Never, never, never, never, never give up
Yes, I stole that line from Winston Churchill–may as well steal from the best.
We started a new KO this afternoon. Won the first session, but in the second we were down 34 imps at the half. Not being willing to quit, we soldiered on, and the opponents made a couple of errors, we did the wrong thing at the right time, and we won the second half by 35, advancing to the semis by 1 imp. Never give up. However many imps you lost you can gain just as well.
After the game we headed out for a celebratory drink. TGIFridays was too crowded and smokey, the next 3 places we tried were closed. This is a family town in the bible belt–they roll up the sidewalks at 10 pm. Micky gave up, bought an ice cream and headed off to bed.
The rest of us kept at it, and found an open bar. Beer delivered to the table was $4.00. Beer at the bar was 99 cents. Danny was buying. $4.95 bought a round.
Nothing to report about dinner tonight. Mike and I were out the second half this afternoon, so I went back to the house. Immediately after the other guys finished their boards, they wanted to go out to dinner. This was at 4:00 pm. It is my unbending opinion that children eat with the nanny at that time, not adults. So the boys went without me. There isn’t any really good food here in the first place, why eat in the middle of the day?
Danny, who will make someone a fine Jewish grandmother some day, offered to make me tuna salad for dinner. So I had a sandwich and a slice of Boston Cream pie. It was great.
We start a new KO in the morning, and then the semis of the day time KO at 1:00. I better get some sleep.
The Gang’s all here
Bruce, Danny, Jack, Bob and Mike
Gatlinburg, Tennessee, where taste, class, style and fine dining go to die. That’s where the Unit 499 Travelling Squad is this week.
The Gatlinburg Regional is the biggest in the nation–in the course of 7 days, there may well be 10,000 tables, more than many 11 day national tournaments.
People don’t come here for the glamor, or nightlife, or fine accommodations. They come to play bridge where it doesn’t cost much. There isn’t a host hotel, there isn’t a hotel at all. There are a multitude of cheap motels, perhaps the best of which is a Hampton Inn. Micky B stays there.
What the rest of the team does is rent a house. We have a 5 bedroom, 5 bathroom “cabin” up in the hills. Completely equipped, with pool table, hot tube, wireless internet and satellite television. $1800 for the week–and we split that 5 ways. Then make your own breakfast and lunch. Then realize that an expensive restaurant dinner will set you back $25, and this is the cheapest tournament going.
Further, some enormous percentage of the US lives within a 6 hour drive of Gatlinburg. Flying here isn’t the greatest–you either fly to Dallas and then Knoxville and drive an hour, or fly to Nashville and drive 3.5 hours. I was up at 4:10 this morning to catch the early flight to Dallas, where I met Mike and we flew here with Mike Passel, Eddie Wold, Roger Bates and Bob Morris. That’s about 150,000 masterpoints on the plane.
Bob, Bruce, Jack and Danny flew in yesterday through Nashville. OAK to LAX to Nashville and then driving, they got here at 11:30 last night. Of course, they stopped for the traditional grocery store run, where grown men go slightly berserk and buy everything they want. Munson need ice cream with every meal, and is inexplicably drawn to mint chip. We have peanut butter with no jam–I’ll have to go to the store tomorrow to pick some up.
Since they got here yesterday, the four of them played a one session A/X Swiss this afternoon, taking second in the X strat. Tonight, the 6 of us entered a KO, and tomorrow we will start another one. Knockouts here can have 30 or 40 brackets, and the payouts are impressive. There are pair events, too, but they are small and only play 24 boards.
After the game, there is no hospitality or entertainment. In a redneck tourist town, I suppose you could go out and get drunk and rowdy and tattooed, but that just isn’t our style. We’re more into endless re-hashing of hands and eating ice cream.
So that’s the early report from G’burg. Time for bed.
Learning to love compost
Not wanting to go through life as just another pretty face, I spent this morning in a class on the arcane subject of composting.
The Ruth Bancroft Garden is more than just a couple of acres of world class succulents, it offers education and outreach to the community as well. This morning, I learned what to do with kitchen scraps, coffee grounds and old newspapers.
Karen explaining the dynamics of a worm bin
Led by the aptly named Karen Gardener, our tiny class discussed the ins and outs of turning garbage into glorious, soil-enriching, plant feeding compost.
The science is pretty simple–three parts “brown matter” (which isn’t always brown) to one part “green matter” (which isn’t always green). Stir when you want. Water some. Or not. Or just pee on it, that works well. Sift out the big bits when you don’t recognize anything of what you put into it. Shovel on your plants and watch ’em grow.
Karen, Andy and Sophie in the outdoor classroom
You can put whatever is left over from your kitchen, although meats and fats will take longer and may attract vermin. Chopping things like big broccoli stalks up makes the process faster, but isn’t strictly necessary. Coffee grounds are particularly rich in nitrogen, which is what you want your “green matter” to provide, so I get that every morning from Gail’s coffee maker. Any kind of manure is good green matter.
Brown matter is dead leaves, wood chips, torn newspapers. What we’re looking for here is a source of carbon, to mix with the nitrogen. You want a lot of this–remember three parts brown to one part green.
Interns impressed into work, turning the compost by moving it
Arthur came all the way from France to be an intern and learn to use a wheelbarrow
As compost “cooks”, it gets hot. Real hot, sometimes. The Phoenix Zoo attempted composting all the manure it had, and their compost pile caught fire. The don’t compost anymore.
Lacking lion manure, you won’t have that problem. A good, warm compost pile will kill the seeds in weeds you are using as brown matter, and can kill any pathogens in fresh manure. Some people invest a few dollars in a compost thermometer (looks like your kitchen meat thermometer, except it’s 24″ long) to see how they are doing, but it isn’t really necessary for the non-fanatic.
That's steam rising from the inside of a well done compost pile.
As landfills reach capacity, turning your trash into garden gold is good for you, for your garden and for the entire community. Composting all kitchen waste is the law in some places, and that will only spread in the future. Beat the rush–start a compost pile now.
That’s about all I know on the subject, but if you have more questions you can call Karen Gardener at the Ruth Bancroft Garden, (925) 944-9352. She loves compost the way I love bridge.
As the world turns
Buthina Rashid, Noah's Pleasant Hill General Manager
Noah’s Bagels was founded by Noah Alper, a very conservative Jew who lives in Berkeley. While he owned the chain, it closed during Passover when observant Jews don’t eat baked goods.
The young woman above is the general manager of the store in Pleasant Hill.
Not that it was ever necessary to be a Jew to work for Noah’s, of course. I just like to see people doing jobs you wouldn’t even think they would apply for, jobs that break the normal mindset of what is appropriate or fitting or possible.
Good for her, good for Noahs.
Life begins when the last kid leaves and the dog dies
They used to say that life begins at 40, but 40 was a long time ago, and still life goes on.
When are you too old to start something new? I don’t know, but it sure isn’t 25, or 35, or 45.
There’s a fantastic place on Bancroft Road in Walnut Creek called the Ruth Bancroft Garden. Ruth was 63 years old, and had some extra acreage she wanted to do something with, so she started a succulent garden. That was 38 years ago, and at the age of 101 Ruth still putters occasionally in the world class facility she began when she was “too old” to start a new project.
All of this comes to mind as I think of someone we all know–BJ Ledgerwood.
Bridge player, Master gardener, college student BJ
BJ. Beej. Belinda Jo. You see her around the club, flashy clothes and long, thick hair, and don’t realize how she is still growing and changing and improving her life.
After taking early retirement from the phone company, BJ was taking life easy and enjoying herself. She tried catering, she sold real estate, she did this and that but nothing really gave her a passionate reason to get up in the morning.
Then she started taking gardening classes with Lisa Evans, and her fire was lit. They both became master gardeners, they both are taking horticulture classes at Merrit College in Oakland.
Now BJ is going even further–she is working towards becoming a landscape architect, and she has opened a small landscaping business of her own. Since I get to see her in my garden, I know that she has at least one customer. Gardens are more Gail’s thing than mine, but I’m awfully happy about the herb garden she has put in to improve my cooking, and now there will be a lime tree to make the margaritas better. Coming soon are plants to increase the butterflies and hummingbirds.
Two, for certain, since she is designing a new garden for her bridge partner Jack Hawks. Those are the drawings she did for him in the photo above, outlining different possibilities for landscape design around his condo in Walnut Creek.
In terms of specialization, BJ has become relatively expert in California native plants. She completely re-did her own backyard 2 years ago, and after the first year was selected to be on the California Natives garden tour–a spectacular honor for a garden so new. Now that it is 2 years old and the plants are filling in, her backyard is simply fantastic. You should see it–and she’ll be happy to show it to you.
So now you know that BJ is more than just a pretty face. She has started something big, and is seeing it through with perseverance and dedication. I’ve started blogging, and I’m having a great time. Mike Rippey started playing serious bridge. Gail started creating daily specials for our pizza store. What are you not too old to start this year?
Napa valley
Hanging deadcalm 1000 feet over the valley.
Say hello to the Tracys
Just married
Admirals club
Sitting in the Admiral’s Club in MEX, which is how the heavy traveling cognoscenti refer to Mexico City airport. You can see Gail typing away one-fingered as we wait for the plane. Traffic is so bad, and so unpredictable that you have to leave extra early to be sure you make your plane.
Always astounding how different travel is outside the US. Security here is a breeze. No taking off of shoes. Very short line. My suspenders set off the alarm, but nobody cared.
Then the Admiral’s Club. We travel on miles, and they let us use the club on international trips. Stateside, you have to pay for your drinks and Internet access. Here, the bar is open and the wireless is free.
Another twenty minutes to boarding. Think I’ll try a Singapore sling.
El Senor Conejo Pascua
That’s the Easter Bunny to us gringos. And I’m still looking for him. Easter is a really big deal down here, but mostly as a spring vacation time. I haven’t seen an Easter bunny, the kids weren’t all dressed like pastel ice cream cones, there wasn’t an Easter bonnet to be seen. Just empty streets and busy restaurants.
(Looking back at the last paragraph, I thought that only a bridge player could come to a semi-exotic foreign city and write about what he didn’t see. The search for negative inference has colored my entire view of life. I’m here to let you know if there are any dogs not barking.)
We started the day going to the Jardin de Arte, a city-block size park downtown where there is an art show every Sunday. The artists seem to need to bring only their art, as the city provides hundreds of easels to set the work on. Except for one sculptor and one photographer, we thought the art was pretty second rate.
One thing that has always intrigued me are city parks that are poorly maintained. Labor is cheap and plentiful here, yet there wasn’t a single functioning fountain among the 8 or so we saw. Concrete benches are cracked and broken and not recently painted. Graffiti isn’t painted over. It doesn’t take much to make things right, but it just doesn’t happen.
Lunch was at the San Angel Inn, which would be walking distance from the house if you could walk downhill on cobblestones in heels. It’s a beautiful, huge establishment. Pulling up in front, there are 6 guys working the valet park. Lunch is at 2:30, and we were there until almost 5:30. Service isn’t slow, this is just Latin America and meals are to be savored, not rushed through. After an hour of cocktails and an old-fashioned relish tray, we moved on to escargots (lucky me, Gail loves them and I get to dip my bread in the garlic butter) and gazpacho. Slowly, we proceeded to the main course–Chile Rellenos for Gail, Steak Tartare for me. All the while, musicians played quietly in the background, birds flew in the courtyard, light clouds scudded overhead. We finished up with floating island, another classic rarely found on US menus anymore, strolled the gardens and headed home.
Home only to change shoes and get a sweater, for we were off to the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico. What a spectacle! Held outside in front of the Castillio de Chapultapec (a site on the highest point in the city, first used by Montezuma with a castle built by Maximillian and Carlotta), we lucked into front row seats for a spectacle of light and color and dance.
Handome men, pretty girls, beautiful location. Dance is good.
You get there by shuttle bus. Not a big shuttle bus, not a tram like Disney world, but an ordinary 10 passenger van. 6 or 8 of them, racing up and down the hill. It’s not an efficient system, but it’s the system they have.
The show started only 6 minutes late, which is early even by San Francisco standards. Almost 30 dancers took the stage in what might have been traditional Aztec costume, if teal, chartreuse and hot pink were traditional colors. The music was a heavy drum beat, and the dance was a tap/stomp combination.
From Aztec dance, the program moved to the Spanish influence. There were many numbers featuring handsome men in high-waisted pants and pretty girls in very full skirts accompanied by a 10 piece Mariachi band. Something I have never heard before was a harp solo, played entirely pizzacato. There was an interlude for costume change where we were entertained by a 5 man xylophone, surely one of the world’s largest.
One large piece began with a vaquero twirling a rope, then roping in the girl, then many other dancers joining them on the stage. That poor man was stuck twirling the rope around himself and the girl for 10 or 12 minutes, changing twirling arms as one got tired. The longer the piece lasted, the more frequently he had to change arms.
The highlight piece was back to an Indian theme, with a loincloth-clad dancer playing the part of a deer hunted by two bowsmen. It was, ironically, the most modern piece in terms of dance, and just riveting.
There was a big flashy finale, but we were busy making our way out as quickly as possible to avoid the inevitable eternal lines for the few shuttles. The Ballet Folklorico was just a delightful way to complete our trip, and today we are coming home.
About Max and Barbara
Live, love, laugh, dance.
Since we’re enjoying their hospitality, I think I should introduce you to our hosts, Max and Barbara Tudor.
Barbara went to school with Gail and her sister Susan in Fresno, in a year I may not mention. Barbara and Susan were one year ahead of Gail, but they were all close and hung out at Chez Giffen where Mom Giffen taught them bridge.
Gail and Barbara also attended University of Colorado together, bonding by taking a 7:30 am 5-unit zoology class and commuting in Barbara’s little Mercedes.
Barbara then met and married Max Tudor, who was going to make a career of teaching. He got the opportunity to run the American School in Puebla, Mexico at the age of 26, and has never looked back. After Puebla, there was a school in Mexico City, then 10 years running the American School in Madrid. Three kids, two of whom were born in Mexico. Working for the State Department. Back to the states. 13 years in Genoa, Nevada (a tiny burg outside of Carson City). Miami. Now back running another school in Mexico City. Our friends are true citizens of the world.
So today we went to the Saturday market in a local square. Mexico City has simply expanded outward for hundreds of years, ingesting hundreds of tiny villages in the process, each of which is now a neighborhood community with its own town square. We are in San Angel.
In the center square are artists, ranging from the hopelessly kitschy and primitive to some serious fine art. We bought a sculpture, natch. Gail says I can keep it in my bathroom if I move the cologne assortment into a closet. Done deal. Prices are good here–it cost less than just the foundry cost would be in the states.
Then lunch, which is more of an afternoon activity. I even had a mango margarita, which comes with something salty on the rim but it is red and brown and I can’t even begin to guess. I liked it, and that’s enough for a mystery drink in a foreign country.
And foreign it indeed is. Service is at a Mexican pace. Prices are almost always negotiable–we found some new bed linens Gail wanted, and spent more time negotiating the price than we did shopping. Tonight, we have to set the clocks ahead for Daylight Savings time–just because the US Congress decided to fiddle around with the starting date doesn’t mean anyone else has to. This isn’t just Texas south.
Arranchera a la plancha
Okay, there are a few similarities. Men still like to barbecue, and Costco still sells great meat. This is an Arranchera, which is pretty much like a flank steak, sold already marinated at Costco. You can buy the Weber grill here, too. The spring onions are local. Dinner was great.
Tomorrow, another town square, more art. Ballet Folklorico at night. Stay tuned for more details.
Totally Unauthorized 