For Better or For Worse

We interrupted the first weekend of living with our in-laws to attend a wedding in Newton, New Jersey. (Why are they living with their in-laws, you may ask? Tune in next week for the whole unbelievable story).

Back to this story: we had this out-of-town wedding for two people that I had only met once. The hub thought we should go (he is big on doing The Right Thing even when it is also The Hardest Thing), despite the fact that we had been packing boxes until two A-M the entire week, getting ready to move.

So I agreed to go.

Have you ever noticed that the trips that you don't want to take are often some of the best ones?

For some reason, HTG thought that Newton sounded like northern Jersey. That's the Jersey that everyone thinks about when they make fun of the Garden State. They picture barges of trash and loud-mouthed girls with orange tans and overly white French manicures. They think that every street corner has strip clubs full of guys that look like Tony Soprano. (Note to New Jersey's tourism board: you can send my check to "Cellar Dweller in Baldwin, Maryland...care of her In-Laws").

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised when our trip took us to central New Jersey, through some of the prettiest country roads I've seen for quite some time. This is why they call it the Garden State.

Newton is in Sussex County, a county which famously had more cows than people until the 1950's or so. Its original name was Tockhockonetcong, but the surveyors in 1715 thought that wouldn't look too good on a t-shirt (nor would it fit on the map they were drawing), so they opted for the more marketable Newton. Today, Newton sits on the Tockhockonetcong River; if you can say it, you must be a native. Or drunk. When I've had one too many, I've found that everything I try and say comes out as "Tockhockonetcong."

You can learn more about the town's history at http://www.newtonnj.net/.

We arrived at the Yellow Frame Presbyterian Church in Newton a little early. My husband informed me that--even though the invitation said that the wedding started at 3:00--it wasn't going to start until 3:30 because "it's a Chilean thing." (The bride is from Chile). So we hung out in the parking lot and took a couple of pictures, while I listened carefully for music that would suggest the whole "Chilean thing" was just a rumor. I hate going to weddings late.

While we lingered, I noticed that there was a large fan--the kind we used to keep the cows cool--in the front window of the church. I began to suspect that the chapel was so historic that it didn't have air conditioning. (As much as I love old buildings, I do not love old buildings without a/c or heat. Really, I'm a historic traveler, people, not a re-enactor).

The church was a Queen Anne structure, my favorite architectural style. That meant that there were lots of great details everywhere--from the hardware (see left) to the stained glass above the unsightly cow fan. And there was a wall full of photos of the church's ministers over the years, going back to 1750.

Speaking of details, the bride and groom thought of them all--including cute paper fans that their ushers handed to all of the guests as they entered the church. Between the historic church, and the flapping fans, the whole day had a nice old-fashioned feel.

After the wedding was over (in a record 23 minutes--if that's a Chilean thing too, I may love Chilean weddings as much as I love Chilean wine), the hub and I lingered a bit longer, checking out the historic cemetery across the parking lot, as well as some of the other picturesque areas around the grounds. (Note to self: plant more cosmos next year. And get a mailbox).

Remember how I said that your worst fears can create your best memories? Later that afternoon, we were treated to an open bar (a good resource for newly married couples as well as those married for years and years), unusual appetizers like Chilean meat and corn pie...which was exactly what it sounded like. When the bride came by to say hello (which is when I spoke to her for the second time in my life), she said it was her favorite dish as a child. I'm no child, but I could see it cracking my top ten pretty easily.

After the appetizers, we enjoyed a Chilean sea bass that was worthy of a fancy restaurant with a $100 tab. It was, as I told the groom, like a great anniversary dinner.

After the eating and the greeting, the hub and I slipped away (pre-cake) to start the long drive back home, driving away from one of the prettiest parts of New Jersey as the sun went down and the deer came out. The drive reminded me of why I happen to love the state--from their juicy red tomatoes to their gorgeous Victorian structures to their juicy, gorgeous call girls.

Oh, and it reminded me that I wanted to wish Charles and Magaly a happy happy union: may you love each other no matter what-through thick waists and thin hair, for better and for worse, while living with your in-laws or living out your dreams. I hope your marriage lasts as long as the Yellow Frame Church you were married in.

Congratulations!

Organic Truths in Washington DC

Despite popular theories, I am not Amish.

I grew up in an Amish area. I was not allowed to travel more than 5 miles from home. And I worked hard as a kid. I envied those cushy sweatshop jobs in China. The ones where the kids got to be kids for two or three hours a day.

But that all that doesn't mean that I am Amish.

My love of the plain people and their fancy desserts is well documented.

My dislike of Washington, DC is equally well documented.

But what would happen if you combined the two?

I found out last week when I visited Nora's (http://www.noras.com/), a trendy organic joint at 2132 Florida Avenue.

Now, I wasn't looking for a trendy organic joint (as I write that, I realize it sounds like something else entirely). I was meeting a friend who was in town for a seminar, and all I wanted was a restaurant that:

1. Was right off of New York Avenue. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time.
2. Had valet parking. (See above: once I found the place, I wanted to be done. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time).
3. Had entrees under 50 bills.

Nora's should put all of that on their website.

Even without those critical optimizing keywords, the restaurant was 90% full on a Thursday night.

My friend was waiting at the bar when I arrived (which tells you something about her--which is that she likes her vodka tonics--and something about me--because I was late, having forgotten that even without the circles, the city has plenty of annoying stop lights which seem just long enough to let three cars drive through). Anyway, in the time it took me to write that parenthetical bit of useless information, my friend had chatted up a local gentleman who said the restaurant was his favorite. Well, he was a local in the past, but still liked to hit the old neighborhood to enjoy a good meal (while enjoying the pretty women at the bar as well).

In addition to checking out my friend (whose motto is Better Men in 2010, if you would like to submit an application), this gentleman also was nice enough to check out the menu. He thought the chicken curry sounded good...and my friend thought so as well. That's what she ordered. I think she liked it, although it's sometimes hard to tell with her.

I went with the Amish veal. Why? Because the idea of something Amish in this city of stupid traffic circles and unvarnished frivolity made me laugh. And the rest room had cool murals of Amish people (at least I think that was the artist's inspiration...the gal above looks Mennonite to me, and so does the quilt). Artistic license aside, I fell for the marketing of the dish and was pleasantly surprised when it came out.

The meal was far from Amish--the plate was a little pretty for that, and the portions a little small. But it was tasty, and the mashed potatoes underneath were a great surprise.

Because it was a girls' dinner, we goaded each other into getting dessert (the rule here is that when you eat with girls you are honor and duty bound to get dessert. It makes up for any dinners with men where you cannot--even if you did not like your dinner and are as hungry as a horse--you cannot order anything indulgent after the main course.)

My dinner companion went for some chocolate concoction that practically gave me a migraine just from the proximity to all that cocoa.

I opted for a dessert that made my chocoholic friend's nose turn up--rhubarb pie. I know that not everyone is a fan of rhubarb, but--being the good Pennsylvania Dutch girl that I am--nothing makes me happier than a dessert that's more tart than sweet. And the fact that everything was organic was just icing on the cake...or a sweet lattice topping on the pie, as it were.

In fact, it was so good, I would even consider braving another drive to DC to have it again.

Well, Shucks!!!

Good morning, fellow travelers!!!

I woke up to thunderstorms in Galveston Texas, which dampened my otherwise vacation-happy heart. I'm mostly upset because we've been working on a 3-day roof project here since March of this year. Even translating that timeframe to the contractor's calendar, he is Over Due.

But then...the skies parted...the sun shone down...the angels sang Hallelujah! Why??? Because this silly blog, which I'm almost certain borders on complete un-helpfulness to my fellow travelers, and may in fact be full of dangerous advice, was just named one of the 50 Best Travel blogs by OnlineDegreePrograms.com (motto: You will get a great job if you just sign up for One More Class).

If you're skeptical (which doesn't hurt my feelings: I'm a bit skeptical myself), you can check out the link here: http://bit.ly/crOaWV.

Well, real deal or not, it's nice to feel loved.

Anyhoo, I'm mostly posting this update because I would not want any new viewers to first see the blog about my demented (male) friend dressing up as a bride and waving to the trolley passengers in historic Cape May, New Jersey. Now, if you like that kind of thing, it's the post directly below this.

But if you don't, I thought I'd list some of my favorite posts from the last couple of months.

Since I'm in Galveston, Texas, I'm thinking a lot about the post I wrote about the cool tree carvings that are popping up all over the Historic East End. The residents who lost huge old trees in the salty surge from Ike are turning them into amazing art. If that's more your kind of thing, you can read about it here: http://bit.ly/aQaurk (Note: sometime in 2008 I wrote a blog about eating my way across Galveston. For some reason, I titled it Part One. I've never written a Part Two. But I'm in G-town for the week, and I've already pigged out a couple of times, so check back later this week for a possible update).

St. Augustine, Florida, is the Oldest City in the country. While I loved the ancient fort, and the stately buildings from the 18th century, and the chocolate covered rice crispy treats at Kilwin's Chocolates, I *adored* the opium-fueled architecture of the Villa Zorayda. So much so that I wrote two blogs about it. You can see them both here: http://bit.ly/9aLjvi and http://bit.ly/d6PE8a

Last summerI stayed at the best hotel in Nashville, Tennessee (it's not the Gaylord, even though I get a big kick out of the trout stream that flows through the middle of their lobby). If you're headed to Nashville sometime soon, you can see my recommendations at  http://bit.ly/9S7xr1

I'm not always writing about travel. I like the history that's around me too (and no, I'm not talking about the historic dust clusters underneath my Eastlake-style bed). In December I wrote a love letter to those angry looking Santas that the Pennsylvania Dutch love, the Belsnickels. I have a big collection of them myself, and I documented them here: http://bit.ly/clyRe6

And, finally, I sometimes write about personal stuff, especially if it has some kind of a historic bent to it. Like the blogs about the hub's grandmother, who is now 96 and counting (can't get much more historic than that). My favorite travelog starring Grandma is when we visited Mount Vernon: http://bit.ly/dklLsh . This year, I also wrote (too many) blogs about the saga of selling our Victorian house in Cape May, New Jersey. My favorite blog, March Sadness, is here: http://bit.ly/aJ4jmg .

Frankly, I'm not sure why anyone would want to read any of these. But I know for a fact that you'll appreciate them more than the one I just wrote about the ugliest bride that Cape May will ever see.

If you did stop by today, and you're new to my blog, please let me know. And tell me what you think think is the least crappy of my postings.

What's in a Name?

Okay, a few months ago I promised that I wouldn't write any more blogs about our house in Cape May.

Technically, however, the house is no longer our house. So I'm really just writing about A house in Cape May. Not MY house.

This weekend, it became painfully obvious that it wasn't my house anymore.

When the hub and I first bought the house, it was occasionally called the Wedding Cake Cottage. Why? I guess because it was white and had a bunch of gingerbread, and someone thought the name was cute.

I'm so not into cute.

In fact, as we spent time in Cape May over the past nine years, we often joked about the "cuteness" of the Wedding Cake Cottage. As the Cape May trolley would drive past our home, you see, we would hear the tour guide tell people that that was the name of the house.

(Note: those same tour guides will tell you that whenever there are three or more houses that look alike, they were built by some generous father for his three/four/five daughters. I often wonder if tour guides 100 years from now will say that as they drive through the suburban neighborhoods that surround Baltimore. "And these 30 identical houses were built by a very fertile father for his 30 daughters." For the record, usually when houses look alike they were built by a hotel or railroad to house their employees. But that's not as romantic.)

Anyway, we called the house the Sayre House, after the first recorded owner.

And we joked about having one of our friends dress up in an old bridal gown and wave to the trolley as it drove by.

Did I mention that our first choice for this role was Birdman? (Yes, the same  Birdman that I explained had no renovation skills but did his part by making us laugh. You can see his fan page here.)

So, this weekend, before we went to Cape May, my husband called Bird and asked if he was still into dressing up like a bride.

Was he ever into it.

See for yourself:

The good natured groom is Big Guy. He drew the short stick (not that I'm saying Birdman has a short stick...I really wouldn't know one way or the other), but seemed to get into it himself after a little while and a lot of beer.

Kiddies, look at your Uncle Big Guy. This is why we don't want you to drink.

The wedding was well documented, as most weddings are.

The couple got happier as the day went on, as most couples do.

And ultimately, the pairing ended in divorce, as most pairings do. (Even though they looked so darn happy as they took the plunge):

I don't know whose idea it was to jump in the pool. But it was hot. And all that waving to the trolleys made it even hotter. Of course, nothing was hotter than Birdman himself. Even the pool couldn't cool that hotness down.

By the way, both the Birdman and the Big Guy are happily married men. They're married to (sometimes) happily married women.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Traveling with Friends (And living to tell about it)

Don't look for me at the Parkville Home Depot this weekend, because I'm taking a break from the home improvement/gardening/mrs-fix-it projects, and I'm heading out to Cape May.

I'm going with 11 of my closest friends and family members (not that family members can't be friends). We're renting a house--our house, in fact. Our old house. The one we sold in March. (You can see lots of self-pitying blogs in the archives if you're into that kind of thing).

I just realized that going to our house will probably be a little like hooking up with an ex. It's kind of like the good ol' days, but as soon as it's over you realize that someone else is in your baby's bed. And in this case, because we sold the house furnished, I mean literally.

So I'm not focusing on the house right now. I'm focusing on the house guests.

If you've read this blog for more than a day, you know that the hub and I love to rent old houses. And, because renting a whole house can get pricey, we often do it with a large group. In the last year, we've enjoyed/tolerated/attended group vacations in old houses in Cape May (duh), Galveston (natch), and St. Augustine. It's a great way to feel more like a local (yes, in St. Augustine we all sat in the living room with the windows open so that people walking by could envy us for our temporary zip code). It also is a good way to experience the history of a town first hand. And, of course, it's a free house tour. One where you can sit on the seats and touch the artwork.

There are no downsides.

Unless you go with the wrong people.

So, in an attempt to reassure the right people that they're good traveling companions, and in the hopes that the wrong people can be trained (and if you're not sure which group you fall into, simply ply me with a couple of chardonnays and I will tell you more bluntly than you would like), I offer the following list of things to do when traveling with a group:

1. Pay your way. This is non-negotiable, unless, of course, you're seventeen/unemployed/never interested in traveling with your friends again. I know this seems like a no-brainer...after all, if you agree to go on a vacation, you are also agreeing to contribute to the costs, right? You'd be surprised how often the answer is "Wrong!" This counts for the house rental itself, the alcohol, toilet paper, the orange juice, the alcohol, the dishwashing detergent, the alcohol, and anything else that might be necessary on the trip. This is all part of the cost, people...and just because your good friend Mike (some other Mike--not my husband Mike of course) planned the trip, and paid the deposit, and signed the contract...he* should NOT have to pay for all these other incidentals just for the small joy of being able to spend time with you. Trust me. (*Note: the personal pronoun used here does not under any circumstance refer to my husband Mike.)

2. Ask which bedroom is yours. Yes, we've all seen The Real World where things "start getting real" as soon as the housemate with the most emotional problem runs through all the rooms and picks the one with the cushiest digs. This isn't the real world; this is vacation. And you don't want to be that person with the most emotional problems, even for a weekend.

If you're traveling with someone elderly, they get first choice of a room. If everyone in your group is elderly, then the person who made the reservations gets first choice. (Same thing if no one in your group is elderly). After that, it's all up for grabs.

If you require special accommodations--a king-sized bed for your king-sized butt, a private bathroom because of your intestinal problems, a first-floor room because of your fear of second floor ghosts--please mention that *before* you arrive at the house. And you might want to pony up a little extra cash for the consideration.

3. Now that you've chosen your room, make sure that you don't walk into someone else's. That means you should knock before you go into every room. The hub and I have owned rental homes for about 13 years now...soon after we bought the second one, I realized that I needed to resign myself to the fact that everyone I invited to the house with us would eventually see me naked. (As you can imagine, that was a bit of a deterrent to some of our friends and probably cut down on the number of our guests considerably).

Staying in a house--particularly an old house--can be disconcerting at times. You can wake up in the middle of the night, and not remember where the bathroom is. You can walk down a hallway of closed doors, and *think* that the third door on the right is the linen closet. But it might not be. It might be your friend's bedroom, and you might see more of them than you ever wanted to.

Play it safe--for everyone's sake--and knock first. It's not a tough rule to remember, and--as you're clawing at your eyes trying to erase the picture of your mother-in-law pulling off her skirted bathing suit--you'll be glad you did.

3. No loud sex. Just because you're confident that no one will walk into your room as you're shaking your groove thang baby, doesn't mean that you should shake it till you break it. As much as we don't want to see you naked, we don't want to hear you doing naked things, either. Turn the television on, turn on the music, or just wait until you get home. Really, you'll live.

4. Keep your underwear to yourself. And your wet bathing suit. And your sex toys/vaginal creams/adult diapers. You were invited on this trip because the trip planner presumably likes you. Don't threaten that relationship with your dirty laundry. Keep your personal items...personal. And hidden in your suitcase.

5. Use the bathroom for peeing and pooping. I don't want to get graphic here (it occurs to me that I'm probably too late), but most old houses have more bedrooms than they do bathrooms. That means that there will inevitably be a line for the facilities in the morning. As you head to the bathroom, think about the functions that *really* need to be done there, and do them. And only them. I will never forget the summer of 2003, when I sustained permanent kidney damage one morning while listening to **** (name removed to protect the author) blow dry her hair (!!!) in the bathroom. By the time she was done, I was ready to pee out the second-floor window. The one facing the boardwalk.

6. Go with the flow. It's great to be easy to get along with (who doesn't love a traveling companion that shouts YES!! before you've even finished the question of "Would you like to..."??) Of course, that *doesn't* mean you have to go with the group all the time. Really. If your friends want to take a six-hour bike across the state line during an orange-level ozone day, and you would rather lay in bed watching HGTV with a bendy straw in your fruity drink, do it. It's your vacation, man. Don't make a big deal about it, and don't whine that no one wanted to go hunting for dead jellyfish on the beach so now you're not going to participate in the bike-a-thon. Just politely say no, mix yourself another margarita, and settle in.

7. Chow down with the chow hounds. At least once in a while. While I *always* advocate having the group split up periodically (after all, how can I miss you if you never freaking leave?), I also think it's nice sometimes to go to a restaurant together. If you're going to do this, make sure that it's not the most expensive restaurant in town (unless your friends all invested in Microsoft in the 70's), make sure that the eatery takes reservations (nothing ruins a group dynamic faster than standing outside a restaurant, swatting mosquitos off of each other, and talking about how hungry you are), and make sure that no one minds splitting the bill (note: if it's the waiter that doesn't mind splitting the bill, that makes the whole night more enjoyable for everyone). And take a camera--a group vacation is not a group vacation without at least one shot of everyone sitting around the table, leaning in so you can (almost) see everyone.


8. When you eat together, make sure you pay your fair share. Wait a second--are we back at the beginning of the to-do list already?

So that basically sums it up. Pay to play--keep it kid friendly--don't hog the bathroom--eat now and again. Oh, and one other thing--don't forget to drink. I'm not talking about hydration here. I'm talking about survival, people.

Wish me luck this weekend!!!

(And, just to entertain me, tell me your worst stories about traveling with other people!)

Gardening as a Competitive Sport

If one more person asks me if I garden because it’s relaxing, I am going to jump up off my cushioned knee protector (and by “jump up” I mean that I will hobble to a fairly-straight and upright position, groaning the whole way), ball up my little fist (little, of course, is relative, as presently my tiny hands are swollen to man-size with my latest outbreak of poison ivy), and stamp my left foot (because my right foot still hurts from when I stuck a shovel in it trying to remove a stump from the front yard).

Do gardeners look as if they’re relaxing? The sweat dripping down our faces, staining the inside of our cute gardening hats? The muddy knees, imprinted with grass stains and small pebbles? The sheepish trips to the emergency room, where we are forced to admit that the gouge in our shin/branch in our eye/infected poison ivy was self inflicted during a moment of relaxation!!???

Now, I have no doubt that there are *some* people who find gardening relaxing.

For instance, I don’t know a lot of inmates, but I would assume that if you asked someone who doesn’t see sunlight much of the day if they would like to pull ivy off the side of your house, they would probably say yes and even smile as they said it. (Watch your purse, of course).

And they look pretty relaxed when they're standing on the side of the road, picking up trash (which doesn't sound like gardening unless you live on a busy street in suburban Baltimore like I do).

But, honestly, what isn’t more relaxing than worrying about how to hold onto that slippery bar of soap? (Okay, maybe I’ve watched too much cable…but you see my point).

Another population that seems to like to garden is retired people.

Because I know more retirees than I know inmates, I’ve actually done some research on this. There are three hobbies among the “every day is Saturday” crowd: going to the grocery store, visiting the doctor, and putting on some decades-old dirty gloves and puttering around with a hose and some pruners.

Now that I think about it, old people do look like they enjoy the latter activity. It might even provide a relaxing break for them from the mentally tiring gymnastics of Sudoko, and trying to figure out why their Medicare co-pay went up last month.

Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them sweat while they’re puttering in the garden. So maybe they’re not doing it right.

Because I think I'm doing it right and I sweat like Tom Sizemore on Celebrity Rehab.

I’m thinking about adding a sign to my front yard. Right in the middle of the pink lilies of the valley: “This garden is maintained by just one woman…doing the work of ten…for the benefit of thousands.” (Okay, full disclosure: I stole the motto from my friend Jim Belfield of Virginia. He, however, says “man” instead of “woman” so I don’t think I owe him a licensing fee).

How did I become so crazy? Because I'm pretty sure that I seem laid back to my friends, who would never guess that I’m half insane on weekends trying to grow roses that are bigger than theirs, hedges that are denser and perennials that are more colorful.

As with most things (my bad knees, my upturned nose), I blame my family. My grandfather, on my dad’s side, kept a notebook of his plants and fields. After he died, we found it in his desk. A typical entry would be: April 29, 72 degrees. Sunny. Five flowers open on the purple gloxinia, 2 buds.

Later, in the summer, his entries included garden records. How many pounds of potatoes he harvested. How many pumpkins were on the vine. He recorded the current year’s numbers, then flipped to the front of the book to compare the results to last year.

Good grief, I realize now that Pappy was so competitive that he had to compete with himself. No wonder that I am the way I am.

I need to get a copy of that notebook. I bet I can beat his numbers.

At least I can try. While I’m relaxing.

Asking Me To Remember is Just.Plain.Mean.

It's not fun to have a memory deficiency. I don't know if it's a sleep deprivation thing, or a pre-menopausal thing, or if it's just...

Wait a minute. What was I talking about?

That's what it's like now around the Wieber Ranch. I'm constantly walking into a room, stopping short, and saying (usually out loud) "Why did I come in here again?" It's not fun.

That's why our recent trip to San Antonio was so....memorable.

First, we had planned on staying at the Historic Menger hotel, right across from the Alamo. Except that I forgot to make the reservations right away...and by the time I did remember to look at the list that I keep on my blackberry to avoid such minor catastrophes, the price of the rooms had almost doubled.

Had I remembered to make reservations in time, I would have been staying here:

I would have had a lobby that looked like this:

I could have been sipping mai tai's in a courtyard that looked like this:

As it was,we stayed at the Historic St. Anthony...whose lobby looked like this, so I'm sure that no one is going to feel too sorry for me. But get out your hankerchiefs: Our room smelled a little funny, and it had a doorbell (cool) but no trash can (totally uncool). I suppose someone could have taken all of the trash receptacles out of the Menger as well--I didn't look in any of the rooms.

Then, in my second bone-headed move of the trip, I forgot to check the San Antonio website to see if there were any festivals or events in town that might impact my stay.

That was a biggie, because it happened to be Fiesta...the biggest party in San Antonio all year. Hundreds of thousands of people were in town...and all of them seemed to want to do exactly what I was doing. Unless you count what I wanted to do at midnight, which was to take a siesta...a time when the fiesta-ness of it all was just hitting full swing.

Fiesta is a historic event, starting with a weird parade and event called the Battle of the Flowers in 1891. The San Antonia-ites had so much fun throwing blooms at each other, they began adding more parades, a carnival, balls, and coronations of "royalty", from King Selamat (tamales spelled backwards) to King Omala (Alamo, natch) and King Antonio, as well as lots of princesses with sashes around their chests and tiaras.

Today, Fiesta seems like Spanish Mardi Gras, complete with weird outfits and plenty of decorations. It also seemed a little like a May Day event, with girls of every age putting flowers in their hair. And it seemed a lot like Freshman Hazing Week at a big university...with lots of 3-foot long beers on the Riverwalk and margaritas that came in a 10-gallon fishbowl instead of a glass (which seems a lot like Mardi Gras, too).

One of the things I was really looking forward to in San Antone (I have to say that at least once because my husband sang the Monkeys song "What Am I Doing Hanging Round?" all weekend. Obviously, his memory of obscure derivative songs is working just fine) was visiting the King William neighborhood which--according to the photos I saw--looked like a great little Victorian enclave.

We took San Antonio trolley to the King William stop, and got out...only to see thousands of people crowding the quaint streets.

Yes, the King William neighborhood has a special festival as part of Festival. I won't forget to check the website for events around town next time.

I did get to see a couple of the houses over the throngs of face-painted children, tiny little dogs (I'm still trying to remember why people like these things so much--if you have any insight please post your thoughts!), and big sweaty grown ups. They were lovely. The houses, that is. Not the big sweaty grown-ups. Lovely enough that I might go back.

When I do go back, I don't plan on visiting the Alamo. It was, ironically, not memorable at all. And frustrating, because--although the phrase Remember the Alamo stuck in my head--I didn't remember anything about it except the chorus to Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. And the old mission/fort/t-shirt stand didn't have a lot of easily accessible information. It did have a bunch of memorials spread around the perimeter of the main room, and that part was appropriately somber and peaceful...but it would have been nice to have some general information right there at the beginning so that I wouldn't have felt so dumb as I walked through.

Luckily, the Daughters of the Republic of Texas put together a brochure with all the pertinent details of the 13-day siege and subsequent assault on the Alamo (I found it in the third building that I walked into, back by the gardens).

Before Davey Crockett (who is referred to everywhere as David, so I suspect Davey was a Disney makeover) told everyone to remember the Alamo, it was a mission, home to missionaries and their Indian converts. By the early 1800's, the Spanish military had stationed a calvary unit there (Alamo is the Spanish word for "cottonwood", and these Spaniards named the place after their hometown of Alamo de Parras, Coahuila. I'm glad they didn't name it Coahuila--I would have never remembered that).

Things started getting memorable in December 1835, when Ben Milam led Texian (not a typo) and Tejano volunteers against the Mexican troops that were quartered in the city (so don't you think for a minute that all of this border patrol stuff started with Mexicans coming north--we started it by going south, In fact, there's a whole display in one of the back buildings that lists quotes from Mexican officials about their concern over white settlers moving in. They all seemed worried that the whites would take over their country, and snap up all of the good jobs for themselves. But that's another story).

There were no immigration attorneys back in 1835, so the men just fought it out hand-to-hand (house to house, according to the Daughters of the Texas Republic). After five days of fighting, the volunteers won.

Then the victors moved in--sitting the shade of the Alamo's tall walls, enjoying the butterflies in the back garden, eating burritos on the steps. Until two months later, in February, when the Mexican soldiers came back.

And killed everyone.

That's the part you're supposed to remember.

The brochure from the Daughters has a list of the names of men who were known to have died in the defense of the Alamo. The list includes David Crockett and Jim Bowie, who was known for his knife fighting, although it kind of let him down in March 1936.

My favorite part of the Alamo was the gardens, and the third building that listed all of the information on the spot. It was quiet back there, and less crowded, and you could really reflect on all of the people who had died in the old mission--on both sides. It gave me time to think about the women and the children who weren't killed, but who had to live with the memory of 13 brutal days.

That's the part I'll remember about my trip to San Antonio. The quiet couple of minutes that I spent in the back gardens of the Alamo.

And the fact that next time, I'll check the website to see if there are any festivals going on (http://www.visitsanantonio.com/).