First, I want to apologize to all of you who routinely wear overalls as you go about keeping all of us in pork and soybeans.
In 2005 I did a summer-long series called Classic Midwest Weekends. For those who missed it, most of the installments were accompanied by a picture of me in overalls.
Holding a pitchfork.
This was insulting.
It was insulting because, well, Detroit is in the Midwest, I visited the city for the series, and I can assure you very, very few Detroiters walk around in overalls, holding a pitchfork.
It also suggested all Midwesterners are yokels, which is an insult both to Midwesterners and to our genuine yokels, thousands of whom annually come here by the busload to fatten the corporate larder and attend Cub games, especially when the Reds are in town.
My Uncle Marvin was insulted, but he insults easily. I’m guessing the manufacturer of the overalls wasn’t thrilled, either, even though they did make me look thinner.
Accessories aside, it was a fun series–at least for me–because it gave me a chance to revisit places I thought I knew and didn’t know as well as I thought. Every weekend brought surprises.
Milwaukee had blossomed into an intriguing restaurant town. St. Louis’ downtown was showing real signs of a long-stalled renaissance. The Rock ‘n’ Roll Museum in Cleveland was far cooler than I’d remembered. So were the Amana Colonies in Iowa.
Parke County in Indiana not only had covered bridges but an interesting golf course and really sweet people. In Shipshewana, also in Indiana, I milked my first cow. I hope it was as good for the cow as it was for me.
There were other stories that made it into the paper over the year, from more exotic places–reports from Vietnam and East Africa and Hong Kong and other places. Got back to Mexico a couple of times (Oaxaca was especially flavorful) and fell in love with Brooklyn. And there was a trip to Italy that you’ll read about later.
But this, for me, will be remembered as the summer that began expecting the familiar and wound up being one revelation after another.
By the way: I wanted to use the pitchfork, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it into the olive jar.
A look back at the best, worst and silliest of 2004:
Grossest overestimation of a cult following: Marion, Ind., and Warner Bros. expected 100,000 at a three-day gala marking the 50th anniversary of local hero and rebel icon James Dean. They fell 94,000 short, and the chief organizer was charged with fraud and racketeering.
Fewest e-mails, one story: Zero, after a piece on Fairmount, Ind., James Dean’s boyhood home. See “Grossest . . . ,” above.
Most e-mails, one story: Dozens, after a piece on a weekend in Detroit–mostly from Detroiters who were stunned the story was mostly positive.
Dumbest story idea: “24 hours in Hong Kong.” The concept: With 24 hours on the island, what could someone do if he stayed up and played all 24 hours? Quick answer: Get really tired. But food was good, and the made-to-order shirt still fits.
Best meal, Midwest tour: Citrus seared Alaskan halibut on morel mushroom risotto cake, $31; Sanford, Milwaukee.
Best meal, north of the border: Wild caribou filet in peppercorn sauce, with seared foie gras, $43.75 (lunch); Le Saint-Amour, Quebec City.
Best expression: The look on Andy Williams’ face when he sang “Moon River” for the 1,474,323rd time from the stage of his Branson, Mo., theater. It was the look of a man in love with singing a song he knew his audience loved–and it was wonderful.
Most fun meals: Almost all of them in Sicily and Puglia (southern Italy). Which sounds like a copout, but it’s not: I could name at least 10, each with its own story and each with laughs (and great, great food).
Absolut confidence: The bar at Lucia’s, a fine-dining restaurant in Cleveland, stocks only one brand of vodka: Grey Goose.
Absolute nausea: From a passenger on the final night of a New England-Canada cruise that featured high winds, 47-foot swells, skipped meals and a plethora of canceled shore excursions: “If a person doesn’t have a good time on a cruise, it’s their own fault.”
Best accent: Brooklyn. Still.
Most annoying complaint: The Saugatuck, Mich., restaurateur who was livid because while one of her two restaurants was praised in the paper, the other got no mention at all. You’re welcome, and it still won’t get one.
Best local specialty, Mexico: Moles (pronounced moe-lays), the famously complex sauces, any of them; Oaxaca.
Worst local specialty, Mexico: Teeny fried grasshoppers; Oaxaca. The legs stick between your teeth, and floss is tastier.
Trip that won’t leave my consciousness, ever: The Kenya-Tanzania safari. Took it in late 2004, the story ran early in 2005, and, in quiet moments alone, it comes back, still, like memories of a first love.
Best museum city, Midwest tour: Detroit. The Motown Museum, Museum of African American History and everything at the Henry Ford, next door in Dearborn. In all the Midwest, only Chicago is competitive.
Best local specialty, Europe: Orecchiette alle cime di rapa (ear-shaped pasta with greens, garlic and other good things), all over Puglia.
Worst local specialty, Europe: Sea urchins, Puglia and Sicily. I, um . . . well, I just don’t get it.
Best reason not to be in Europe in October: The White Sox won it, and BBC World television didn’t care until after Game 3 of the Series–when it ran a segment supposedly featuring Ozzie Guillen (pronouncing it “Gwillan” in the set-up). Actually featured in the piece: Houston manager Phil Garner.
Best argument for self-service: The gas station attendants in Sicily who, when we drove up to the pumps, were enjoying conversation–and cigarettes.
Best observation regarding a cultural quirk: From Salvatore, the only waiter at Osteria il Piatto Reale in Grottaglie, Italy: “We drive fast, faster than anyone else. We run everywhere. And we’re always late.”
Favorite hotel room: Cabanas La Conchita, Tulum, Mexico. A thatched-hut bedroom with private bath in back, hammock in front and in front of the hammock–the beach and the turquoise Caribbean. Oh, my . . .
Favorite hotel view: Hotel Sao Paolo al Convento, Trani, Italy. Picture-book harbor lined with just enough restaurants, plus an ancient cathedral and a genuine fishing-village sensibility. Oh, my . . .
Scariest moment: First look at Cedar Point’s Top Thrill Dragster ride in Ohio. Absolutely terrifying. Riding it is a close second.
Biggest puzzlement: Why anyone who lives in the Chicago area would go all the way to Minnesota just to shop at the Mall of America. Are its Foot Lockers really better?
Best reason to ignore the advice of doctors and your own brain: The Horseshoe, a Springfield, Ill., sandwich that’s tasty, filling and guaranteed to clog every internal conduit in your body.
Worst pickpocket: The one on the Palermo city bus in Sicily who dipped his hand into my right front pocket and found my wallet–with my hand wrapped around it.
Happiest surprise: Cozumel. I thought it would be just a routine cruise port, a mini-Cancun with a diving fetish. Instead, I found an island I could enjoy, snorkel-free, for a month.
Saddest reality: The continuing deterioration of service aboard domestic airlines.
Fondest hope: That your travels in 2006 are exciting, fun and delicious.
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Alan Solomon, a Tribune travel writer since 1994,continues to be amazed he actually gets paid to do this. Write him at asolomon@tribune.com.
