere before next years 2009 World Cup Races, the second most important event after the Olympics. The World Cup is to skiing what the World Series is to baseball or the Superbowl is to football.

After an exhaustive day of skiing we reconvened at a lodge for appetizers and drinks on an outside patio dancing to polka music and swing by a rag time band. The merrimaking continued inside where famous foie-gras and au-gratin soup were served, much to mine and Kent's displeasure. We passed, merci beaucoup. In the cellar there was a cheese and wine making facility big enough for the party and band to continue shaking.

But that wasn't the end of it. At midnight, we all donned our boots and skis again for a 30 minute run back to the hotel carrying torches to light the way. Heavy winds blew out most of the torches leaving us to rely on snow cat and snow mobile headlamps to lead the way. It would have been nice having some twinkling stars above but all I could make out were the silhouette's of sleeping giants (aka, the Alps) as I survived another first in my list of crazy adventures.

Paradise on the Piste

Snow started falling on the windshield just as the cab driver switched gears to ascend the windy back roads of the Savoie region in the French Alps. I'm minutes from Val d'Isere and anxious as a kid at Christmas to experience skiing on the best mountains in the world.

"Welcome to Paradise!" announces my driver Francois. In true French fashion, Francois jumps out of the cab to graciously open my door for me and escort me to my funky hotel by the name of Eagle Hotel. The hotel has a perfect carefree ambiance; stone walls and fireplaces, tree stumps for coffee tables, candle lit hallways, funky colors and unfinished wood tables. There's a party of 20 college age kids toasting their wine glasses in the corner and a piano player belting out American classics. This is perfect. I'm too tired for words but manage a 15 minute stroll through the town stopping off for a Crepe pizza with champignons (mushrooms), oeuf (egg) and fromage (cheese). Tres bien!

Dragging my tired body back to the hotel I'm in need of major Zzzzz's to keep up with the sun tomorrow. And it comes earlier expected. My wake up call jolts me back to work at 8am this morning with camera in hand and tripod in the other. We're off. It's 45 degrees and no need to bundle up. Skiers are mounting their boards and opting to go glove and hat-free for the day. Book readers and tan worshippers lounge on chaises soaking in the sights. Kiddies are everywhere taking in instructions in French, Italian, German, English and every other language this resort caters to.

The chalets glisten with heavy snow drifts collecting on the stone roofs while the birds whistle a morning tune. Oh, yes, this is paradise and it's nearly drawing me to tears it's so beautiful. Better I don some sunglasses if I'm going to get this choked up in paradise.

High Flying to France

Free newspapers for all - that's one perk you won't find at JFK unless your privileged enough to gain access to the Air France-KLM lounge. But here at Charles De Gaulle airport, it's civility and equality for all with newspapers in a wide variety of languages at all terminals.

My flight in last night was semi-uneventful other than sitting through three showings of the same movie because my in flight entertainment systme was busted and wouldn't turn off. Try watching balding apocalyptic monsters chase down sole survivor Will Smith in "I am Legend" 3x in the span of a 6 hour flight and you too will want to hurl yourself out the nearest exit. The flight in was overbooked so there was no bouncing seats or upgrading. The bird I flew is nicknamed the "Superjumbo" and is the largest passenger plane in the world. It carries over 800 passengers split into 3 classes, first, business and then the normal people. That's 10 seats across or 3 on each side and 4 in the middle, enough seats to get lost in. It's only been in service for a year and I was lucky enough to enjoy a flight over on one last night.